Something twisted in my gut, something felt wrong. So wrong.
“You really don’t know where she went?”
“No,” he snapped. “Fuck off already.”
I stepped forward. “Tell me the truth.”
He leaned back against the table, smirking. “Or what, sweetheart?”
“Someone should put you to use, too,” the man sneered, taking a step toward me. “Pretty face like that? Mouthy little bitch like you? You’d sell quick.”
Then Aran moved. No warning. Just fury in motion. His fist collided with the Serpent’s face so hard, I felt it in my chest. Bone cracked. The man’s head snapped back and he crashed into the table behind him, sending boards, jars, and brushes flying. Wood splintered. Something metal hit the floor with a shriek. A canvas stand collapsed.
But he didn’t fall. He staggered, teeth bloodied, and threw a wild punch. Aran ducked, stepped in, grabbed the front of his shirt, and drove him into the ground.
“Say that again,” Aran growled.
The Serpent spat blood. His mouth curled in a broken smile.
“Touched a nerve, huh? What, you two taking turns on her?”
I moved. Instinct. Rage. I didn’t even realize I’d stepped forward until I felt the floor lurch under me, slick with spilled paint. Aran saw me. Even from the ground, one hand outstretched, he gestured, a flick of his fingers, sharp and commanding.
Don’t.
My breath caught. My boots stuck to the floor with each step. I froze. That hesitation might’ve saved me, because a heartbeat later, the Serpent surged up. He rammed his knee into Aran’s groin. Aran choked out something raw and ugly as he collapsed. The man shoved him off like dead weight and scrambled to his feet, breathing hard.
Unsteady, but alive. He turned—straight into Will. They collided mid-stride. Will didn’t punch; he tackled, driving the Serpent backward into a metal shelving unit with the force of a battering ram.
It buckled. A crash thundered through the room as the shelves tipped and collapsed. Everything went with them. Frames, glass, pigment, turpentine bottles, rags soaked in oil. They hit the floor in the wreckage.
Will swung.
Missed.
The Serpent elbowed him hard in the ribs. Will gasped and tried to wrestle him down, but the man broke free, rolling over a busted frame, hands scrambling for anything sharp. He found a rusted pipe.
“Will!” I warned.
The pipe swung, fast, brutal. Will dodged, but not cleanly. It scraped his cheek and smashed into the side of the table with a deafening clang. Glass exploded. Color bled everywhere, thick streaks of black, crimson, bile-green that spread across the floor.
Will charged. Tackled the man again, dragging him down into the mess. They fought dirty. Hands clawing, feet slipping, paint flying. No rhythm. No skill. Just instinct. The Serpent bit. Will slammed his head into the floor. Blood smeared across the wood. They rolled again.
Aran threw himself into the fray, still winded, one eye nearly swollen shut, rage boiling off him like steam. He grabbed the Serpent by the back of the neck and dragged him off Will, slamming him into the edge of the broken table. The man yelped, tried to break free, went for the pipe again.
Too slow.
Aran ripped it from under him and swung. The rod smashed into the man’s knee with a sickening snap. A sound like firewood splitting. The scream that followed was raw. Animal. Too loud for the space.
He hit the ground and didn’t get up. His leg folded wrong. Awful. Blood pooled fast, mixing with the thick layers of pigment and chemicals across the floor until it looked like someone had spilled an entire artist’s soul. The Serpent whimpered, one hand twitching near his ruined knee. Aran stood over him.
Then he reached into his coat and drew the gun.
The barrel met the Serpent’s temple like it belonged there.
“Where is she?” Aran seethed.
“Fuck—okay, okay!” The man whimpered, eyes wide. “She’s in Faerwyn! The Theatre! Gold District! Ask for the show called Dahlia!”
