Brenna Yovanoff - The Replacement

Tate stared down at her, then said in a soft, deadly voice that was almost a whisper, “Fuck the world. I just want my sister back.”

“Enough.” The Lady’s voice echoed from across the stretch of unconsecrated ground. “Your sister is trifling, barely more than a pittance. This is not my concern, and if you continue to disrupt my affairs, I’ll have no choice but to call for the man who sees to disruptions.”

Tate glanced at me and for the first time, her expression was uneasy. She stared around the graveyard, like she was just now beginning to realize how many of them there actually were and how scary some of them looked.

When her gaze came back to me, the Cutter leaned in over my shoulder and held up a gloved hand, letting the claws drift lazily in front of my face, not touching, never touching, but letting Tate see how easily he could.

I watched as he flexed his fingers. “What do you want?”

He touched the side of my neck and the iron felt cold against my skin. “All I want is for you to stand here and watch the people you love be horribly mutilated. Is that too much to ask?”

I held very still, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much even a light touch hurt.

Beside me, Roswell and the twins were struggling to get free from the Cutter’s bony men but without much luck. Tate had no one holding her, though.

“Let him go,” she said, and she sounded hard and mean, like she was ready to destroy him.

The Cutter was so close I could feel him laughing against my ear. “You’re a regular little firebrand, aren’t you? Come and take him, then. I’m keen to see if you can.”

His claws dug harder, harder. They broke the skin and I was breathing in spasms, trying not to make any noise, and everything happened very fast.

Tate bent and yanked the cuff of her jeans up, reaching for the top of her boot.

He let me go and stepped step back, raising his hands like he was surrendering, letting her have me. Then he slammed his fist into the side of my head.

I hit the ground and for a second, all I could see was a shower of tiny lights. I lay in the mud and the ashes, trying to catch my breath. The ground was wet against my back, soaking through my coat. The Cutter crouched over me, resting his claws against my neck. His touch was so gentle it seemed indecent that it could possibly hurt that much. The mark of Roswell’s bottle cap stood out dark on his cheek.

“Get off him,” Tate said again. Her voice was very low.

The Cutter just laughed his low, rattling laugh. “No, precious, no. What’s going to happen is this: I’m going to carve him up a little, and you’re going to watch me, and that’s how it will go because if you try to stop me, I’ll cut a gully down his throat and the two of us can sit here in the dark and watch him bleed out.”

The points dug hard into my neck and then I did yell, hoarse and aching, hating the sound of my voice. Suddenly, there was a flat, heavy thud and the claws were gone. I rolled sideways with a cold, searing pain racing up through the base of my skull.

The Cutter lay next to me. He had his hands raised, like he wanted to press them against his face, but the claws kept him from touching his own skin. There was a long burn down one cheek.

Around us, everyone stepped back. Tate stared out at them. She was holding something long and narrow, matte black in the light from the street. It was a crowbar.

The blue girls began to laugh in shrill, screeching howls as the Cutter scrambled to his feet. Clearly, the House of Mayhem had some uncharitable feelings toward him. They didn’t care if he took a crowbar to the face. They were just here to bear witness to whatever happened. He glared around at them, then turned on Tate.

She looked small next to him. Young. His smile was wide and it promised murder and before that, pain. The most desperate desire of his life was that he wanted pain for everyone.

“Little girl,” he said, and there was a lilt in his voice that sounded almost like regret. “Little girl, please put down your toy. You’ll die if you don’t.”

She shook her head and adjusted her grip.

“Put it down, or I’ll lay you open and leave your eyes for the crows.” When he slashed at her, there was no warning. He raked at her arm, claws slicing through the shoulder of her jacket. Even when blood soaked through the canvas, she didn’t back away.

Instead, she smiled. It was the same smile she’d given Alice in the parking lot. The smile that said, I have fun when I break stuff .

The Cutter was grinning back at her, like this was their moment. Like he didn’t know that the surest way to piss her off was to draw blood.

She swung again, and this time the bar connected, slamming into his teeth. He fell, stumbling and slipping in the mud and the soot, blood dripping from his mouth and chin, seeping into the ground, smoking on the crowbar in Tate’s hand. Already, his breath was grating out of him. He knelt between the headstones, shuddering and coughing.

Tate stood over him, holding the crowbar in both hands. She was still smiling, looking electrified and wild. Around us, the crowd was silent.

The Cutter didn’t move. Blood was running from his mouth. He swiped an arm across his chin and glared up at her, looking savage.

“Attend to her,” the Lady said, and her voice was shrill.

The Cutter struggled to his feet, spitting blood onto the muddy ground. Then he lunged.

Tate swung the crowbar hard, aiming for his hand, breaking off two of the claws. They flashed as they fell and the Cutter jerked back. She was moving away, already whipping around for another swing.

He caught her as she came toward him, opening a row of shallow slashes down the side of her neck, but she never flinched. There was just the Cutter and Tate and the bar. It was black in her hand and this time it hit him across the chest, knocking him back.

The Cutter staggered, then caught himself. He stood leaning forward slightly, and I thought for a second that he was going to throw himself at Tate, but he only raised a gloved hand and touched his forehead. The claws made a row of little welts where they brushed his skin.

“I stand down,” he said. His voice was hoarse and ferocious, his breath coming in huge gasps.

“Really, sir,” the Lady said from the dark. “I asked that you remove this inconvenience and am quite mystified as to why you don’t do it.”

“I stand down,” he said again, and this time he raised his head. The look he gave the Lady was murderous.

She spoke coldly from under her hood. “You do whatever I require, and at the moment, I require you to get rid of that girl.”

He turned his back on her.

The Cutter faced Tate, who stood holding the crowbar, but he didn’t make any attempt to challenge her. His expression was furious but rigidly controlled.

“You,” he said. His voice sounded rough, and blood ran darkly off his chin. “Ill-mannered as the devil, but you’re clever enough with a blunt instrument. You and I, we could stand to go another round one day, don’t you think?”

Tate didn’t answer. She was staring past him, toward the Lady’s corner of the cemetery, and looking more frightened than she had at any point during their confrontation. I followed her gaze and understood. One of the bony men had stepped out from behind the crypt with Natalie in his arms.

The Cutter gave Tate a jerky bow, then shoved past her, away from the cluster of rotting girls and out into the cemetery. The pair of broken claws lay on the ground at Tate’s feet. He didn’t look back.

“Enough of this.” The Lady stepped forward, snatching Natalie from her handler and dragging her along toward the white crypt. “We’re going in now, and we may be a while.”