30. Dancing reaper – seven
30
DANCING REAPER
SEVEN
W ithout thinking, I reach to pull back the heavy red curtain, and a snarl curls my lips. The ache in my shoulder is fucking real.
It’s not exactly like I’m a stranger to being shot. It’s happened a handful of times and, if I’m honest, I’m not even sure Eli would count this one bullet hole as another strike against my nine lives. I’ve been hit far worse. At least he won’t have to dig this bullet out. That fucking sucked last time. Or at least what I remember of it sucked; I passed out before he could pry it out of my back.
Since I’m already fucking here, I hold the heavy-ass velvet curtain back to let Aurora and Eli pass through. Without me telling him to, he maneuvers himself in front of Aurora, keeping her between us almost reflexively and even though it’s not the right time, my mind is already coming up with a few other scenarios where she would work beautifully sandwiched between me and Eli.
After the shit she did tonight: helping with the heist at the gallery, picking a lock, and handling my weapon, I have the biggest fucking hard-on for this girl. And I don’t think there’s a goddamned thing she could do or say to us right now that would change my mind.
“Ready?” Eli asks her, his hand, steadier now than before, clasped around the handle of the large metal door leading to the street.
Of course there are no fucking windows, so I guess whatever’s waiting on the other side will just have to be a surprise.
As soon as Aurora nods, he pushes outside, rushing to fall in line with the pedestrian traffic outside on the street.
Eli and Aurora swivel their heads, scanning the crowd ahead while I look behind us.
We’re more exposed than I’d like out here, but within a few seconds, we catch up with a larger group of tourists, sticking close to their heels.
Two shadows peel off from a smaller group behind us, and I clock the one on the right as the fucker who ruined my jacket. Facing forward, I stay as tight to Eli and Ro as I can, using the reflective windows of the shops and restaurants on the street to track my prey.
The one on the right edges closer, shouldering through the people between us while the other one keeps his sights set on Eli and Ro ahead of me. I whistle to Eli to warn him as I slow down, waiting for the ugly asshole behind me to catch up.
I let him come real close, knowing—or at least convincing myself—that he won’t cause a scene if he thinks he can do this clean.
Too bad for him I no longer share the sentiment, and I never intended to let any of them get back to Ambrose alive. Especially not with the possibility of them having seen Aurora’s face. We’re already targets, I won’t let her become one, too.
Not when going to the art district was my idea. I won’t carry that, and if I kill them, I won’t have to.
One plus one equals motherfucking two.
The business end of a gun presses to my lower back and the reaper in me grins. “Keep walking,” he says in a heavy French accent. “Don’t make trouble and?—”
I pivot, gripping the barrel of his weapon, flicking out my blade at the same time to drag it across this wrist. He releases his hold on the gun with a curse that turns to gasp when I flip the blade and drive it up in a quick arc, burying it between his fourth and fifth rib.
I clap him on the back, not even feeling the injury in my shoulder anymore, thanks to all the adrenaline rushing through my veins bathing every second in electric glory.
“Whew, maybe you shouldn’t have had that last drink, mon ami ,” I say, unable to keep the manic glee from my voice, but it probably only adds to the facade that we’re just two revelers on the streets of Paris who had a little too much fun at the bistro around the corner.
He gasps, choking on his own blood as I search the crowd for his real comrade. He’s up ahead, gaining on Eli and Ro as they round the next corner.
Time to ditch the dead weight.
“Come on, buddy,” I groan, mostly carrying him now as I set him down against the wall in the alley beside us. I click the safety on his gun and tuck it into my waistband.
Panting, I jerk my blade free from his chest cavity and wipe it on his crisp white shirt before pulling the flap of his jacket to lay over the mess.
“You stay here,” I say, patting the top of his balding head while I pocket the blade. “I’ll bring the car ’round.”
I take off after Eli and Ro, knowing that if there were a couple goons at the back door, they’ll have taken the longer way around and be in a position to cut them off in less than a block, if they used one of the covered passages.
I think I see them up ahead, Eli dragging Ro through the streets, making a beeline for the metro as quickly as he can while casting furtive glances at the guy still tailing them.
Two down. Three to go.
When Eli turns again, I catch his stare and jerk my head ahead, telling him to keep moving. I got this. Unable to help myself, I do a little hop-step-spin that would’ve made Florence proud, earning myself some cheers from the surrounding crowd.
“ Vas-y , Mick Jagger,” someone calls as they pass me, and I eat that shit up, wondering if they’d cheer if they knew I was about to unalive the guy a few meters ahead of them.
I don’t know why Eli and Atty wouldn’t let her teach them how to dance. Not only did it make her so fucking happy, but it got me so much pussy through my teens and early twenties that I could’ve died a happy delinquent by twenty-two.
I’d have to show Aurora, and as I imagine it, I bite my lip, doing a little waltz on the spot, not sure if I’ll ever be able to picture anyone else between my arms again.
Shit. Ambrose’s man notices that I’m tailing him and makes the very regrettable decision to speed up in order to get closer to Ro and Eli instead of coming back here to handle this like men.
I sprint after him, weaving through the weekend revelers like a wraith.
He’s too close.
I just had to get carried away back there. Fuck.
“Eli!”
He spins, eyes widening at the guy practically within arm’s reach behind Ro, then at me, chucking my blade with everything I have, and probably fucking up my ravaged shoulder in the process. It buries itself awkwardly in the fucker’s back, the curved blade not the ideal type for throwing. His cry of anguish is overshadowed by the misfire of his weapon as it goes off with a lethal bang, and all fucking hell breaks loose.