PETRA
The bullet narrowly misses me, but I lose my footing and end up on the floor. I try to get my bearings together, but Fiona is right behind me.
Damn it! I’ve never been the most athletic individual, but pregnancy has made me a lot more sluggish. It takes me twice as long to get up and run again, and by that time, the detective is only a few steps behind.
She shoots another shot, this time a warning one seeing how it’s not aimed at me. “Stop, Miss Valentine!”
I’d be crazy to.
“Petra! Stop before you make this more difficult.”
“Why? So you can kill me easier? No way!”
I run faster, fueled by the sheer need to survive. But Fiona has had training in chasing criminals, and in just a few moments, she’s on me. She grabs on my shirt, pulling me backward.
“Stop! Or I will be forced to hurt you.”
“Right,” I snort. “No, thank you.” I elbow her in the gut, but she pulls back in time so I only graze her stomach.
She grits her teeth and grabs my arm, fiddling with her cuffs so she can detain me.
Hell no!
“Stop fighting, or it won’t end up too well for you.”
There it is—she’s clearly stating her intentions now. And unless I act fast, I will be dead like Daphne.
Mustering strength I did not know I possessed, I swivel toward her and punch her straight in the face. She’s taken aback by the blow. Hell, even I am shocked by my strength as blood pools down her face.
But this is my moment to act. As she teeters on her heels, I make a run for it.
I’m no match for a trained detective, though. Blood still pouring down her face, she quickly follows after me.
She shoots another bullet that narrowly misses me.
Fuck. At this rate, she will shoot me. I don’t remember how the last murder was supposed to occur, but I am sure she’s skilled enough to aim for a non-vital spot, then keep me alive long enough to torture me to death.
Good Lord! How the hell did I end up here?
I still don’t know what I did to deserve this. I’m not evil! And Snowden’s murder—in a past life, no less—should not qualify as a sin when I was saving someone else’s life.
But seeing how I am now running for my life, I must concede that there is something I must not be aware of.
Out of nowhere, I’m falling.
“Agh,” I cry out as Fiona tackles me to the ground. “My baby. Please, my baby,” I mutter incoherently as I angle my body so I don’t hurt my belly.
Fiona appears surprised by my words, but that doesn’t stop her from handling me roughly.
“You should have thought about your baby before this,” she snarls. “You’re done for, Valentine.”
She tightens her grip over my arms, and I start believing that perhaps I really am done for—that this is the end. My mind feels foggy and tight, my vision dimming by the second, and yet there’s still this instinct to survive.
I push back with my leg. I don’t know where my blow lands, but judging by the ow sound she makes, I think it did land somewhere.
The handcuffs brush against my wrist. I draw my leg back and kick again, this time hitting her in the stomach. It works, just enough for me to shake off the cuffs, throw them to the side, and get on my hands and knees so I can propel myself upward and run again.
But she reaches for me, her hands circling my ankle, and I cannot move.
“Let go!” I cry out. Using my other leg, I try to hit her in the face.
“I won’t allow you to get away,” she tells me.
“I haven’t done anything! I’m not evil,” I grit out.
I’m out of breath, tired and aching. The ground is cold. Fiona’s grip on my ankle is tight and relentless. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on since my strength is waning by the second.
Soon, my body will betray me, and I’ll . . .
No, I can’t die.
Fiona snorts at me. “You’re not evil?” she chuckles at me. “Of course you’d think that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve been watching you from the beginning, Petra. I know everything about you.”
I blink.
“E-everything?” I whisper.
“Everything,” she confirms in a smug tone. “Martinez didn’t believe me, but I knew. Call it a woman’s intuition, but I was so sure of you.”
Martinez? I rack my brain until I remember that’s the name of her partner. But . . . does that mean they’re in this together? Have they been killing people in fucked-up satanic rituals as a team?
At first, it seems ludicrous to even consider—two detectives, people of the law, going on a murder spree. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that the way the murders occurred, it seems impossible only one person would be behind them.
Especially a woman—not feminist of me, I know. But Fiona is not a large woman. She might have FBI training, but there’s just no way she would have the strength to chop a body up into pieces.
“If it hadn’t been for that boyfriend of yours, I would have got to you faster.”
“W-what? What are you talking about?”
She rolls her eyes. “As if you don’t know. Every single time I tried to look into you, your boyfriend would coincidentally show up. Don’t think I don’t know you asked him to threaten me.”
“Threaten you?” I stare at her in shock. “What the hell are you on? I never did that.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“For weeks, I’ve been trying to come to your house for a meeting. Every single time, your boyfriend answered the door to tell me you were not home.”
What? But . . . weeks? Sin and I weren’t even together at that point, were we? Although granted, with his abilities, he would be able to intervene at the drop of a hat, more so considering he’s been watching me constantly.
Then where the hell is he now?
If he’s such an expert at watching me, then how could he miss my absence? Did he blink, and suddenly I was gone? For fuck’s sake, if he wants to call himself a stalker, he’d better stalk better.
If—when—I survive this, I will have some words with him.
“And last time I tried to intercept your parents, he conveniently showed up again to tell me that, without any evidence, my presence could be considered harassment, and he could very easily make it so I won’t ever have a job again.”
My brows go up. He did that? Well, at least he only threatened her and didn’t kill her.
No!
He should have killed her. If he had, I wouldn’t be here, in this precarious situation.
Good Lord, I can’t believe that for once I wish Sin had killed someone. I guess that’s another thing I’ll need to have words with him about. Less sparing and more killing—especially when someone is suspicious.
“I did not know about any of that,” I say in a small voice. Perhaps I can’t fight her off, but I can try to win her over? She’s a woman, after all, and I’m pregnant. Perhaps she will show me some mercy.
As if womanly solidarity is more important than whatever deal she has with that Valerion.
“Right. You don’t need to act anymore, Petra. I know everything. I saw everything.”
“You saw what?” My eyes widen.
If she is Sister Agatha, does that mean she’s immortal? Has she been watching me all this time, past-life me, too? Or is she only a reincarnation like me?
“Every single vile thing you’ve done. I will make sure you can never hurt anyone again.”
“But I never hurt anyone,” I cry out. Well, technically, anyone minus Snowden, but he doesn’t really count—he was damned anyway.
“Whatever you say,” she says flippantly. “You’re not getting away from me now. I have everything I need to finish you off.” She has a self-assured smirk on her face that only serves to make the panic inside my chest grow stronger.
Although my body is sore and tired, I will not die like this. So I try to think differently. If physically I cannot best her, I need to be smarter than her.
Her gun is a small distance away. There’s only the subtle glint of light in the otherwise dark tunnel.
Do I know how to shoot a gun? No. Do I intend to shoot it? And potentially kill her? I don’t know.
You’re only defending yourself, my inner voice tells me. It’s kill or be killed. Get it together, Valentine!
Fiona follows my gaze—and the decision is made for me.
Either she grabs it first, or I do. And there is only one option in which I prevail.
She runs over to get the gun at the same time that I launch for it.
I grab the hilt, she grabs the barrel. I pull on it with all my might, using my legs to kick at her and make her lose her balance. She does the same with me, but compared to her, I need to protect my belly.
That means I pull back to avoid getting hit, and my hand slips over the handle. I dig my nails into the metal, feeling them snap at the tips. She swivels to the side and brings my arm over her shoulder, hitting the inside of my elbow in an attempt to get me to release the gun.
I won’t do it. I can’t do it.
One hit. Two hits. The pain travels through me at lightning speed. My hand becomes slack. But just as I feel as though I am about to drop the gun, I press my foot on the back of her knee with enough strength, and her hold weakens.
“Fuck,” she curses as her knee gives out. I wrench my hand away, pulling on the gun, but Fiona isn’t letting go.
She backhands me across the face so hard I see stars.
“Let go!” she demands. “Take your hands off my goddamn gun.”
“No chance in hell,” I grit out, pulling on it even harder.
In our struggle, the gun has nestled between our chests.
We’re facing each other at close range, each pulling on one half of the gun.
Although I’m afraid the gun could go off at any point, I don’t give up—I’m doomed either way.
I could gamble, or I could let her kill me. I will always choose the latter.
Fiona’s features are drawn tight, sweat trickling down her face.
“You’d harm a pregnant woman?” I rasp out. “Do you think Valerion will give you some extra points if you give him the soul of a baby?”
She frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know. Agatha,” I say pointedly.
Her brows go up. What is that I see in her eyes, recognition, surprise? She probably didn’t think I would find out.
“W—” her words are drowned out by the loud bang of a gun.
I freeze. That was a shot, a gunshot. But I didn’t squeeze the trigger, did I? At least I think I didn’t.
Did I . . . did I get shot? I’ve heard sometimes the onslaught of adrenaline can lead to a delayed pain response.
My thoughts are interrupted by a low moan. It’s coming from her.
She draws back, relinquishing her hold on the weapon.
Her hands go to her abdomen, where a red stain is soaking the material of her shirt, growing larger by the second.
“You shot me,” she says in disbelief.
“As if you wouldn’t have done the same,” I counter, though I’m just as shocked by what happened.
Good Lord! That could have been me! The gun could have gone off in my direction—in the direction of my baby.
Fiona breathes hard as she holds tightly onto her wound. She staggers back, and as she hits the wall, she slowly sinks to the floor.
“You shot me,” she repeats, more to herself.
I stare at her. Do I run away now? Do I leave her here?
“Call 911,” she rasps, her voice tinged with pain. “Call—”
“No,” I reply suddenly, shocking even myself.
“You would let me bleed out here?”
Old Petra would have never even entertained this. But this Petra has her baby to consider. Fiona might be hurt, but she’s still alive. As long as she lives, she’s a danger to us. She might not sacrifice me today to that devil, but she will at some point. And I cannot allow that to happen.
But that means . . .
I glance at the gun in my hands, feeling the foreign metal against my fingers.
If I leave her like this, she might get help, she might survive, she might try to hurt us again.
But if I . . .
Fiona’s gaze goes to the gun in my hands, too, somehow knowing exactly what I’m thinking about.
“Don’t do this, Petra. You will only make the situation worse for yourself.”
Will I? Perhaps I will truly become an evil soul then, and in her next incarnation, she might come after me again.
Maybe. At least for the time being, we will be safe. My baby will be safe.
I raise the gun and point it at her. My hand trembles, but my resolve is unshakable.
I take one step. Finger on the trigger. I squeeze.
The bullet hits her shoulder. She cries out in pain, begs me again to stop.
I get closer. Perhaps this is the frenzy of killing—why this becomes so addictive to serial killers. Perhaps it’s just the relief at being alive. But there’s this bubbly feeling inside of me that only intensifies with every shot.
Once I’m closer, with better aim, I shoot again.
Face hit. Right in the middle of her nose.
She stops moving.
Another shot. This time her forehead. Headshot, I think they call it. Now I’m certain she will never move.
And yet, I don’t stop. I shoot again and again until there are no more bullets in the gun. Only then do I throw it to the ground.
I inhale and exhale. Her face is a mess. Skull exploded, flesh mangled.
I did that.
I stare in shock at my handiwork, and I can barely recognize myself. At least I’m alive, or at least that’s what I tell myself. The reality is that this might have been survival—could have been. But if it was, it should have never gotten to this.
She’s dead. Fiona—Agatha is dead. She failed to fulfill her bargain.
I’m still breathing hard when a slow, methodical clap of hands reverberates in the tunnel.
From the stark darkness, two distinct sets of footsteps emerge. I’m immediately on guard, thinking it’s her partner.
Instead, my mouth hangs open in shock when I see two men. The first, I don’t know. Tall, muscled, with stark green eyes. He looks a few years older than me, but there’s a lethal aura to him that speaks of a lifetime of experience. The second man, I know far too well.
Sin.
Sin? Why is he here? Why now, after I was attacked?
Why wouldn’t he come in time to save me?
More weird, he doesn’t seem at all shocked or surprised to see me like this, with blood-stained clothes and two dead people around me. If anything, he looks . . . pleased.
“Congratulations, Sister Agatha,” the first man starts speaking. “You have fulfilled your part of the bargain.”