69

There was regret, yes, and guilt—plenty of guilt—but there was also curiosity. Victoria wondered if the second stab would hurt just as much as the first, or if some biological response would protect her from the worst of it. Would the blood that filled her lungs and throat be thick like syrup, or viscous and thin? Would her last breath rattle, or simply expel into nothingness? She wondered if perhaps she should’ve given more credence to those Catholic teachings of pearly gates or eternal damnation.

Mostly, she wondered why the end was so loud.

A constant banging like a bass drum echoed through her head. The sound reverberated, a distant tingling she couldn’t explain. How long had she been hearing it? Teagan’s monologue had taken all her attention—although it could’ve been the threat of impending doom more than the quality of her speech, Victoria reckoned—but it seemed like the noise had been there the whole time.

I’m still in the red room, she thought. Trapped. The Gala never ended. I’ve been here this whole time. The heart speakers were pounding, and she was kneeling before the executioner, begging for her life.

Was she begging? A whispered word spilled from her lips, repeating over and over as her eyes pinched shut and the booms grew louder.

Please, please, please.

It was only when the banging was joined by a splintering crack of wood and a slurred voice yelling, “Stop!” that she opened her eyes and registered this wasn’t the Gala, and they weren’t alone.

Teagan didn’t stop.

The knife barreled down.

Victoria watched in slow motion. The glint of the steel. The beads of sweat sticking to Teagan’s forehead. The garish scrapes and scratches on her face and neck proving Victoria had gotten a few good shots in. Her sister was beautiful; even now, with rage in her eyes and resignation crinkling the lines around her mouth, Teagan was a force of unbridled energy.

They locked eyes, bleary and bloodshot, as a pop ignited the air around them.

Teagan convulsed. Shock filled her face as her right shoulder and arm flew backward in a fizzled burst of red spray. The knife went flying as she fell to the ground.

“Teagan?” Victoria asked. She coughed and pulled her legs toward her chest, immediately regretting that decision as pain crescendoed through her. She flopped to the side instead, rolling toward her sister. “Teagan!”

Meyers was already at Teagan’s side, gracelessly slumped to her knees with two fingers digging into the soft flesh under her jaw. She held a phone between her shoulder and ear. Calling for backup. Calling for paramedics.

“You shot her,” Victoria said.

Meyers dropped the phone and crawled drunkenly across the floor. She made it a few feet before losing the contents of her stomach. The deep hurling sounds were rough in her throat and made Victoria cringe. Meyers wiped her mouth with the back of her arm and grimaced.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Her breathing was labored. Bits of vomit stuck to her collar. The buttons of her shirt gaped uncomfortably, and she’d lost a shoe at some point. Behind her, what was left of the door lurched into the hallway. Bits of wood and drywall littered the floor.

“Me?” Victoria looked at Teagan, who laid unmoving in a growing pool of blood. “I don’t know. My stomach.” She looked down, cradling her wound with her arm. The blood looked bright against the gray of Warren’s sweatshirt. Dizzy from the view, she fought her lightheadedness and nodded at Meyers. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay. You shot my sister.”

“She was about to kill you,” Meyers deadpanned, a note of irritation coloring her voice. With a groan and a strained expression, she returned to Teagan, pocketing her phone before adjusting her stance over the body. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

It couldn’t be that easy, Victoria thought as she lurched to her feet. On wobbly legs, she shrieked as the skin of her stomach seemed to tug in seven different directions at the same time.

On the floor, Teagan remained still. Blood splattered the side of her face and spread in a dark circle around her.

Will be a bitch to clean, she thought, clamping her teeth down to stop from laughing.

Meyers checked Teagan’s pulse again and shook her head, pressing both her hands against the wound. “Need to get the bleeding under control until the ambulance gets here.”

Victoria winced. Every breath felt like she was being ripped open. Her neck itched as blood dried in the creases. In the distance, sirens wailed. The inky black of the night sky had brightened considerably. The moon was a sliver against an expanse of dusky blue. A few stars peeked through wispy clouds broken only by the blackened branches of winter trees and the city skyline.

Alive.

Victoria’s vision clouded with floaters, specks of light jerking in zigzags when she blinked. Braced against the wall, unfazed by the bloody handprint smearing the paint, Victoria noticed the black duffle bag, remembered the executioner’s mask tucked inside. Carefully, she bent and scooped it up, biting back a scream, and tucked the silky material into the back of her pants.

The rescue teams would be here soon, police and medics.

She couldn’t rest just yet.

There was still work to do.