Chapter 10
KEROSENE
Bronte
Idid not come here to kill Poppy. I came here to make a bargain.
Yet every step I take feels like I’m walking toward the gallows.
Frigid rain slaps my hood with fat, cold droplets as the storm bellows a warcry in the night sky above. Adrenaline floods my system with memories. Throwing me back in time to a desert ranch. Tossing cold metal in my grip. Blaring a deadbeat soldier’s slurring commands in my ears—
Thunder smacks me back to the present. I squeeze the Kimber in my pocket to ground myself. The gun is for my own protection, nothing more. If all goes as planned, there won’t be a single need to use it.
I’m halfway to the café’s entrance when I hear the scuff of boots on stone followed by a choked gasp.
My head snaps up.
Poppy isn’t there.
The roaring world goes silent, and my training kicks in.
I quicken my pace, careful to avoid drawing attention from anyone on the street or in the café.
Slinking to the edge of the building, I peer around the corner.
Through the blinding sheet of rain, I distinguish a dumpster nestled against a brick wall graffitied with an ominous demonic skull grinning around a mouthful of fangs. Almost like—
The dumpster rattles as something slams its opposite side in an offbeat rhythm.
I lurch into motion.
As I move, the past blurs with the present. Brick blends to barbed wire and back again. Cobblestone shifts to mud then reshapes when my soles don’t sink. Thunder morphs and rises to a howl as I round the bend.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, but it’s certainly not a man in black with a gaiter pulled up to his lightless gray eyes as he chokes the life out of Poppy.
Her boots pound a desperate beat into the dumpster as the man squeezes her purpling neck.
His grip is so tight, not a single sound escapes her bruised and bloody lips.
Her wrists are pinned beneath his knees.
A spray-painted butterfly knife lies on the ground, just out of her reach.
Wrath. Fury. Rage. None hold a flame to the maddening inferno burning through my veins at the sight alone. Of that vile, villainous, powerful woman flat on her back and kicking her legs as uselessly as an ensnared hare.
“You should consider yourself lucky, printsessa,” the man croons with a thick Russian accent, dragging a hand glinting with brass knuckles down the center of her chest. “It was only a matter of time before someone was going to do to you what was done to us. You should be grateful I got to you first. This way, you won’t have to suffer at the hands of some other ugly mug, da? ”
Poppy flails without purchase, kicking that dumpster like it’s hell’s gates. She finds me looming in the dark, and the raw plea in her eyes dumps kerosene into my blood.
I detonate.
In an instant, I grab the man by his hood and throw him into the brick wall. Under his surprised yelp, I hear Poppy’s rough coughs and choppy breaths.
Alive, is my only rational thought. She’s alive.
I send a fist sailing into the man’s stomach. He lets out a garbled curse and doubles over, spitting blood.
Faster than an adder, he strikes back.
Speed was never my friend. I sidestep, but not quick enough. Brass slams my jaw. I reel back, tasting salt and iron. Another immediate blow to my temple sends me stumbling. I blindly draw my gun, flicking the safety.
“Mine,” hisses a pink streak blurring by.
Poppy hammers the man with a front kick, audibly cracking bone. He wheezes, clutching his chest, and then she has her blade at his throat and his mask pulled down as she snarls, “Blackguard bastard!”
Lightning flashes against the man’s manic grin. “Would you not have done the same if you were me?”
“No, Vlad. Vows mean something to me—to us.”
“Vows of dead men mean nothing,” Vlad spits like a viper. “The Volkovs were meant to rule this city. It never belonged to the Morgensterns.”
“We trusted you. I trusted you.”
“Your mistake, not mine.”
Poppy shakes her head, her chin strangely wobbling. “What about Kai? Nik?”
Vlad merely laughs like a madman.
“You forget that I know you better than you know yourself.” Poppy sneers, her knife drawing a thin stream of blood as she presses her weight into the blade. “You’re too stupid to be working alone. Who else is involved?”
Vlad runs his tongue along his toothy grin. “See you in hell, printsessa.”
Faster than she can react, he grabs her wrist and wrestles the knife from her grip—
Bang!
The gunshot is muffled by a thunderclap. Blood splatters the wall, smeared with chunky brain matter. Vlad doesn’t make a sound as gravity yanks him down to the ground.
Baby blues swing to me. My smoking gun automatically trains on the arrowhead fringe marking the bullseye between them.
A stilted silence limps by, louder than the storm.
With those glacial eyes leaking mascara tears and rain washing blood down her face, Poppy Morgenstern looks like a true angel of death. Her luminescent irises are stark against the bloodshot whites, adrenaline still pumping a chaotic current through her veins.
Fear is easy to read in most people; pinched features, stiff movements, erratic breaths. Hers, though, is sketched in every line of her trembling silhouette. This little devil with a Hadean heart isn’t just scared; she’s terrified out of her goddamn mind.
Bruises circle her slender neck in purple rings. My stare slashes to the man who made those marks on her delicate skin. What book should his hide be wrapped around? Misery? Bag of Bones? Or is Carrie the ultimate form of justice?
“Bronte,” Poppy croaks, tugging my focus back to her as she looks at me the same way she did when I was asleep. Like she understands—no, like she sees me. “I need you.”
I need you. Those three words drop upon my head like a meteor slamming to the earth. She asked for my help, and I came to discuss my price. Not wave a gun in her face.
Slowly, I flick the safety and lower the weapon.
The relief in her eyes threatens to pulp my chest as she breathes, “Merci.”
I nod then jerk my chin toward the dead assassin. “Mind if I take him?”
Poppy glances between me and him, him and me. Her pink lips purse into an oddly adorable pout. “You’re not going to eat him, are you?”
“I’m not that kind of psychopath.”
“What kind are you, then?”
I brush past her, chuckling quietly. “My own special blend.”