Chapter 27
Kat
For real? Come on. Too much shit luck all crowded together could not be a coincidence, at least not today. My bus, blowing a goddamn tire? What were the odds?
My body hummed with battle readiness, revving me up, but I had nothing to use the energy on, so it just cycled, making me jittery and breathless. Everything around me looked normal, dingy, tired. Nothing out of place, nothing I could beat to death.
Then again. Tony Petruzzi had looked normal, too. Just your standard rich, spoiled, good-looking guy, a little too in love with himself. You couldn’t tell he was a psychopathic mafia princeling by looking at him. Raffi certainly hadn’t seen it.
Monsters were good at being invisible. It was what made them so dangerous.
The bus driver was cursing outside my open window.
I overheard snippets of his conversation.
“…an hour? You gotta be fucking kidding me, Paul. I got all these passengers with tight connections in Portland, and I need someone here now!…Yes! Send another bus if the repair truck is too…goddamn it, Paul! You’re killing me! ”
In many ways, battle mode was better than moping misery mode.
I’d been torturing myself by thinking about the long, empty years that lay ahead.
Years of avoiding friendship, love, sex.
Years of avoiding caring about anything enough so that it could be used as a weapon to hurt me.
It had put me in a dark place, and I’d defaulted to a standard Kat Banner fantasy—that of draping myself with massive firepower and taking a wild, pre-emptive run at the Petruzzis some fine day.
The Angel of Justice, taking out as many as I could before they cut me down. Suicide by mobster. Bam, pow.
But my mom was still in my mind, shaking her head, and clucking her tongue.
Don’t you dare take the coward’s way out, Francesca. You have a job to do in this world.
Really, Mom? How could I find out what it was if I was forever cowering under a rock? And walking away from Ethan…oh, just stop, already. I was out of tissues.
The driver climbed heavily back up into the bus and seized the intercom.
“Ladies and gentleman, I am sorry to tell you this, but we have a blown tire. A crew is coming to deal with it, but they’re almost an hour out.
Feel free to stretch your legs and use the restroom, but pay attention to the status of our repairs, because I’ll be getting this thing moving the second it’s roadworthy. Again, my apologies.”
At the chorus of groaning and grumbling that followed this announcement, I slid farther down in my seat and pulled the brim of my hat lower, to shade my face.
People started trickling off the bus. This was not a rest stop with gas stations or restaurants, just a low, cinder-block structure, men’s and women’s bathrooms on either end of the building, a sheltered open spot in the center with drinking fountains and a rack of free brochures advertising local attractions.
Through the open space, I glimpsed waving grass, a break of trees.
I waited twenty minutes, until everyone was cramped and bored and the bus was emptied out.
I was close enough to the back of the bus to be enveloped in the sickly-sweet perfume of the chemical toilet, mixed with that air-freshener odor that all public passenger buses seemed to have.
The air outside was looking better every second that passed.
A bus in motion was sort of bearable. A bus standing still would make me scream, and then probably cry, because tears were all backed up behind any strong emotion I dared to let myself actually feel, like water behind a dam, and the dam was cracking.
Any time now, whoosh…and I would drown in a high-pressure torrent of tears.
A woman on the run could not afford such powerful feelings.
I climbed out of the bus, filling my chest with fresh air. The rest of the passengers were spread out, lounging at the picnic tables, scrolling on their phones, smoking cigarettes, bitching to each other about their disrupted travel plans.
I paid the bathroom a visit. It was smelly and damp.
Painted cinderblock walls, scarred and battered metal stalls, shiny metal sinks with no mirrors, floors of water-stained cement.
I heard the door open when I was inside the stall, felt the whiff of outside air, and every hair on my body went on end.
Chill, woman. There were six stalls. Everyone needed to use a toilet now and then. Nothing suspicious about it.
Someone was using the stall beside me, which was totally normal and to be expected.
A woman in black boots and black athletic pants.
I made haste, so as to get out of the stall before whoever it was exited their own, and was washing my hands at the sink nearest the door when the stall door swung open.
A young woman emerged. She looked part Asian, but not at all like Nicole had been described to me.
This woman’s hair was pulled back in a frowsy ponytail.
Her jaw looked puffy like a chipmunk, and her eyes red and swollen.
She did not have the steel-edged femme fatale vibe of the villain of Freya Masters’s wild and rip-roaring adventure.
Even so, I was quick to rinse the soap off my hands, heart thudding.
“Does that soap dispenser have any soap left in it?” The woman’s voice was high and girlish. “This one seems empty.”
“Yeah, sure. I just used it,” I said, shifting back to let her sidle up to it.
She smiled at me, lifted her arm—
Thwappp. It felt like a sharp poke in the chest. I looked down to see a dart poking out of my chest. Fuck! The dart fell harmlessly to the cement floor, having hit the packet inside my secret inside pocket that held my passport and my money. Pure luck. That sneaky bitch.
I attacked before she could take aim again. She swayed back, parried my kicks, then lunged at me with a shout, and we were at it.
Damn, she was fast. I was ducking and whipping back to avoid punches and kicks and slashing blows, and I did okay until I slipped in a puddle of soapy water and lost my footing for a split second.
She followed up her advantage and slammed me against the cinderblocks, bonking my head.
I jabbed my elbow into her throat, which should have crushed her larynx, but she jerked back just in time.
I scrambled for another opening, but I was on the defensive, and she was a powerhouse. For all my training, I’d never been in a fight to the death, other than in the elevator that day, with Ethan. Which didn’t count, because that fight had been magic, more like a first date than anything else.
I’d only simulated combat. I was still untried. This woman had a distinct advantage. She’d killed before, and she loved it.
I did not want an epic showdown today, just to survive. I blocked a chop to the neck and snatched her hand, twisted it until the torque forced her to double over.
Then I shoved her down to the floor and bolted out the door, just a few steps behind her. I pounded past a couple of square-built old ladies with blue hair who shrank back in alarm, clutching their purses. “Watch out for the woman in the bathroom!” I howled over my shoulder. “She’s a killer!”
I headed for the wall of foliage about thirty yards behind the rest stop building, my mind racing wildly. If they had found me here, then maybe they’d been watching long enough to notice Joanna. I’d broken the cardinal rule.
Please, please, don’t notice Joanna. Don’t hurt Joanna. She has no clue.
Why on earth did Ethan’s enemies give a shit about me?
I crashed into the wall of green, branches thwapping at my face, clutching my hair.
Feet sinking and sliding, the mud sloppy soft from the recent rain as I climbed uphill, and then burst out of the thick bushes and found myself going back down a slope, heading toward what looked like a drainage ditch that was choked by a luxuriant patch of blackberry brambles.
Thorns. Perfect. I’d been in training for thorns all my life.
I dove right in.