Chapter Ten
Roman
The man inside the silver car beside me flips me off, trying to show some kind of machismo, some sort of strength in an already doomed situation.
I jerk the steering wheel to the left, giving him room to inch ahead, pretending to let him pull forward.
I want him to believe for a second that he might actually outrun me, lose me around the curves—but monsters are relentless.
Drawing a deep breath, I glance up at the moon through the open Mustang sunroof. Despite my actions, killing means nothing to me—I can live without it. But I cannot live without Xena. I refuse. As the other driver inches ahead, I veer hard right, ramming my bumper into his tail.
The car jerks, fishtails, then launches into the trees.
It hits the shoulder, flips twice, and crashes into a tree with a sound similar to a spine snapping in half.
Glass scatters. Metal shrieks.
And then silence.
Thankfully, the roads are deserted, and the cops were paid off by the sick rich bitches who host the fucking raves. According to Kai, the raves aren’t parties. They’re hunting grounds—bloodsport masked with lights and bass. The rich don’t dance. They devour.
Smoke curls around the car, hissing sounds fill the air—something's about to explode, that’s for sure.
I put the car in park, step out, and slam the door. My bad leg sears as I put weight on it, and branches splinter under my boots. The man groans—his face bloodied, about to get worse. I yank open his door, letting him tumble onto the grass, as the air grows thicker with smoke and gasoline.
And then… cookies.
Sweet, warm. The kind she used to make on cold nights.
Xena.
There’s nothing here but gas and smoke, and still the smell overwhelms me. I know she’s not real—it’s the conjured-up version my mind has created whenever she's not around. She haunted me in prison, and now she haunts me again.
“Find me, baby,” she pleads, taking a step back away from me until she disappears behind a tree, and I snap back into the present.
The present where I’m holding the prick by his collar as he cries and pleads for mercy—he will not be receiving. “Do you know a man named Alec?” I ask, my voice low, hiding the burning fury within me.
He shakes his head. “No. Please, no.”
“If I check your car, I won’t find any masks that match the driver of that Mustang?” I cock my head to the parked car behind me, and the way his eyes open and his breath catches, I can tell he knows whoever the driver was. Which is good, I assumed that much. “Time is ticking.”
He opens his mouth to lie.
My fist meets his jaw before the words even finish forming.
Blood spatters. Teeth snap.
I fucking hate liars.
I crouch down and grab his face, forcing him to look at me.
“Let’s try that again,” I growl. “Do. You. Know. Alec?”
This time, the stench of ammonia bleeds through the scent of woods and cookies. “Do I scare you?” A smirk stretches across my face. “I’ll show you exactly what I am capable of if you don’t use that mouth and talk.”
“Fi–ne,” he stammers out slowly, raising his hand as my fist comes back in the air, waiting for a response like a guillotine. “I know him from ODM. One of the guys in charge—e. He hosts the raves.”
“And you participate?” I already know what the answer is, I just want to confirm and to send a message. Because, unlike what people say, blood always sends a message. Releasing his collar, I take hold of his neck.
“See you in hell.”
He shakes his head to plead, but it's cut short by the snap of his neck as I twist it.
His face freezes in shock, eyes wide and glazed.
Steadying my shaking hands, before moving from his neck, and grabbing his collar.
I drag his body toward the driver's door of the wrecked car, reach in, and pop the trunk.
Then I continue dragging him to the back of the car, where she waits for me with a sad smile.
Her mascara runs down her face; her brown eyes are dull with drugs.
I push up the trunk, and sure enough, the mask is there.
The same neon mask with neon stitches across the lips.
Grabbing the mask, I place it on my face and then grab his body, stuffing it inside his trunk.
Just as the hissing turns into a sickening pop, flames erupt from the front of the car quickly, and I slam the trunk shut.
The fire begins to eat everything it touches.
The approaching tires break the silence.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Chino shaking his head inside the car.
Kai meets my gaze, his knuckles white around the wheel.
I wonder if he pictures his own death when he looks at me.
He thinks he can bide his time—pray for salvation for Tokyo—but both are condemned.
Unluckily for them, their sentence is death.