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The finger is broken, in a couple of places, but it’s still attached.
Huh.
I give the finger another sharp pull. This time the bone breaks through the skin, causing my grip to become slick with blood.
This is tougher than I thought.
A howl escapes Arthur, so I let go long enough to punch him once in the face.
He doesn’t even have the decency to take it like a man.
I need a better grip.
Spotting a hole at the collar of his shirt, I drop his hand completely and rip a strip of fabric off. Using the piece of Arthur’s own shirt––much to his dislike––I wrap his pinky in the rough cotton, giving me the friction I need.
Arthur’s howls of pain, never subsiding.
Exhaling, I channel my fury into my grip, and with one final yank, I rip Arthur’s finger off.
Finally.
Holding onto one end of the strip of cloth, I let it unwind. The loose finger dropping onto Arthur’s chest.
“Gross,” King mutters.
I let go of Arthur’s hand, shifting my knees back to his chest, and he immediately clutches his four-digit hand in his five-digit hand.
His sobs make his words incoherent. But it wouldn’t matter if I could understand him anyway. His fate was sealed the night I walked through Payton’s patio door.
I pick up the finger and slide the ring off the bloody end.
“This is mine now.” I wipe the ring clean on his shirt then slide it into my pocket.
Arthur finally catches his breath enough to form words. “Who are you?”
“Ah, finally the right question.” I lean down, invading his space. “I’m Payton’s wrath. And you’re about to die.”
When he opens his mouth to respond, I jam the balled-up piece of bloody cloth between his molars, keeping his mouth open, then I shove his newly unattached appendage into his mouth.
King makes a gagging noise behind me, but I don’t stop shoving until the finger is wedged into his throat.
Yanking the cloth free, I close my hand over his mouth. And use my other hand to pinch his nose shut.
Arthur’s eyes are bulging up at me.
Frantic.
Begging.
Terrified.
His hands are ineffectively scratching at my shirt, and when his eyes are on the verge of rolling back, I remove my hands, giving him the briefest glimpse of hope before I throw my fist into the front of his throat. Collapsing his trachea.
He blinks––soundlessly––up at me. His mind doesn’t seem to understand that he’s already dead.
CHAPTER28
Nero
