Chapter 13 Zaria #2
Her plan was murky beyond the need to get the hell out of here.
The lumbering footsteps behind her made it clear she was being pursued, and she nearly collided with the front door when she reached it, fumbling with the latch.
A moment later, she was inhaling the smog-laced scent of the early morning as the wind caressed her sweaty brow.
Although she’d slammed the door behind her, she heard it wrenched open again almost immediately.
Someone—Cleland, no doubt—shouted something indecipherable, and Zaria took off across the lawn without daring to glance behind her.
She’d taken only a handful of steps, however, when another series of muted gunshots rent the air.
They were closer this time. Louder. And—she realized now—obviously coming from an alchemological gun.
She whirled toward the rear of the manor, a chill climbing her spine.
If she squinted, she could make out a slim figure standing in the middle of the lawn, collar turned up, stance rigid.
They raised the firearm again, aiming at something she couldn’t see, and the subsequent flash of light illuminated the figure just long enough that she could make out their features. A breath rushed out of her.
It was Kane. Zaria would have known that sharp jaw and straight nose anywhere, and the recognition filled her with an absurd sense of relief. The men at her back no longer seemed so threatening.
She made a beeline for him, and somehow, impossibly, Kane seemed to sense her presence. His head whipped around, his eyes wild as they skipped right over her to where Cleland and his companion were in close pursuit.
“Cleland!” Kane barked. “Ferrington!”
By now, Zaria had skidded to a stop at his side, her breaths coming in gasps. She could feel heat rising to her cheeks, and not because of the exertion—she hated this. The fact that she’d run to him like a fearful child seeking protection.
Across the yard, her two would-be assaulters had frozen in place, the moonlight at their backs causing their features to be obscured in shadow.
“Come off it, Durante,” Cleland said loudly. “What’d you think was gonna happen once you started bringing girls into the fold? Let her learn this ain’t no place for her.”
Zaria might have flung a retort, but Kane’s expression urged caution. His wry bravado had been replaced by something darker, and she swore she saw the planes of his face harden as he said, “I’m going to give you five seconds to get the hell off this property.”
“And then what?” Cleland took a few steps closer.
Kane shrugged. “As long as I never see your faces again, then nothing.”
Ferrington’s voice held a note of apprehension. “Are you kicking us out of the crew?”
“No. I’m kicking you out of Devil’s Acre.” Kane tilted his head. The column of his neck was a single pale slash beneath the moon. One of his hands was still wrapped around the gun, and although it hung limply at his side, a finger twitched against the trigger. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
There was a beat of silence. Trepidation formed a vise around Zaria’s throat; if Kane decided to shoot, they didn’t have a chance. And no matter how much they might have deserved it, she didn’t particularly want to watch them die.
“You’re joking,” Cleland said, the words heavy with disdain.
Kane’s reply was whip-quick. “Try me.”
Ferrington bumped his elbow against Cleland’s. The larger man hesitated another long moment, then finally took a step backward.
“Ward would be embarrassed,” he hissed at Kane. “While you’re running his crew into the ground, I hope you remember that.”
Kane didn’t bother responding. He merely stared after the two men as they retreated, his gaze never wavering, even once they were out of sight.
The tension that had left Zaria’s muscles seemed to flood back in as she studied his face.
She didn’t recognize that distant expression.
He looked… unmoored. As though he were moments from fracturing, with nothing and nobody to hold him together.
When that gaze abruptly flicked to her, she felt trapped by it. Like a mouse in the sights of a cat, afraid that any sudden movement would lead it to pounce.
In that unkept garden, cocooned by moonlight, the two of them might have been the only people in the world. Lonely children playing at kings and thieves. A foolish girl and a beautiful, terrible boy.
“Zaria,” Kane said eventually. His quiet tone was unsure, as if sounding out a word in an unfamiliar language.
She dared to take a few steps closer. “Kane. What were you doing out here?”
The clouds overhead shifted, the moon growing even brighter in response. Kane was limned in silver, his eyes taking on a glassy sheen. He wasn’t sober, Zaria realized. But he lifted his gun and, without looking away from her, fired a trio of shots across the yard.
She flinched, blinking through the bright spots that assailed her vision, and finally saw what Kane was shooting at.
There was a small shed on the other side of the property, a slim wooden board propped up against the exterior wall.
It was peppered with tiny holes all in perfect rows, smoke still wafting from it as Zaria watched.
That was what dark market ammunition did—ate right through solid matter and left no trace.
And Kane had hit the board three times, in the dark, without looking. While drunk.
“I should ask you the same,” he returned, a slight hitch in his voice. “How did you cross paths with those two?”
“They found me,” she said honestly, carefully. Kane didn’t need to know she’d been sneaking around at the time.
“And you knew to lead them outside?”
“No. I didn’t know you were here. I was just… running.”
“Did they hurt you?” Kane’s teeth glinted as his top lip pulled back. “If they did, I swear, I’ll—”
“Stop.” Zaria wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he would do. She glanced to the direction in which Cleland and Ferrington had disappeared, a thought occurring to her. “Would you have killed them?” she asked softly. “If I hadn’t been watching, would you have done it?”
His brows drew together. “Maybe.”
A curt, simple answer. It ought to have disturbed her. And yet the fact that he’d avoided violence because of her—because he’d known she wouldn’t like it, even when he was in whatever this mood was—gave her an odd feeling in her stomach.
It was obvious she needed Kane if she wanted to survive here.
Not to mention that the closer she could get to regaining his trust, the more likely she was to find the ledger Vaughan was after.
This version of Kane, though, was dangerous.
Unhinged. Difficult to read. Without meaning to, Zaria let her attention drop to his gun.
Kane noticed and raised the weapon. “Do you know who I picture when I pull the trigger?”
“Me?” she guessed, scarcely more than a whisper. But she forced herself not to look away, daring him to admit she was right.
His laugh was scratchy. Disbelieving. “You? God, no. You’d like it, wouldn’t you, to know you haunted me that way. No, Zaria, I don’t want you dead. I want…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s me.”
“I’m not following.”
“That’s who I picture.” His rictus grin was back in place. “Myself. A boy who shot his own father, lied to his best friend, and was foolish enough to let a girl like you betray him. I plan to continue living for some time, but sometimes I think I’d rather like to watch myself die.”
Zaria couldn’t swallow past the sudden contraction in her throat. “That’s mad.”
“Is it?”
They were inches apart now, close enough that she could smell the whiskey-and-mint scent of him.
She was cognizant of her nightdress and bare feet, of the curly tendrils escaping from her braid.
Kane looked impeccable in comparison, even with his wild gaze and windswept hair.
It made her feel irrationally resentful.
“Do you regret it?” she said. “Killing Ward?”
It wasn’t until the question hovered between them that she realized it had been plaguing her for days. She would shed no tears for Alexander Ward, but he had been Kane’s father in all but blood. She wanted to know if Kane had felt something, anything, when he buried a bullet in the man’s chest.
One of his cheeks ticked upward. Amusement? Or poorly concealed fury? “What a question, Miss Mendoza.”
“Tell me.”
There was a beat of strained quiet. Then Kane said savagely, “I regret that it had to come to that. I’d rather it hadn’t. But no, I don’t regret killing Ward. I only regret that he ever made me love him in the first place.”
Zaria’s unease must have shown on her face, because he didn’t stop there.
“Don’t try to humanize me. I’ve always been able to see it—the way you want to pry and prod and chip away at my exterior, to see if there’s a different version of me underneath.
A version you can understand. A redeemable one.
But there isn’t, okay? Don’t delude yourself into thinking I care about any of it. Not anymore.”
Zaria pressed up onto her tiptoes, hands fisted at her sides.
She knew she ought to retreat, to go back inside and not provoke him any further, yet she didn’t seem to be able to help herself.
“If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be out here firing rounds into a piece of old lumber.
You wouldn’t be staring into space like you’ve just seen your whole world ripped away. You wouldn’t be drunk.”
Kane’s fingers twitched around the gun, and for a heartbeat she thought she’d pushed him too far.
That he would snap the way he’d snapped in her old workshop, and this time it would be her body that crumpled to the ground.
Now, finally, she felt the true fear she should have experienced the moment she forced herself back into Kane Durante’s life.
Despite everything, a not-insignificant part of her hadn’t truly believed he would hurt her.
Now she knew just how foolish she’d been.
He didn’t shoot her, though. Instead, he stowed the gun in his waistband, expression immovable. “I ought to thank you.”
Caught off guard, it took Zaria a moment to form a reply. “For what?”
“Making me realize I’m not as much like Ward as I’d thought.” Kane stepped around her, then paused, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “If I were, you’d be dead.”