Chapter Twenty Saylor
Chapter Twenty
Saylor
There’s something perversely therapeutic about applying winged eyeliner when you’re planning to commit your first murder.
into slitting throats. Today calls for armor, and mine happens to be a fitted black dress with white polka dots, victory rolls
that could survive a hurricane, and red lipstick dark enough to hide bloodstains.
If I’m going to ask a man to teach me how to kill people, I’m damn well going to look like I deserve the lesson.
The walk downstairs feels different this morning. My Mary Janes click a steady rhythm against the floors, but instead of nerves,
I feel something closer to anticipation. Yesterday I was a grieving daughter playing dress-up in a world I didn’t understand.
Today I’m someone who kissed a killer and asked for seconds.
Blue is already at the breakfast table, wearing a burgundy velvet smoking jacket that makes him look like he stepped out of
a Sherlock Holmes story. His dark hair is perfectly styled, that blue-tinted beard groomed to aristocratic polish, and he’s
reading stock reports instead of his usual newspaper.
When he looks up and sees me, something alters in his face. His eyes travel from my hair down to my patent leather shoes and
back up again, lingering on the way the dress hugs my waist.
“Well,” he says, setting down his papers. “Someone’s ready to take on the world.”
I slide into my chair, accepting coffee from Wren with a grateful smile. The silence stretches between Blue and me, filled
with everything we’re not saying. The kiss. The promise. The way he looked at me when I asked him to let me kill them myself.
Wren pours Blue’s coffee with the careful attention of someone who’s witnessed awkward morning-afters before. “Eggs Benedict
this morning, dear?”
“Perfect,” I manage.
She disappears into the kitchen, leaving Blue and me alone with our newspapers and coffee cups and the weight of last night
hanging between us like expensive perfume.
“Sleep well?” Blue asks finally.
“Fine.” I take a sip of coffee, savoring the way it burns down my throat. “You?”
“Well enough.”
We eat breakfast like civilized people discussing civilized things. Blue mentions the weather forecast. I ask if Dame Gothel
enjoyed herself last night. He mentions how impressed Elliott was with the floral arrangements. We discuss the band’s performance,
and Blue tells me that Maya asked if I’d consider singing at the autumn art show. Surface-level conversation that skips over
the fact that I spent half the night replaying that kiss, and the other half wondering what it would feel like to watch someone
die by my own hand.
But underneath the polite chatter, there’s electricity. Every time Blue looks at me, I remember the way his mouth felt against
mine. Every time I reach for my coffee cup, I think about his hands arranging flowers in a dead man’s chest cavity, turning
murder into dinner décor.
Every time our eyes meet, I catch something that looks like guilt flickering across his features, like he’s already regretting
what he’s about to teach me.
Finally, Blue sets down his napkin and checks his pocket watch. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“Oh?”
“Something you asked for last night.”
He leads me through the house to a door I haven’t noticed before, heavy and dark and tucked beneath the grand staircase. When
he opens it, stone steps disappear into shadow.
“Basement,” he says, flicking on lights. “Time for that lesson you wanted.”
He pauses at the top of the stairs, his hand on the light switch. “Saylor . . . there’s no shame in changing your mind. You’re
still so young, still—”
“I’m not changing my mind,” I interrupt, though something in his tone makes my stomach flutter with nerves I wasn’t expecting.
I follow him down the worn stone steps, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the narrow walls. The air grows cooler with
each step, carrying scents of earth and something metallic that makes my stomach uneasy.
At the bottom, Blue opens another door, and I step into what can only be described as a gentleman’s torture chamber.
The space is larger than I expected, with stone walls that arch overhead and wine racks lining the far wall. But it’s the
center of the room that makes my breath catch.
A man sits tied to a chair, duct tape over his mouth, dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s maybe thirty, with the lean
build of someone who knows how to run fast and fight dirty. When he sees me, his eyes widen with the particular alarm of someone
realizing his day just got significantly worse.
“Julian Crow,” Blue says conversationally. “One half of the Shadow Twins assassination team. He was kind enough to volunteer
for today’s demonstration.”
“Julian Crow,” I repeat, frowning. “Why do they all have the same last name? Is it like . . . a family thing?”
Blue’s expression darkens slightly. “The Crow isn’t just what they do. It’s who they are. When you join them, you take the
name. Julian Crow, Victor Crow, Leroy Crow. You become part of the murder of crows, literally.”
“Murder of crows,” I say, the phrase clicking. “That’s poetic.”
“Brutus thought so.” Blue’s voice carries an edge. “It’s also practical. Makes them harder to track when everyone shares the
same last name.”
Julian makes muffled sounds of protest behind his gag.
“I know, I know,” Blue continues. “You didn’t technically volunteer this demonstration. But you did hold the knife that slit
Peter’s throat while your partner carved his initials into his chest. You laughed while he bled out, Julian. You filmed it
for Brutus. That makes this educational opportunity well-deserved.”
My stomach does a little flip at the casual mention of Dad’s name, but it’s not nausea. It’s something darker, hungrier. This is one of them. One of the men from my list—the tall one with the snake tattoo curling up his neck who wouldn’t stop laughing while they killed my father.
Blue moves to a table covered with black cloth. When he pulls it away, I see an array of knives that could have come from
a serial killer’s wet dream. Each blade is polished to mirror brightness, arranged with the same care Wren uses for formal
dinner settings.
“I thought you might prefer something easier to handle than my axe,” Blue explains, running his finger along the edge of a
particularly wicked-looking dagger. “These are designed for finesse rather than brute force.”
I stare at the display, my mouth suddenly dry. “This is really happening.”
“Only if you want it to.” His voice is gentler than usual.
Blue reaches out to steady me, his hand brushing my shoulder, and I flinch away from the contact before I can stop myself.
The involuntary movement gives away everything—the nerves I’m trying to hide, the fear I don’t want to admit to.
“Maybe we should start with something else,” Blue continues, and there’s something protective in his tone that makes me bristle.
“Some target practice. Work up to—”
The offer should be comforting, but instead it makes something stubborn flare in my chest. I asked for this. Demanded it.
Last night I told Blue I wanted to kill my father’s murderers myself, and I meant every word.
“Remove his gag,” I say, surprised by how calm I sound.
Blue hesitates, studying my face like he’s looking for cracks.
“Remove his gag,” I repeat, lifting my chin.
Blue raises an eyebrow but complies. The moment the tape comes off, Julian starts talking.
“What the fuck is this? Who is this bitch in the vintage pin-up costume?”
“Language,” Blue says mildly. “You’re in the presence of a lady.”
“A lady?” Julian looks me up and down with obvious confusion. “She looks like she should be serving pie at a diner, not standing
in a murder basement.”
“Saylor, meet Julian Crow,” Blue continues. “Julian, meet Saylor Mitchell. Peter’s daughter.”
Julian’s face goes white. “Oh. Shit.”
He knows he’s going to die.
“There’s that mouth again.” I pick up one of the smaller knives, testing its weight in my palm. “Tell me something, Julian.
How long did it take my father to die? Did you time it while you cut him?”
Julian’s cocky demeanor falters for just a moment. “Look, your dad fought hard. Gave us more trouble than most. Gutsy bastard,
I’ll give him that.”
“That’s not what I asked.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I asked if you timed it.”
“Three minutes,” Julian says, his eyes growing cold. “Three minutes from the first cut to when he stopped making noise. Would
have been faster, but Brutus wanted to make it last.”
The casual cruelty of it—the way he talks about my father’s death like it was a game—makes rage bloom hot and bright in my
chest.
“Look, lady, I don’t know what kind of revenge fantasy you’re playing out here, but maybe let the professional handle this?”
Julian jerks his head toward Blue. “At least he knows what he’s doing.” His acceptance of his impending death is surprising,
but I guess in his line of business this is normal.
“The whole point is that I do it myself.” I raise the knife, studying how the basement lights catch on the blade. “You killed
my father. I kill you. Simple math.”
Julian stares at the knife in my hand, then at my face, clearly trying to reconcile my pin-up appearance with my apparent
homicidal intentions. “You’re shaking.”
He’s right. My hands are trembling so badly the knife wavers in the air like I’m conducting an invisible orchestra.
“First-time nerves,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Blue, where exactly do I put this?”
Blue moves closer, and I can feel the heat of his body behind me. When he speaks, it’s low, meant only for me. “You don’t
have to do this, sweetheart. I can handle Julian. You can watch if you want to see him die, but you don’t have to—”
“Stop protecting me,” I whisper back, not turning around. “I need to do this myself.”
“Wherever feels right,” Blue says finally, resigned. “Trust your instincts.”
I step closer to Julian’s chair . . . so close. This is it. This is justice for Dad. All I have to do is push the blade into
his neck and watch him bleed.
So why do I feel like I’m about to throw up?