Page 311 of Primal

A thud behind me.

The ceiling.

I spin—just in time to eat a fist to the jaw.

Pain spikes through my skull, my mask knocked slightly askew. I stagger, knife raised, staring into another Ghostface and—

Gun. Barrel aimed between my eyes.

“Took you long enough to reach the final boss,” Derek rasps through his modulator. “But don’t pop the champagne just yet. We both know how your number ends.”

The gun taps his own temple. “Gotta say, though, you’ve done well, Thirteen. Pity your luck’s about to run out.” He tilts his head. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

“What do you want, asshole?” Payton snaps behind me.

“Show’s starting soon. But first—let’s get your nerves buzzing.”

A flick of his other wrist.

Blue light. White heat.

My ribs explode. Muscles snap tight, lungs seizing.

The knife hits the floor.

My knees follow. Shoulder. Face.

Derek crouches, a fucking compact taser in his palm like an offering.

Could’ve grabbed it. Fought back. Done something—anything. But my fingers won’t stop twitching. Like a fish flopping on the deck.

Static in my ears. Payton’s screaming something—his name? Mine?

Get up. Move, goddamn it.

Bit by bit, the noises bleed through. Kristy’s broken gasps. Derek’s smug chuckle. Payton spitting fire.

My fingers jerk—still twitching—but the current’s grip is easing.

Derek leans in, mask to mask. “Aw. Look who’s almost functional again.”

Payton lunges—not at him, at my knife on the floor—

Derek straightens, boot stomping down on the blade in one fluid motion. “Tsk. Bad move, little fox.”

“Drop it.”

“Wesley,” Payton gasps.

The idiot playing Reaper is looming behind Derek, scythe hooked clean across his throat.

Damn it. I could kiss the bastard.

Now, get up. My legs won’t fucking listen.

The blade draws a thin line of blood. “I said, ‘Drop it.’”

Derek raises his hands. “Let’s not be hasty, Death.”