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It takes Lamia an instant to get over her shock, but that instant is all I need. She’s too slow pulling out her gun which gives me enough time to throw a roundhouse kick and knock the automatic out of her grasp. The weapon flies out of sight under the conference room desk. Luke struggles uselessly with his handcuffs, his eyes flicking to the gun.
I follow my kick with an elbow to the side of Lamia’s head. She staggers, blinking and shaking her head. I go forward in a jump kick aimed at her face, but her long, easily-forgotten appendage comes out of nowhere and blocks me. One of the barbs in her tail catches on Dad’s t-shirt, almost ripping it.
“Damn it!” Stepping out of reach from Lamia’s swinging extremity, I pick up my wrecked chair and throw it at her. She bats it down with her tail as if it were a fluffy pillow and sends it crashing on top of the desk, smashing the conference speaker to bits.
Pupils reduced to thin, vertical slits, she charges forward. Like the prankster he was in kindergarten, Luke sticks out a foot and trips her. Lamia braces her fall with her hands but, at the same time, raises her tail and smacks it against the side of Luke’s face. His head lashes to one side, making his neck look as if it were made of rubber. His face disfigures in pain.
My first instinct is to jump on her back to put her in a strangling chokehold but, this time, I’m more aware of her damn tail. Not to let Luke’s efforts go in vain, I unleash a kick at her face. I imagine the sound on her nose crunching to bits, but she’s fast and throws her arms up protectively. My boot connects with her forearm.
Looking around for a weapon, I spot one of the detached armrests, a metal tube with a rectangular piece of wood attached to it. I pick it up and whirl, ready to smack Lamia unconscious. Instead, I’m shocked into stillness. She’s now standing behind Luke, her long tail entwined around his neck, the bony barbs digging into his neck.
“Stand down or he dies,” she says.
Luke’s face is red, and his blue eyes wide and ready to pop out of their sockets.
“Be my guest,” I say. “One less creep to worry about.”
My tone is steady, even though I thought for a second it might betray me. I shouldn’t care if Luke dies but, as much as I’d like to deny it, we are connected. He was always there, sitting at the next desk over, standing by the locker across from mine, walking down the hall looking back at me, in chess club beating my pants off, in the cafeteria line offering me his dessert—more than that, in the very beginning when we were nothing but a couple of cells.
She squeezes harder. “I agree.”
I want to remind her that Elliot wants us unharmed, but that would give me away. So I say nothing and, instead, let coldness and indifference seep into my gaze.
The front legs of Luke’s chair lift off the floor as she increases the pressure on his neck. My heart wavers with dread. Luke’s eyes are bloodshot and locked on mine. There’s no plea in his gaze, only resignation. He truly wouldn’t mind dying. The world he imagined for himself has slipped away from his grasp, and he can’t see past the empty space left behind. He’s lost as much as I have, and it’s hard to believe I can actually relate.
Luke makes a wheezing sound. Lamia’s mouth stretches in a satisfied grin. Her eyes glint, making her look like viciousness itself. She’s a monster who loves imparting pain and death and, apparently, her desire to do so goes beyond logic.
She’s going to kill Luke, damn the consequences.
“Stop,” I say, putting my right hand up.
My fingers tremble, reaching, reaching. Lamia eases her hold on Luke, but just barely. A breath hisses into his lung. He blinks, letting me know the pressure isn’t the killing kind, not at the moment.
“I don’t bluff,” Lamia says. “Cuff yourself to that chair.” She gestures at one of the other chairs. There are twelve available, after all.
I don’t move. I stand still with my hand held in midair. There’s no way in hell I’ll willingly cuff myself, just like there’s no way in hell I’ll let her kill Luke. She must see this in my eyes because her tail twitches and squeezes harder than before.
“Stop I said.” Determination courses through my veins. It’s a calm, self-assured tenacity like I’ve never felt before. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I know, for the first time since my powers manifested, that as I reach for Lamia with murderous intent, my abilities will do exactly as I command them.
The sinew of her beating heart suddenly throbs in my fingers. The muscle is strong and steady, not wild like the one that knocks inside my own chest. I’m ready to kill just as she is, but it’s clear that, for me, it’s not a remorseless, everyday task.
“Make. Me. Stop,” she says with relish.
“As you wish.”
Slowly, I curl my fingers inwardly.
At first, Lamia looks perplexed, even a bit amused. But as my reaching, invisible fingers close around the soft flesh of her heart, her eyes spring wide open screaming: “Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong!”
I squeeze harder still. Lamia’s hands fly to her chest. She gasps for air. Her chokehold on Luke eases off as her tail visibly slackens, suddenly forgetting its job.
“W-what are you . . . doing?” she stammers. Her left arm curls toward her chest. She cradles it with her other hand, groaning in pain.
Staggering backward, she beats on her chest as if that will make the pain go away. It won’t. I won’t let go, not until her heart is stillness and silence, until she ceases to be a problem. She moans. Her tail falls away from Luke and hits the floor with a heavy smack, twitching as she fights for breath.
I squeeze my finger further, my fingernails digging into the now slow, dying heart. With a jerk, her back hits the wall. She fights—her will strong—but, in time, her legs give out and she slides down to the floor. She sits for a moment, her eyelids fluttering, then tips to one side and falls on her shoulder. She rests her face on the carpet, small puffs of air brushing past her parted lips.
Her heart gives two last, barely noticeable beats, then stops.
I stare at my hand, at the claw-like shape in which it has twisted itself. Trembling, I stretch out my fingers and, even though they are clean, I feel blood staining them, dripping down to the floor.
I’ve killed, yet again.