Finn felt it more than heard it—a whisper of hot air darting past, barely an inch from his side, as the missile found its target.
Thwonggggg.
The crossbow bolt buried itself in Stevens’s solar plexus and pinned him against the rail.
Monica let the crossbow fall clattering to the deck and stepped uncertainly out onto the fantail, both arms out for balance, her face gone white.
Shaky but still standing.
Sitting on the deck some five meters off, legs asprawl, Monica’s lethal shaft protruding from his solar plexus, Lew Stevens heaved a strained grunt.
Finn and Monica both stared at him.
His face twisted into something not recognizable as Lew Stevens. A grin so lewd it didn’t look human. He twitched once, then again, then went still, his face still twisted in that fey leer.
Like a mask.
Which was when they both heard the distinctive shuck-shuck of a sidearm chambering a round.