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I have to say I like the sound of it.

Wolrath makes a whimpering noise, and Victor braces more of his weight on Wolrath’s neck, holding him down against the desk. “You aren’t getting out of this,” he says.

The scent of Wolrath’s fear floods the room until it’s almost cloying. Music thumps faintly through the walls, the only hint of the party outside. Victor looks up at me, and there’s a second where I see myself in the reflection of his gas mask, and I know this is it. This is the moment where I can slide away from my humanity. I can choose him. I can choose myself.

Wolrath struggles, thrashing against the desk. Victor’s muscles bulge as he wrenches his arm around Wolrath’s neck, pinning him in place. I breathe out and then reach into the neckline of my catsuit until my fingers close around the handle of my knife. I pull it out, the blade glinting. My name flashes in front of me.

Wolrath’s eyes go wide.

“I know you’re wondering why we’re doing this,” I say, and I’m surprised by how unwavering my voice is. How strong. How clear. “And my boyfriend⁠—”

God, it feels so weirdly right to say that.

“—My boyfriend has his own reasons.” I move toward the desk, my steps slow and steady. My entire vision tunnels through the holes in my mask onto Wolrath, his skin gleaming with sweat and his eyes wide with terror. “I’m doing this because millions of people suffer because of your family’s greed.”

And then I sink my knife into that space where his shoulder meets his neck. The blade slides in easily, slicing through skin and muscle and sinew without protest. Like killing people is meant to be easy for me.

Wolrath sputters and jerks, but Victor holds him down, and I gasp at the intensity of sensation that floods the room. The scent of Wolrath’s fear and the pounding of my heart. The pounding of my clit.

“Fuck,” I whisper, lifting my gaze to Victor. All I see are the insectual eyes of his mask, but I can feel him behind them, watching me.

I can feel his approval. His excitement.

When I yank the knife out, Wolrath’s blood spurts out across the desk, splattering the laptop with crimson. For a moment, I smell that, too: the hot, coppery stink of old pennies. It ought to be disgusting, but there’s an underlying sweetness that makes my cunt ache and my mouth water.

“Good girl,” growls Victor.

Wolrath is sobbing through Victor’s hand, which is still working as a muzzle. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I don’t care. I just offer the knife to Victor so he can have the revenge he’s been seeking for the last century.

But he shakes his head.

“No,” he says, the mask’s eyes boring into me as Wolrath moans and struggles beneath his weight. “No, this kill is yours, my love.”

32

VICTOR

Penelope’s surprise is immediate and obvious—as obvious as the thrill the sight of blood gives her, as obvious as the fact that she’s meant to do this, to hunt and kill, same as me.

In truth, I’m a bit surprised, too. I hadn’t expected to say those words until they came out of my mouth. I came here fully intending to be the one to deliver the final blow. Penelope would be at my side, but ultimately, I’d be the one to kill the great-great-great-grandson of the man who tortured Mary.

But when I stepped into the party with Penelope’s hand in mine, I realized I don’t need to kill him. That the urge I had to come here and do this, it was never about me finding peace with what happened to Mary. I carried that burden for so long, and now that I have him, my arms pressing him into the table, his mouth hot against the palm of my hand, I know the burden of Mary is gone for good. And it was Penelope who lifted it off my shoulders.

I don’t need the past anymore because I have the present, and the present is standing in front of me in a slinky black cat suit, blinking at me from behind a glossy plastic mask, a knife engraved with her name dripping blood all over the desk.

“Do it,” I say, hungry to see her work.

“Are you sure?” Penelope breathes.

Wolrath screeches against my hand, and I slam my elbow down in the cut Penelope made in his shoulder. He howls in pain, and I smile at the heat of blood soaking through my shirt. There’s a reason I chose black. No one will notice as we saunter through the party and out the door, assuming we move quickly enough.

“Yes,” I say to Penelope. “This is for you. It’s always been for you.” I smile at her, even though she can’t see it. “Show me who you are.”

Penelope’s lips part beneath her mask, giving me a glimpse of her pink tongue. Wolrath has gone still, like he’s accepted his fate. I jerk his head back, forcing him to look at Penelope and exposing his throat to her in the process. Then I drag him up so I can rasp into his ear.

“Your company has been hurting people since before it was a company,” I say softly. “This name won’t mean anything to you, but when you die, know that it’s because of the suffering of Mary Demario as much as it is everyone else you’ve hurt.”

Wolrath makes a confused sound against my hand and tries to fight against my grip. I squeeze him tighter and look at Penelope through my gas mask. The first time I ever laid eyes on her in person, it was through the distorted lenses of this mask. Now, I see the real her through it, too.