Page 85 of Desecrated Saints
“This was your fucking idea! Let me go!”
“You made a promise. I want nothing more than to see him dead, but I can’t watch you destroy the only family you have left.”
“Get the fuck off me!”
Managing to locate my knife, I knee Seven in the gut. He trips and falls, unable to protect himself from the blade I press right to his throat. His chest is heaving much like mine, eyes wild with indecision.
“Phoenix,” he blurts out.
I still, imprisoned by his voice.
“We need to find him,” Seven reiterates. “I’m sorry, Eight. Lazlo deserves this, but Phoenix doesn’t. We can’t kill him yet.”
The splash of tears on my cheeks almost breaks my resolve. Patient Eight never cries. She is harder than nails and tough as old boots. Brooklyn West is a little more broken. Between the two, I’m falling into fragmented pieces, caught in the middle.
“Damn you, Sev. What a time to gain a fucking conscience.”
“I’m sorry, princess.”
I spin back around to find Lazlo still laughing his ass off. He’s almost as unhinged as his patients now. Seven takes my offered hand up and we approach the piece of shit together.
“You’re going to come with us and identify a location.” Seven points the gun at Lazlo’s head. “Once our friend is located, you’ll tell Sabre everything you know. Fail to do this and I’ll be the one to cave your head in with my bare hands.”
“Hand,” Lazlo singsongs.
Bad move.
Seven launches himself at Lazlo in a blur of madness. Bodies tangle and bones break in a chorus of beautiful, explosive rage. Clutching his now shattered right arm, Lazlo stares at the bone protruding through his skin. He’s actually crying, the spineless worm.
“You don’t need your arms to answer questions.” Seven dusts himself off. “Shut your goddamn mouth or I’ll break the other one too. I only need one hand to do it.”
“Couldn’t manage the gun, huh? Come on, break the other one, then!”
“You talk too much,” I snap, my booted foot connecting with Lazlo’s face.
His head cracks against the ground, knocked unconscious and nearly unrecognisable through the injured mess. He’ll be banged up for a while, but he can still talk, even with missing teeth and a broken arm. Hunter should be thankful he’s still alive.
Leaving me to stare at our beaten prisoner, Seven retrieves the discarded earpiece. He doesn’t bother offering it to me, slotting it in his ear instead.
“It’s done. Yeah, he’s alive.”
Muttering some more, I tune Seven out. All I can see is the rise and fall of Lazlo’s chest. Blood flowing from his nose and mouth is evidence of his heart continuing to pump. Each breath is another sick taunt. He was right.
I do dream about her.
I do hear her.
I do see her.
My mother is alive in so many ways. If he’s telling the truth, then the human carcass of the person I once loved is still out there. A monster behind the wheel, trapped and unable to die. The last decade of my life has been one long, twisted lie. Like so many other things.
“Eight? Still with me?”
“I saw her,” I manage to whisper. “She was there.”
Seven’s hand lands on my shoulder. “It’s just a lie. A distraction. Don’t let him hook you in.”
“Why would he lie?”