Chapter Twenty-Nine Saylor
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saylor
We walk up the drive to Maison Rouge in comfortable silence. Blue’s hand rests on the small of my back, and I’m trying to
look normal while my purse contains mysterious blue pills from Grimlock’s resident poison dealer. The velvet bag moves against
my hip with each step, a gentle reminder that I’m officially in the murder business now.
“I have something for you,” Blue says as we reach the front door.
My stomach does a little flip. “What kind of something?”
“Another chance.” He opens the door, watching my face carefully. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”
Oh man . . . here we go . . . Another chance to prove I’m not completely useless at this whole revenge thing. “I’m ready,”
I say, but less confident than I’d like. “Actually, I went to the apothecary today with a goal. Got myself a different tool
for the job.”
Blue’s eyebrows rise with interest. “Did you now?”
I pat my purse. “Turns out knives aren’t really my thing. All that blood and stabbing.” I make a face. “Duffy had some suggestions
for . . . cleaner methods.”
“Poison.” Blue’s smile spreads slowly across his face. “Very respectable choice. Requires patience and planning. Much more
civilized than hacking people apart.”
“That’s what I thought.” I’m so glad he approves. “Less mess, less chance of me puking on everyone.”
“Absolutely. Some of history’s most effective killers preferred poison.” He opens the door wider. “Let’s see how your new
approach works.”
I follow him down the stone steps, my hand gripping the velvet bag through my purse strap. The basement smells like damp stone
and old blood.
Hans stands guard beside a chair occupied by Leroy Crow.
His expensive suit is now wrinkled and stained with dried blood, his left hand wrapped in crude bandages that haven’t quite stopped bleeding from where I drove the carving knife through his palm last night.
Even wounded and captive, he still manages to look smug.
“Well, well,” Blue says pleasantly. “Look who’s recovered enough to join us again.”
Leroy looks me up and down with clinical detachment. “Still playing at being a killer, I see. Tell me, did you enjoy watching
me bleed all over your precious dinner table?”
“More than I probably should have.” I set my purse down on Blue’s knife table, fingers working to retrieve my purchase from
Duffy. “How’s the hand feeling, by the way? Still tender?”
“You’ll find out soon enough when I return the favor.” His smile is pure cruelty despite his obvious pain. “I have to say,
you showed more spine than I expected. Most people hesitate before stabbing someone.”
The smug satisfaction in his voice, even while wounded and tied up, makes something cold settle in my chest. Good. I need
that ice-cold rage to get through what I’m about to do.
I pull out Duffy’s bottle of blue pills, holding it up to catch the basement lights. “Well, Leroy, today’s your lucky day.
I brought medicine.”
Leroy squints at the bottle. “What are those?”
“Health supplements.” I shake the bottle, listening to the pills rattle. “Very good for you. Open wide.”
“I don’t want medicine.”
“That’s unfortunate, because you’re going to take it anyway.” I unscrew the cap, tapping one of the blue spheres into my palm.
“Come on, just one little pill.”
Leroy stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You want me to swallow random pills? Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on. It’s just one tiny little pill.” I hold the blue sphere between my thumb and forefinger, giving it a small shake.
“Look how pretty it is. Matches Blue’s beard.”
“I’m not swallowing anything you give me, you deranged bitch.”
“Rude.” I step closer to his chair. “Hans, could you hold his head still?”
Hans moves behind Leroy’s chair, placing his massive hands on either side of the man’s skull. “Is very small pill, yes? Should not be difficult to swallow.”
“This is ridiculous,” Leroy snarls. “Blue, call off your psychotic girlfriend and let me die with some dignity. Use the axe
like a professional.”
Blue leans against the wall, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the show. “I’m just here for moral support.”
I try to pry Leroy’s mouth open with my free hand. “Come on, just open up. One tiny pill.”
Leroy clamps his lips shut tighter, shaking his head as much as Hans’s grip allows. I try pushing against his jaw, but he’s
got those muscles locked down tight.
“Hans, pinch his nose.”
“Ah, is good idea.” Hans releases one hand from Leroy’s skull to clamp over his nose. “Now he must breathe through mouth,
yes?”
Leroy holds his breath for an impressively long time, his face turning red, then purple. Just when I think he might pass out,
his mouth opens in a desperate gasp for air.
I shove the pill toward his mouth, but he jerks his head sideways and spits.
“Missed,” he gasps triumphantly.
“Damn it.” I pick up another pill from the bottle. “Hans, hold him steadier this time.”
“Is like trying to give medicine to very large, very angry child,” Hans observes, repositioning his grip. “Perhaps we need
different approach.”
“I have an idea.” I grab a glass of water from the side table. “Leroy, you seem thirsty after all that struggling.”
“I’m not drinking anything either.”
“Hans, tip his head back slightly.”
We go through the same routine—nose pinching, waiting for him to gasp, then I try to pour water in his mouth. Most of it runs
down his chin, but I manage to get enough in that he has to swallow or choke.
“There! See? You can swallow things.” I hold up another pill. “One more time.”
“This is insane,” Leroy sputters. “Blue, this is torture. Actual torture.”
“You would know,” Blue says mildly. “Saylor’s methods are significantly more humane than yours.”
The third attempt goes better. I get the pill positioned right as Leroy opens his mouth to curse at us, and Hans gives his
jaw a helpful little push upward. Leroy’s eyes go wide as he realizes the pill is now in his mouth.
“Swallow,” I command, pinching his nose again.
He tries to spit it out, but Hans’s hand is covering his mouth now. Leroy makes muffled sounds of outrage, his eyes watering
as he fights not to swallow.
But biology wins. After about thirty seconds of struggling, his throat bobs as the pill goes down.
“Success!” I step back, dusting off my hands. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
Leroy glares at me with pure hatred. “What did you just make me swallow?”
“Something very good for you.” I check my watch. “Duffy said it takes about ten minutes to work. Maybe fifteen.”
“To work for what?”
“You’ll see.” I settle into the chair across from him, crossing my legs. I stare for several minutes. “So, while we wait,
let’s chat. Was it worth it? Killing my father for money?”
“Your father was a fool who thought he could outsmart us.”
“Well, this fool’s daughter is about to outsmart you.” I check my watch again. “Eight more minutes, maybe.”
Leroy tests his restraints, pulling against the ropes Hans tied around his wrists. “What did you give me? Poison?”
“Something like that.”
Blue pushes off from the wall, moving closer. “How are you feeling, Leroy? Any symptoms yet?”
“I feel fine, you psychotic bastard. When I get out of here—”
“You’re not getting out of here,” I interrupt. “But please, continue your threats. They’re entertaining.”
Leroy keeps ranting about what he’s going to do to all of us when he escapes, but after a few minutes he starts sounding slightly slurred around the edges.
“Is too quiet in here,” Hans observes, glancing around the basement. “Maybe we need some music, Boss? Like the good old days
when you always set your scenes to music. Has been long time.”
Blue’s face lights up. “Excellent idea, Hans. You’re absolutely right.” He moves to an ornate phonograph I hadn’t noticed
before, sitting on a carved wooden table between the wine bottles. The machine is gorgeous—brass fittings gleaming despite
their age, a massive horn speaker that flares out like a morning glory, and intricate scrollwork decorating the mahogany cabinet.
“Let’s set the proper mood.”
He selects a record from a collection stored beneath the phonograph, places it carefully on the turntable, and winds the mechanism
with ease. The needle drops onto vinyl, and suddenly the basement fills with the smooth, dark tones of a jazz standard about
love and death intertwining. Perfect murder music.
“Oh, I love this song,” I say, starting to sway slightly in my chair. The music makes everything feel less like torture and
more like . . . dinner theater. “Perfect choice.”
“Leroy,” Blue says pleasantly, “you’re very lucky. Not everyone gets live entertainment during their final moments.”
Hans starts nodding along to the bass line, his massive frame moving surprisingly gracefully. “Is very good song. Very . . .
how you say . . . fitting.”
I can’t help myself—I start humming along, then quietly singing the chorus about dancing until dawn breaks. My voice echoes
off the stone walls, turning the basement into an intimate concert venue.
“Feeling dizzy yet?” I ask Leroy sweetly between verses.
“I feel perfectly—” Leroy stops mid-sentence, blinking hard. “Actually, my mouth feels weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Tingly. Like when you eat too much pineapple.” He works his jaw experimentally. “What the hell did you give me?”
“Just wait for it.”
Two more minutes, and Leroy’s words come out thick and clumsy, like his tongue isn’t working right.
“My vision’s getting blurry,” he says, sounding concerned for the first time since I’ve been down here.
“Mm-hmm.” I check my watch again. “Right on schedule.”
“Blue, seriously. What did she give me?” Leroy’s question carries a note of panic now. “I can’t feel my fingertips.”
Blue examines his fingernails with casual interest. “I have no idea. This is Saylor’s show.”
“My heart’s beating really fast.” Leroy tries to lean forward, but his coordination is clearly off. “And I’m having trouble
focusing on . . . on . . .”
“On what?”
“I can’t remember what I was going to say.” Leroy blinks slowly, like thinking requires enormous effort. “What’s happening
to me?”
“Well,” I say cheerfully, “the good news is you’re about to find out what all those people you tortured felt like. The bad
news is you’re about to die.”
Leroy tries to surge forward in his chair, but his muscles aren’t cooperating. “How long do I have?”
“Not long now.”
Leroy turns back to me, his pupils now huge and unfocused. “Please. I’m begging you. Just . . . just use a knife. Something
quick. This isn’t . . . this isn’t right.”
“Neither was killing my father, but that didn’t stop you.”
Leroy’s breathing becomes labored, each inhale sounding like work. His head lolls slightly to one side, and when he tries
to speak again, only garbled sounds come out. Then his eyes roll back, and foam starts bubbling from his mouth.
White foam mixed with something that looks suspiciously like blood. It runs down his chin in pink rivulets, and the smell—metallic
and wrong and definitely not something I was prepared for.
My stomach lurches violently.
“Oh god,” I gasp, pressing my hand to my mouth. “Is that supposed to happen?”
“Poison affects different people different ways,” Blue says calmly, like we’re discussing the weather. “Some foam at the mouth, some just stop breathing. Leroy seems to be the foaming type.”
More pink foam bubbles up, and Leroy’s body starts convulsing against his restraints. Not violent seizures, but these awful,
jerky movements that make the chair creak loudly.
My stomach rebels completely. I double over, dry heaving, but somehow manage to keep my breakfast where it belongs. Barely.
“You doing okay?” Blue asks, and I can hear the amusement.
“Peachy,” I manage between waves of nausea. “Just . . . didn’t expect the foam situation.”
Leroy gives one final, shuddering breath, and then goes completely still. The only sounds are the jazz music still playing
from the phonograph, my ragged breathing, and my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I straighten slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Leroy slumps in his chair, definitely dead, pink foam still
staining his expensive suit.
“Is it over?” I ask.
Hans checks for life, then nods. “Very dead, Miss.”
I stare at the body, waiting for guilt or horror or some emotional reaction beyond nausea. But all I feel is . . . satisfied.
One down. However many Crow left to go.
“I did it,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else. “I actually killed someone on purpose.”
“You did,” Blue agrees, moving to stand beside me. “How does it feel?”
“Messy. But good.” I look up at him. “Really good.”
Tightness in my chest wants to break open. Not from guilt or horror, but from relief. For the first time since Dad died, I
feel like I actually did something for him instead of just surviving what happened to me. I’m not the helpless daughter who
watched her father get stabbed. I’m not the victim who needed rescuing. I’m the woman who killed one of his murderers with
her own hands.
I did this. I forced that pill down the Crow’s throat and watched him die, and I didn’t run or faint or throw up until it
was over.
Would Dad be proud? I honestly don’t know, but he’s not here anymore and all I can do is seek justice for him.
Blue reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek. “Ready for the next one?”
I think about Dad, about his last moments, about all the pain the Crow caused. “Bring them on.”
Blue chuckles softly, his fingers still tracing my cheek. “Maybe one is enough for one night. The other two can remain on
ice.” His smile is fond but practical. “No need to rush this or have an assembly line of carnage.”
Blue’s smile is proud but menacing as he pulls me closer, one hand sliding to the back of my neck. When he kisses me, it’s
soft but possessive—making out in front of a corpse should probably bother me more than it does.
Suddenly Leroy’s body jerks violently in the chair, making me jump and break away from Blue’s mouth with a small shriek.
“I thought he was dead!” I gasp, pressing my hand to my chest.
“He is,” Blue says calmly, not even glancing at the body. “Just muscle spasms. Happens sometimes after death.”
“Well that’s horrifying,” I mutter. “Does that happen often?”
“Often enough,” Blue says. “Most people run screaming when they see it.”
“Good thing I’m not most people.” I step back toward him.
“No,” he says, pulling me close again. “You’re definitely not.”
Hans starts untying Leroy’s body from the chair. “Boss, should I dispose of this now?”
“Later. Right now, we all need to get ready for dinner. Time for your next lesson.” Blue offers me his arm. “You did well.”
As we head toward the basement stairs, leaving Hans and Leroy behind, I look back one more time at the still form slumped
in the chair. I actually did it. No throwing up, no fainting, no humiliating myself in front of Blue.
I’m getting better at this.