Chapter 18
“Jake!” Ricky barked. “Stop!”
Jake didn’t listen. I wasn’t even sure he could hear him.
He held the knife low, elbow tight to his ribs—the way you’d carry something you didn’t want anyone to see until it was already too late.
His face wasn’t twisted with rage. It was blank and focused.
His eyes locked on one precise target: the soft space beneath Ricky’s ribs.
Ricky grabbed Jake’s wrist, and the blade flashed.
They collided hard, boots slipping in powder.
The snow was deep enough that every movement had drag, like the earth itself wanted them down.
My knee howled the second I tried to run.
I made it two limping steps before it buckled.
I fell to my hands, cold punching straight through my gloves.
Pain streaked hot behind my kneecap. I pushed up anyway, shaking, vision swimming.
Ricky and Jake grappled a few yards away, shoulders hunched, breaths bursting out in harsh white clouds. Ricky tried to lever Jake’s wrist up and away, but Jake twisted with a strength that didn’t match his size.
“Fight it!” Ricky shouted. “Whatever’s doing this—fight it!”
Jake’s mouth worked. His jaw spasmed, and for a second, I thought he might speak. Then his neck rolled, a puppet’s head being yanked by a string. A wet sound tore out of his throat, half gag, half laugh. He surged forward, forcing Ricky back through the drift.
I scanned the ground frantically, looking for a rock, a branch, anything that would give me the upper hand.
There was nothing, just snow. I stumbled toward the trees, my knee wobbling.
I grabbed the first branch I reached and yanked, trying to force it to break.
It didn’t even bend. The wood was frozen solid, stubborn as bone.
“Come on,” I hissed, pulling harder. “Come on.”
Behind me, Ricky grunted with a mix of pain, effort, and fear. I let the branch go and lurched along the tree line, searching lower. My fingers closed around something thinner, already snapped, a broken limb. It wasn’t much, but maybe it was just enough, and my brain clung to it like salvation.
I turned back, dragging my leg through knee-high snow. They were on the ground now, half buried, wrestling like animals. The knife hovered between them, trembling as they fought for control. Ricky had his forearm jammed against Jake’s wrist, the blade hovering inches from his own throat.
Ricky’s face was red with effort. Jake’s lips peeled back. He wasn’t smiling. He was baring his teeth. I raised the branch and swung. Jake snapped his head toward me. His free hand shot out and caught the stick midair, like he’d been waiting for it.
He pulled once. The branch tore from my grip and vanished into the snow.
Ricky took advantage of the moment, twisting hard. The knife jerked sideways and sank into the drift with a dull, muffled thud.
He surged up on one knee, panting, and shoved Jake back. “Stop,” he snarled. “Just fucking stop!”
Jake rolled his shoulders once, like loosening a knot.
Everything blurred, and they collided again, bodies slamming into one another.
Ricky tried to block, to grapple, to keep distance—but Jake moved like he didn’t feel cold, didn’t feel pain, didn’t feel anything at all. His attention was a single beam: Ricky.
Snow exploded as they went down. I scrambled closer, reaching for the knife half buried nearby, but my knee gave again. I hit hard, air blasting from my lungs.
I heard Ricky shout Jake’s name. I heard that strangled, awful sound from Jake again. Then Ricky screamed. One sharp burst, cut off too fast, like someone had clamped a hand over his mouth.
Ricky lurched upright, and I breathed a sigh of relief. But then blood spilled from his mouth, thick and slow. His eyes found mine. They were wide, disbelieving, pleading.
He tried to speak, maybe my name, maybe run. Only a wet noise came out. His legs folded beneath him, and he collapsed into the snow right in front of me, face turning sideways, cheek pressed into white like it was a pillow he hadn’t meant to lie on.
“No,” I breathed. “Ricky . . . no . . .”
The world went still. Then Jake stood. He wiped the knife on his coat, slow, almost thoughtful. His face was empty in a way that scared me more than rage ever could.
“And then there was one,” he said.
It wasn’t menacing. It was just an observation, like the curse was counting. I tried to crawl backward, but my palms slipped on packed snow, and my knee flared hot.
Jake advanced.
“Jake,” I whispered. “Please.”
His head jerked violently to the side. His throat bobbed, like he was swallowing something alive, and then his jaw clenched hard enough that I heard it click.
I clawed at the snow, searching for the stick again, for anything. My hand closed on nothing but cold.
His weight slammed into me, rattling my vision. His knees pinned my hips. My injured knee twisted underneath me. I thrashed, scratching at his coat, trying to shove him off.
The knife flashed, and heat sliced across my cheek. I screamed, slapping a hand to my face. Blood slicked my glove. Jake didn’t even look at it. He didn’t care. This wasn’t about pain. This was about finishing what he’d started.
I bucked hard, twisting sideways, knocking him into the snow. I slipped free enough to scramble toward the store. I got my good leg under me and slammed both hands against the handle.
“Help!” I screamed.
I thought I heard a bell or the sound of a register. It could have been my mind playing tricks on me.
Jake grabbed my hair and yanked. Pain sparked behind my eyes as my face slammed into the glass door. My mouth instantly filled with blood. It was awful, metallic tasting, but at least it was warm.
His breath thundered in my ear. The knife pressed into my ribs. This is it, I thought. All of this for a stupid fucking pen. My hand went to my coat pocket on instinct, numb fingers fumbling.
I felt it—cheap plastic, smooth, the ridiculous hockey-stick shape almost mocking. I pulled it out and swung over my shoulder, driving the pen backward with everything I had. I wasn’t aiming. I was just stabbing.
In the reflection of the blood-smeared glass, I saw it strike his eye. There was a half second of resistance, like a water balloon that just wouldn’t pop, then a sudden give.
Jake made a sound that wasn’t human. He reeled back, hands flying to his face as blood oozed between his fingers. He staggered and went down hard.
I collapsed too, gasping like I’d been underwater. I crawled toward him, not because I had more fight in me, but because I needed that stupid fucking pen. His hands shot out and closed around my throat.
He rolled on top of me with terrifying strength. His face twisted, and his fingers tightened, his thumbs pressing into my trachea. My vision tunneled, black creeping in at the edges. I clawed at his hands and then at his face, drawing blood, but his grip didn’t loosen.
My fingers raked blindly through the snow until they closed around something solid.
The knife. I drove it into his side, once, twice.
Again and again and again. I moved all over his body.
I didn’t count. I was trying to find the spot where once touched, the pressure on my throat would finally change.
The blade pierced his neck, blood exploding across my face, blinding my eyes in a crimson splash.
Finally, his grip faltered, spasmed, and then fell away.
Jake’s mouth opened. He tried to breathe, but a wet gurgle escaped instead. His body shuddered, and for a moment his eyes—his remaining eye—found mine. There was something there, something human: neither forgiveness, nor peace, just a flash of terrible understanding.
Then his head lolled, and he collapsed sideways into the snow, blood bubbling at his lips until it didn’t anymore. I lay there gasping, staring up at the bright, indifferent sky.
The thought that came wasn’t poetic or brave. It was simple. Jake stole something that wasn’t his, and it stole everything back.
A soft click broke the silence. I blinked, refocusing. The store’s sign flickered, and light bloomed behind the glass, warm and steady.