She was on me in half a breath, that smile stretched like a puppet string about to snap. But her movements were jerky—glitches in the program, as if she hadn't finished downloading how to kill me yet.
"Down," I hissed at Elliot, shoving him to the floor with one hand as my other came up, parrying her first strike with the heel of my palm.
The air snapped with the impact. Her knuckles skidded off my arm, caught in a rotation, and I twisted her wrist before she could reset. She reeled back, eyes flashing gold and black again.
That grin never faded.
"Masked Syndicate," she purred through a voice that wasn't hers, wasn't anyone's—like a distorted voicemail from Hell. "Cain sees Abel."
"You've got it backward, darling," I said, pivoting around her next jab with a dancer's spin. "I am Cain in this family."
She struck again—sloppy this time, a downward slash that tried to mimic training but bled chaos. I ducked beneath her swing, caught her at the waist, and swept her legs with a twist of mine.
She hit the ground hard.
She rose again, no hesitation, like gravity offended her. Her eyes didn't blink. Didn't twitch. But her breathing was beginning to shake. Her movements weren't clean—they tried to be. But clean is something you learn with time.
She darted forward again, elbow cocked for a blow.
I sidestepped, grabbed her shoulder, and slammed her face-first into the wall. Not enough to break anything. Just enough to remind her what a wall felt like.
She staggered, turned, hissed something incoherent through a bloody lip, then lunged one last time—
Her body slackened in midair like a marionette whose strings were clipped.
I caught her before she hit the ground.
Elliot was still on the floor, mouth slightly open.
"She—she didn't touch you."
"But of course not, dear Elliot!" I cradled her like a sleeping child, though her hands still twitched like they were searching for knives. "I make it a point not to be walloped by strangers. Or friends. Or any jolly fool with a fondness for fists!"
I gestured toward the blaring alarms with a nod of my head. The sirens were full-throated now, wailing like the ghost of a condemned city.
Not to mention that I couldn't leave her. Not only was it morally questionable, but if they figured out that she had fought with someone then they would know that I was the one who broke in. My greatest advantage right now is that they don't have confirmation that I'm the intruder.
"Security's on the march," I chirped, tiptoeing to the door, "and I daresay they're not bringing biscuits and bedtime stories!"
"We run, dear Elliot."
We didn't take the same path back. That would've been tactically idiotic and dramatically disappointing.
Instead, I hauled her over my shoulder like a sack of very angry, occasionally twitching potatoes. Elliot followed close behind, eyes still wide from the fight, his mind no doubt cycling through a dozen questions I had no intention of answering.
The corridors had turned hostile. Red lights. Voice warnings in five languages. Each bootstep rang like a drumbeat in a funeral march.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Elliot asked breathlessly as we ducked beneath a sparking pipe.
"Puppet theater," I replied, sidestepping a falling beam with casual grace. "The violent kind. You should've seen Act Three—absolutely devastating choreography."
Then Elliot muttered, "I hate you."
"Oh hush, that's just the adrenaline flapping its gums!"
He glared at me. I tossed him a wink and kicked open a side maintenance hatch.
Down into the dark we went.
We emerged hours—or maybe minutes—later into the dusky alley behind our rented flat. Somewhere in the Eastern bloc. I'd forgotten the name. Too many consonants, not enough vowels.
I kicked the door shut behind us and bolted it with a chair for good measure. The woman was still unconscious, though her breathing had steadied into something closer to human.
Elliot collapsed onto the couch. "I can't believe we made it. I can't believe—she—what is she even? Why did she attack you?"
I gently laid her onto the small cot we'd salvaged from the second bedroom. As much as I wanted to chain her to the radiator and pray she didn't wake up with super strength, I restrained myself.
Some battles require decorum.
"She's confused," I said softly, covering her with a blanket. "Too long in the dark does that to a person."
"She knew you. She called you..."
"She said what frightened minds always do," I lied with a grin sharp enough to slice bread. "Saw a mask in the dark and thought it meant a monster. Happens to the best of us—just ask my reflection."
Elliot stared. Then, slowly, he looked down.
I stood, dusting my hands. "Now, my dear boy, we keep a very low profile. The criminals won't find us here. Probably. They have terrible Yelp reviews for a reason."
Elliot hesitated. "Should someone stay with her in case she wakes up?"
"Yes," I said. "But not me."
I clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I'm far too pretty to die before breakfast. And trust me—if she wakes up and sees me—we'll be painting the walls red."
He frowned. "You think she'll attack you?"
"I think she might mistake me for a hallucination and throw a chair at me," I said cheerfully. "Best not to take chances."
"So... where are you going to sleep?"
"The bathroom," I said with a dramatic sigh, stepping toward the narrow door like a man entering exile. "A noble tomb for a noble fool."
Elliot blinked. "That's a weirdly poetic way of saying 'the toilet.'"
"I am weirdly poetic," I called back, shutting the door behind me.
The bathroom was cold. Smelled like soap and regret.
I sat on the edge of the tub, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed over my chest. My coat was folded over the towel rack like a gentleman's ghost. The silence buzzed louder than any siren.
I thought of her restrained. Questioned. Hurt.
Of her digging in her heels, refusing to speak, maybe holding out for someone to come. For me to come.
No. Not like Sienna's kidnapping. This was messier. Sloppier. Sienna had been bait.
Evelyn... Evelyn was leverage.
And leverage meant they were planning something worse.
I must've nodded off.
A scream shattered the quiet.
High-pitched. Frantic. Violent.
I stumbled to my feet, yanked the door open—
—and she was already there.
Standing in the center of the living room, wild-eyed, her gown crumpled, one hand bloodied from where she must've punched the wall. Elliot was on the far side of the room, hands raised like she was a wild dog about to pounce.
Then her eyes locked on me.
I had made a mistake.
"Masked Syndicate," she whispered.