Connor Fraser collapsed against the church wall, rain-slicked granite driving icy needles into his back and shoulders. He focused on the sudden chill, tried to use it to clear his thoughts, calm the white noise of pain and confusion and rage.
Blood pumped over the hand he had clamped across the wound to his leg, hot and slick between his fingers. He took a deep breath, ignored the flash of pain in his chest, exhaled a cloud of steam into the night air.
The voice drifted from the shadows, as warm and cloying as the blood pouring from his leg. ‘You okay, Connor? Watch your step. Last thing we want is you slipping and breaking your neck. Been enough death here recently.’
Connor looked into the darkness opposite, trying not to think of what had been left there only days ago. Knew now it had been a message for him. A message crafted in blood and pain, designed to make his life a horror story.
His attacker slid from the shadows, moving closer. Connor saw muscles tense, the final attack close. The knife rose slowly, flaring orange as it caught the glow from a streetlight overhead.
Connor braced himself against the church wall, tried to draw strength from the ancient stone. ‘Come on, then,’ he hissed, dragging his gaze from the ghost in front of him. ‘I’ve not got all night, and this is getting fucking boring.’
Another smile, almost genuine this time. ‘Mr Take Charge, huh, Connor? I always liked that about you.’ A glance down at the knife. ‘Well, if you insist.’
Connor pushed off the wall as hard as he could as his attacker lunged, using inertia to make up for the weakness in his leg. He surged forward, the fury and pain finally erupting from him in a roar that filled his ears, drowning out even the hammering of his heart.
They collided in a tangle of limbs and fell to the cobbles, writhing. Connor’s leg was engulfed in agony as he jerked the wrong way, the sudden pain forcing another scream from him. He felt small, hard fingers scrabble across his face and twisted away, eyes searching desperately for the knife. He grabbed for it, felt the crazed strength of his attacker behind the blade, inching it closer, closer, to his face.
He took another breath, tasted blood at the back of his throat, and gripped the arms that were quivering with the effort of driving the knife towards his face. He thought about letting go for an instant, the knife digging into the soft flesh under his chin, the blade slicing sideways and down to tear open his windpipe, blood and gristle splattering onto the cobbles. He could let it end with him. Let his blood be the last.
Couldn’t he?