The Book of Fate

111

No — don’t!” I shout, already running.

There’s a high-pitched hiss. But not from his gun. From behind me.

Before I even realize what’s happening, a burst of blood spurts from The Roman’s right hand, through the back of his palm, just below his knuckles. He’s been shot. At the impact, The Roman’s own gun goes off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lisbeth slapping her shoulder like she’s swatting a mosquito. I can make out something dark — blood — leaking out between her fingers, like water seeping from a cracked well. She pulls her hand away from her shoulder and holds it up in front of her face. When she sees the blood, her face goes white, and her eyes roll back in her head. She’s already unconscious.

“Shit, shit, shit!” The Roman yells, bent over, jerking wildly and holding his shattered right hand to his chest. On his right, the First Lady takes off, running back toward the main entrance and disappearing into the darkness. The Roman’s in too much pain to stop her. On the back of his hand, the hole’s no bigger than a penny. But the signature with the stigmata is unmistakable.

“You lied to me! He’s an angel!” Nico howls from the back of the graveyard, up by the shrubs. He plows toward us through the darkness, his gun straight out, ready for the kill shot. He’s in silhouette. I can’t see his face. But his arm is steady as ever.

“Y-You’re going to Hell,” The Roman whispers as he anxiously throws his own personal Hail Mary. “Like Judas, Nico. You’re Judas now.”

The way Nico flinches, it’s clear he hears it. It still doesn’t slow him down. “God’s laws last longer than those who break them!” he insists as he gathers his strength. “Your fate is rewritten!” Up the path, he grips his rosary with one hand and aims the gun with the other.

“Nico, think of your mother!” The Roman begs.

Nico nods as the tears again stream down his face. “I am,” he growls, but as he takes aim, there’s a loud whoosh from behind the back fence of the cemetery. Up on the train tracks, a silver passenger train bursts into view, moving so fast it almost appears from nowhere. The clanking is deafening. My ears pop from the sudden vacuum in the air. For Nico, it’s fifty times worse.

He still fights it, gritting his teeth as he squeezes the trigger. But the noise is already too much. His arm jerks for half a second, the shot hisses from his gun, and as the bullet zings past The Roman’s shoulder and shatters a hunk of bark from the nearby tree, Nico Hadrian actually misses.

A dark grin returns to The Roman’s face as the train continues to whip by. Barely able to hold his gun with his right hand, he tosses aside the umbrella and switches the gun to his bandaged left. The way his right fist is shaking, he’s clearly in pain. He doesn’t care. His shoulders straighten. His knees steady. As he raises his gun and takes aim, I’m already running at him. So is Nico, who’s at least thirty feet behind me.

The Roman has time for just one shot. There’s no question who’s more dangerous.

Bam!

As the shot explodes from The Roman’s gun, it’s drowned out by the still-passing train. Behind me, just over my right shoulder, there’s a deep guttural grunt as Nico takes it in the chest. He still keeps running toward us. He doesn’t get far. Within two steps, his legs lock and his too-close-together eyes widen into full circles. Tumbling forward and off balance, his body hurtles face-first toward the ground. In mid-fall, the rosary flies from his hand. He’s not getting up.

As Nico crashes, The Roman turns his gun toward me. I’m already moving too fast. Lost in momentum, I collide with The Roman like he’s a tackling dummy, my arms wrapping around his shoulders as I ram him at full speed. The impact sends him staggering backward to his left. To my own surprise, it feels like there’s a metal plate against his chest. He learned it from Boyle. Bulletproof vest. The good news is, he’s already weakened from being shot in the hand. We trip over his umbrella in the dirt. I hold tight to his chest, riding him like a lumberjack on a falling tree.

As we crash to the ground, his gun flies from his hand across the wet grass. His back slams into a zigzagging tree root bursting up from the earth, while his head smacks backward into a jagged rock. The vest helps with his back, but his face clenches in pain as the rock jabs his skull.

Scrambling up and digging my knee into his stomach, I grab the collar of The Roman’s shirt with my left hand, pull him toward me, and punch as hard as I can with my right, ramming my fist just above his eye. His head whips into the jagged rock again, and a small cut opens above his left eye. He grits his teeth at the pain, his eyes squeezing shut to protect his sockets. Flushed with adrenaline, I hit him again, and the cut reddens and widens.

The real damage, though, comes from the rock under The Roman’s head. With each of my punches, there’s a sickening dull gkkkk as it drills through his black hair, into the back of his head. Still reeling from being shot, he thrashes his bandaged left hand toward his head, trying to protect himself from the rock.

Refusing to let up, I punch him again. And again. This one’s for all the surgeries. And for having to learn to chew on the left side of my cheek. And for not being able to lick stuff off my lips…

Below me, The Roman shoves his bandaged hand between his head and the rock. It’s not until that moment, with my arm cocked in the air, that I realize he’s not protecting his head from the rock. He’s pulling it from the dirt.

Oh, crap.

I punch down as hard as I can. The Roman swings his left arm like a baseball bat. He’s got the jagged gray rock clutched in his fist. I’m fast. He’s faster.

The sharp edge of the rock drills into my jaw like a razor on the tip of a missile, sending me falling to the right and crashing on my shoulder in the soaking grass on the edge of the path. Tasting victory, The Roman’s almost up. Climbing to my feet, I scramble as fast as I can, clambering to get out of there before he can—

He jabs me with the rock, his own personal pile driver. It’s a solid shot too — just above my neck at the base of my skull. I feel every ounce of it. As I stumble forward, unable to slow down, my vision goes blurry, then blinks back. No, don’t pass out…

I crash down on my knees and palms as tiny rocks from the stone path gnaw into my hands. The Roman is right behind me. He breathes heavily through his nose. His feet pound at the path, kicking a spray of pebbles at my back. “You’re—!” He grips the back of my shirt. I try to run, but he’s pulling too hard. “You’re fuckin’ dead!” he roars, whipping me around like an Olympic hammer throw and flinging me backward toward the polished stone crypt with the X-shaped wrought-iron bars that protect the red and blue stained-glass doors. If I hit the bars at this speed…

There’s a sickening crunch as my spine smacks against it. A half dozen panels shatter and pop like Christmas lights, one right where my head hits the glass. There’s something warm and wet on the back of my neck. If I can feel it, I’m bleeding bad.

As he tugs me forward, my neck goes limp and my head tips back. The rain comes down in slow motion, millions of silver frozen pine needles. My vision goes blurry again. The sky fades to bl—

“Nnnnnnnn,” I hear myself say, fighting awake as he drags me away from the crypt. Still gripping my shirt, he looks around for a moment. Lisbeth’s unconscious. The First Lady’s gone. Nico’s down. Whatever The Roman had planned, he needs to improvise now. His eyes scan the— That’s when he sees it.

He yanks hard, and I stumble forward, barely able to stay on my feet. Tucking my head under his arm, The Roman spins around, grips me in a headlock, and leads me across the stone path like a dog being tugged from the dining room. The way his sausage wrist wraps around my throat, it’s nearly impossible to breathe. I try to dig in my heels, but my fight’s long gone. Still, it’s not until we cross the stone path that I finally spot our destination. Diagonally behind two matching husband-and-wife gray headstones sits a small patch of grass that shines a bit greener than the rest of the surrounding mossy plots. At the bottom edge of the patch, a small piece of the grass puckers. Like a carpet. Oh, God. That’s Astroturf. He’s dragging me toward— That’s a freshly dug grave.