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“I’ll take care of it.” Antony places his hand over mine. “You rest.”
“No.” I lean forward. Big mistake. The movement tugs at the wound in my chest. My breath comes out in ragged gasps. “I have to do it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can barely stand.”
I stare into my cousin’s eyes. His shoulders tighten. I see the boy who dragged me out of my grave, the boy who gave me my power back after Brutus’ attack, who found me Malloy Manor and another chance at life. I see all the times he saved me from my enemies, and from myself. I owe him a debt I can never repay. “Antony, I have to.”
And it’s a testament to how well he knows me that he steps aside and holds up my blade. “I dug this out of Brutus for you.”
My blade. The one Antony gave me all those years ago – cleaned of Brutus’ blood, the edges quenched in the perfect flame of the rising sun. It keeps finding its way back to me.
My fingers close around the handle. My arm trembles, but my grip is firm.
Noah steadies me as I heave myself off the swing. My breath shudders, and my vision swims with red welts. I can only take small steps, and the walk down to the pyre is like a funeral march. Only it’s not my funeral I’m attending. Not this time.
I raise my knife, and I get to work.
My whole body trembles with the exertion of my task. Brutus’ blood runs down my forearms, soaking the fresh bandages. Noah tries to take the blade from me, but I push him away.
This is my duty, my right.
When I’m done, I’m drenched in blood – not mine this time. I stagger back to the porch swing and drop my prizes into the Tupperware container Antony’s set beside me for the purpose.
Antony hands me a lighter. He grins at George. “I told you we usually torch the place.”
She smiles at him, and I feel this flutter of something in my chest. Antony’s warming to the motley crew I’ve assembled around myself. My family is coming together.
I toss the lighter into the pyre. The gasoline catches, spreading through the blaze. I settle back into the porch swing, pulling the blankets over my bare knees. Noah rests his head on my shoulder. On the other side of me, Eli clasps his fingers in mine, while Gabe dances around the pyre like the pagan he is.
It takes many hours to burn a human body to ash, turning the fire and adding more fuel to keep it hot. Even then, some parts will remain. Bone, gristle, belt buckles. The desert breeze draws up pieces of Brutus’ body and scatters them across the barren ranch. I take so little satisfaction in his death – blowing his brains out won’t give back what he’s taken from me – but I do smile a little to think of his body lost forever, unable to be reunited.
No one speaks. Antony and Galen slink back into the house. Eli hands around demijohns of cider for those who want to drink. Gabriel refuses. I grab for one but Eli holds it out of reach.
“You got shot,” he admonishes me.
“Even more reason to drink.” I make another feeble grab for the demijohn, but Eli’s frown makes it clear he’s not budging.
Noah squeezes my hand. “Did you see who shot at us?”
“Nope. I was a little too busy bleeding out,” I mutter.
“It was Mackenzie.”
I want to laugh, but one look at his coal-eyes and the laughter dies on my lips.
Fuck.
Mackenzie Malloy was here.
Mackenzie Malloy shot me.
So she’s alive, then.
Part of me knew it. I think I’ve known it from the moment Noah told me he overheard Brentwood say to his father that Mackenzie was a murderer.
What I don’t understand is why she gives a fuck about me. If she wants her house back, all she has to do is waltz in the front door and claim it. I can’t promise I’d leave quietly, but I’d have to leave. In four years I’ve never heard a peep. There’s never been a story in the media about her – not one that I’ve seen, anyway. Nothing beyond the weird conspiracy theories George found in the deepest recesses of the internet.
So why has she shown up now? And why the fuck is she out here shooting at us?
