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I push to my feet and stumble past Lawrence towards the sound, ready to fight whatever comes next, only to fall straight into Roman.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
ROMAN
Etta stumbles out of the crypt at the same moment as I’m charging in to save her and I can’t think through it. My chest swells, my mind feeling like it may literally explode.
She runs straight into me, bouncing off my chest and in the same second seems to go from fighting to exhausted.
“Where?” I don’t even finish the thought, but she immediately knows what I’m unable to convey with words.
“Knocked out I think? Or maybe dead, I don’t know and I don’t care.”
Of course she does, but we need to care. We can’t just assume it’s taken care of and ignore this. I struggle for a moment with how to take care of her and how to fix the situation at the same time. “Wait here.”
“No!”
“Then stand just here, on the steps out of the rain.”
I don’t want her anywhere near this shit, especially as I still don’t really know what the hell happened.
Stepping further into the darkness, my anger rises further than I thought possible. The stone altar where no doubt Etta came from is covered in candles and pomegranates and mother-fucking rose petals, like some kind of macabre Valentine’s Day from hell.
Immediately I see what she meant, the crumpled body on the floor, and also that while yes the old man is knocked out—blood dripping from his temple to mingle darkly with the roses—he’s clearly breathing.
I cross the remaining feet between myself and Lawrence, boots dragging and arms leadened. It feels as if it should take miles to reach him, like the ground should be impossible to traverse—a final trial of the hero's journey. But it isn't. It's only moments, only a couple of steps across the smooth, industrialized stone floor of the mausoleum.
Lawrence moans when I reach him, a pained pathetic sound. I doubt he's even aware of my presence.
As I loom over him, my foot suspended in mid-air ready to press down on his throat, I'm suddenly too-aware of how old he is. Of how this will be over in a single moment. Would it be different—more satisfying—if I were able to fight this out? Expel my anger, before finally ending this man's life?
I wonder, what defines a villain’s journey? When does justice turn into revenge? When does revenge turn into a pointless, hatred, a feud spawning generations of bitterness and violence? When is it enough?
I stomp down hard on Lawrence's throat, and feels the crunch of bone beneath my boot. He gasps as he struggles for air before finally succumbing to death.
Then, I turn away. That's enough.
Iturn back around to return to Etta only to find that she's already there. Of course she didn’t listen. Of course, because my good girl never listens unless she wants to. She’s only good when other people are watching, and for me she’s wicked.
Etta takes a tentative step forward toward the creepy rose covered altar and shudders. She doesn’t even look at the body on the floor, but we’re both aware of its presence.
“Let’s go, good girl.” I reach for her, trying to bring her back out into the light. The irony threatens to eat me alive. “Let’s go back to the apartment.”
All thoughts of getting married tonight will have to be postponed and any disappointment I have drowns in my relief at her safety. Thank the fucking gods she’s okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Etta steps away from me instead, walking toward the altar instead of away from it. Her expression is odd, almost trance-like. “What if you found me here?”
My voice is full of gravel. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She leans against the stone and picks up a rose petal in two fingers looking at it. “I’ve always hated these. Death flowers.”
I shake my head, vaguely amused at her expression despite the inappropriate timing. “Can we go?”
She looks up at me through her lashes—through her wide, absurdly captivating eyes, and worries her lip. “I’ll never be able to stop thinking about this.”
“I know, good girl, but—”
“So, give me something else.” Etta whispers, swallowing. “Make me feel better.”
