Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

I yanked out the knife and ground down with my knee until her other elbow popped. She squealed—a sound unbecoming a leader. Blood coated her face, but wild, animal eyes still shone brightly through the mess. I pressed the tip of the knife against the underside of her chin.

The air shifted behind me. I slashed sideways with the knife and cut an approaching goblin male straight across the belly. It screamed and ran the opposite way, past where my gun lay, lonely on the pavement. Too far to reach. I wanted it so badly I thought the desire would rip me to pieces. I wanted to press the barrel against her foot, pull the trigger, and shatter it into blood and bone and muscle and goo. I wanted to do it with her other foot and with both hands. I wanted to take her a piece at a time, just as she’d taken me.

Only I didn’t have the time. Bloods and Halfies still battled in front of me. Humans and goblins battled behind me. At some point, the twin fights had mingled into a single war zone. And time was running out.

“You don’t deserve this,” I said. I gripped the knife with both hands and held it high above her throat. “You deserve a hell of a lot worse, you bloodsucking bitch.”

I plunged; she gurgled. Blood pooled from her mouth, down her cheeks and throat. I pulled the knife out and wiped it on her clothes.

I’d heard people say revenge is a dish best served cold. I had no idea what that meant, but I doubted it was meant to describe the chilly emptiness I felt at what I’d done. There was no satisfaction, no joy or sense of closure. It was just another kill. A notch on my belt.

“No!” Isleen ran toward me, easily dodging the few senseless goblins who tried to stop her. Rage painted her pale cheeks with orbs of crimson. Lavender eyes snapped and flashed.

I stood on shaky legs. My wounds ached and smarted. I didn’t back down from Isleen as she closed the distance between us.

“She was mine,” Isleen snarled. “She killed my sister.”

“And she killed me, so I killed her. Get over it.”

Bad move on my part. Covered in blood and trembling from head to toe, Isleen was so tightly wound from the battle raging around us that she was one pull from snapping. And it turned out my little retort was that final pull. She tried to punch me, but was sloppy about the windup. The blow glanced off my temple, more annoying than anything. I raised my knee and caught her square in the stomach. She doubled over. I jammed my elbow into the small of her back, and she dropped.

“Sorry about that, but I’m too busy to fight my allies,” I said.

I retrieved my gun and stuck it down the back of my pants. The second knife was lost. It didn’t matter; I still had one left.

The tide of the battle had shifted in our favor. With their leader dead, some of the fight had gone out of the goblins. They attacked with less fury. Small groups had pulled away toward the trees, wounded and bloody and lost. I spotted Wyatt on the edge of the fray, unharmed beyond the preexisting gunshot wound. His shirtsleeve was stained red, a severe contrast to his pale, sweaty complexion. He shouldn’t have been out there fighting, but he was on his feet. Tybalt stood close by, surveying the battlefield and speaking into a walkie-talkie.

The remaining Halfies, maybe a dozen, were in the process of retreating to the entrance of the Center. The Bloods followed at a distance, apparently not keen on chasing them into close quarters. The Halfies, however, stayed on the porch and made no move toward the door.

I had a bad view over the sea of bodies between me and the Center, some standing, most not. The Bloods surged forward. Something silver was lobbed into the air from the porch. The Bloods scattered—too late. It exploded on impact. A ball of fire billowed into the sky, consuming everyone within ten feet of it. Bloods shrieked in agony. Flames beat against a brand-new force shield that sparkled aqua blue.

The heat blasted across the paved lot. I raised my arms to shield my face. The actual fire dissipated quickly. Melted pavement and scorched bodies marked the blast zone. The handful of surviving Bloods retreated, joining the ranks of the Triad teams regrouping by the Jeeps.

I climbed atop the last Jeep, its roof a colorful palette of blood smears and skin bits. In the mess, I found the cross necklace, its delicate chain somehow unbroken—a small reminder of everything Alex had given up for me. I tucked it into my pocket, glad to have it back, and jumped to the ground.

Kismet appeared by my side. She was bleeding from a deep gash in her left leg. The rest of the blood on her clothes was fuchsia. She gave me a once-over and quirked an eyebrow at my impressive array of wounds.

“I’ve had worse,” I said.

Tybalt jogged over. “The rear teams report killing half a dozen goblins that tried to run,” he said, “but no other activity on that side of the building.”

“We’re picking them off as best we can, too,” Kismet said. “With their leader dead, they don’t know what to do. Goblin males don’t traditionally do much thinking for themselves.”

“And Tovin’s still got himself locked inside,” I said. “I don’t know if he’s just biding his time until my clock runs out, or if he’s daring us to come in. What time is it?”

“Quarter till three.”

An hour left. I looked around for Wyatt, keen on getting his advice. He wasn’t mingling among the battle-worn. My heart skipped a beat. Kismet was speaking, but I walked away. Pushed past people, worry planting its icy seed in the pit of my stomach.

I found him on the other side of the Jeeps, standing amid a grisly scene of dead bodies and noxious blood fumes. Back to me, I saw weariness in the slump of his shoulders and bend of his knees. He trembled—barely noticeable if I wasn’t looking for it. Above the hiss of his ragged breathing, a steady plopping sound stood out. I followed it to the red-stained tips of his fingers. Blood dripped in a steady stream from his wounded arm.

Fear and bald understanding almost knocked me to my knees. The bullet may have gone right through like a normal round, but it hadn’t been normal. Not even close. Triad teams heading into an unknown situation involving Halfies or Bloods always entered with anticoag bullets chambered and ready.

Wyatt had been bleeding to death for the last half hour.

00:58

As though my sudden understanding had robbed him of the last of his strength, Wyatt fell. He was too far away for me to catch him before he hit his knees. I caught him around the waist and eased him down onto his back. He looked like a ghost, pale skin stretched taut over his face. His lips were dry and colorless. Glassy eyes blinked up at me. Hard, shallow breaths dragged in and hissed back out.

My stomach twisted, tightened, and my heart nearly hammered right out of my chest. Fear blasted through me like a winter wind. I knelt beside him and cupped his cold cheeks in my trembling hands.

“Wyatt, look at me. Wyatt!”

He blinked twice, hard, and saw me. “Sorry.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“It’s better this way.”

I wanted to slap him, punch him hard until he took it back. Force him to stand up and dress me down for hitting a superior. Instead, I reached down and clasped his good hand. He squeezed back, so weak. Something thick clogged my throat. I swallowed hard, unable to dislodge it.

“Better for you, maybe, but I can’t do this alone.” My voice sounded strange—high-pitched and desperate. The din of the fight faded away until nothing existed but us.

His pale lips stretched into a tired smile. “You can, Evy. You have to.”

“This is my death, goddamnit, mine. Not yours.”

“You’ll be whole. Force his hand. You can win.”