27. Whisper


My first karate lesson was when I was five.

You know, that age when moms enroll their kids in everything under the sun. Ballet. Soccer. Hockey. Piano. Trying to figure out what you're good at.

In my case, though, karate was never a choice.

I was just very, very good at it.

Jeremy and I had that in common. From a young age, he set the trend at the karate studio. They called him a prodigy. He could learn patterns in drills given only a few minutes, and he executed them with both strength and precision.

He challenged more than a few black belt masters, and he got away with it.

You can probably tell where I got my attitude from.

I guess you could say I idolized Jeremy. He was only fourteen when he died, but I could tell he was going places. He may have been a troublemaker, but there was no denying he was smart.

I was the prodigy that followed in his footsteps.

Better yet, I was the first girl prodigy in karate. In the state of Louisiana, I kicked ass all around at the tournaments. My name is probably engraved on a dozen trophies.

Does that sound a little arrogant? Too bad.

I just want to make sure you know I'm good at fighting.

Because when a man with a shaved head and tattoos grabs my arm, you should be able to picture the badass I am when I have him tackled onto the ground within twenty seconds.

"Didn't your mama ever teach you it was impolite to grab girls who are walking alone in the middle of the night?" My forearm squeezes off his vocal cords, and he chokes in reply.

Maybe I should kill this one.

As I look at him, his black eyes glittering in the streetlamps, I can't help the deep, dark loathing inside of me. Even though I know the odds of it being this man who killed my mother are slim, I still imagine him throwing my mother out of her bed.

How did she die? Was it a bullet, a single shot? Was it his hands around her neck?

My touch becomes harder. I press against him, fiercer, until his rasping slows.

If I kill him, I will have two murders on my conscience.

But this . . . this is worth it, too.

My mom. My mom.

This is just the beginning of my revenge.

I want every last one of them dead.

Concentration becomes the single focus of my vision. Pressure on his windpipe. His fading growls. The hands that claw uselessly at the road.

My mother is dead. Dead. Dead.

First, my dad, Jeremy, and now . . . my mom.

She was all I had left.

And I thought I had grieved . . . I thought I had let the worst of it out . . . but I haven't. Because all I can feel now is rage, rage and pain. My mother, who I loved, who was my only constant after we moved away from Louisiana, to California, and back . . . she's gone.

And for what? For what?

When the man's cries slip into silence, when his fingers go limp, I fall back on my heels with a sob.

My mom is dead, and killing him didn't bring her back.

Nothing will bring her back.

But maybe, just maybe, once they're all dead, I will have my peace.

And I'm just getting started.

Do I look like a psychopath?

Probably.

Do I seem like a serial killer?

Also, yes.

Did I just kill a man and leave his body in the middle of the road?

Well, that's a tough one. If there are any police seeing this, the answer is a hard no.

There are gunshots in the distance, and as I back away from the corpse of the Saint, my head jerks up.

I still don't know where I am, but the gunshots are loud.

Loud enough that I break into a jog, running faster and faster, following the direction of the music. And it is music━the sound of a battle, the sound of a fight.

Am I crazy?

Yeah, I would say so.

Am I dangerous?

Just a little.

Is this a good combination?

Not if you're a law-abiding citizen.

Fortunately for me, I'd say being the daughter of a Mafia leader already meant I was born into being a criminal.

The street━Veda Boulevard━is littered with bodies.

My jogging slows. On the threshold of the road, I pause.

Gunshots lash through the air like lightning, firing back and forth from windows and doors and rooftops. A full-fledged gang war.

I can't tell who are Wolves and Saints until I see Tommy on one end of the street. The opposite end. Which means I am in enemy territory.

If I'm going to be a spy in the midst of Saints soon, then they can't see my face and label me as an enemy.

Quickly, I tear off a strip of my black jacket. Covering everything below my eyes.

And then I go into battle, guns in both hands, cocked and ready.

Yeah, I'm a badass.

Because I'm on the side of the enemy, there are gunshots on the part of the Wolves━until I begin shooting the people around me.

The Saints are dressed in gray leather, leaning out from the sides of cars, using doorframes as covers. Snipers hover on the edge of the rooftops.

They don't notice me until I point the gun at a man behind a car.

There is a boy next to him, someone with thin and lanky, who reminds me of Tommy. And within moments, I see the man use the boy as cover from an onslaught of bullets.

The boy's body jerks. Once, twice.

He's not dead, but he will be.

It's all I need to see.

There is a bullet in the man's forehead before he even sees me coming, and the boy's eyes are wide━bright and grateful━as he looks at me.

This is when the Wolves hesitate. And the Saints pause. Shocked.

I use the silence in the middle of the war to strike.

I've never seen myself in battle, but I imagine this would be a sight to see. A girl in the center of the chaos, bringing the world down around her from the inside out. Leaving a blaze of bullets and surprise in her wake.

I have only killed two men tonight. And I keep it that way.

But I do leave lasting injuries.

What can I say? It's a specialty of mine.

My heartbeat rages inside of me, and Hunter's words pound in my ears, although I can't see where she is. This isn't your fight. But she was wrong. This is my fight. I was born for this fight.

Is this mourning? Is this a mental breakdown?

I don't care what it is.

But I revel in the chaos and the splendor of blood and death and horror. This is what I am good at. Fighting.

Maybe it's all I'm good at.

And as the world falls apart around me, all I can think is that as soon as this is over, I will have to face Hunter.



The fight blurs and I lose track of everything.

Time.

Thoughts.

Anger.

I become a mechanical swing of action and movement, and I stop focusing on the world. I shoot to injure. I aim to debilitate.

This is my battlefield. My chessboard.

And at the end, when I collapse to my knees in the middle of a street soaked with blood, I can't bring myself to look around.

There is carnage all around me. A war.

The Saints started this and yet . . . so many lives lost. On both sides.

I keep pulling the trigger, even as it clicks lifelessly.

There are no more targets. No more enemies.

There is only Hunter, and she kneels in front of me, taking my chin in her hand.

"Jude," she says, and her eyes are not brown. They are blue━two different shades of blue. A summer and storm sky.

You're her. You're the little girl.

My gun keeps clicking. I keep pulling the trigger.

There are no more bullets left. There is nothing else to fight.

Why can't I let go? Why do I feel empty?

"You're done," Hunter says softly, her grip on my face so warm. "We're done. It's okay. It's over."

Numb. I am numb. The gun clatters to the road.

It is still night, but the navy blue of morning froths on the edges of the horizon. My vision narrows to Hunter. Her eyes are blue.

How had I never noticed?

Were her eyes always blue?

"You're the little girl," I say, a whisper, and her eyes betray nothing. As though I am hysterical, and maybe I am. "You were my best friend."

She only sweeps me into her arms. Her lips hover over my temple, an almost-kiss that makes me long for her.

"It's okay," she repeats soothingly, and my eyes flutter shut.

The battle drained me. The fighting.

I'm mad. I should be mad. She should be mad.

But the reasons suddenly fall away, and I can't remember why.

As long as I'm in her arms, I know I'm safe.

"Did we win?" I whisper.

Her eyes meet mine, something dark and indiscernible flashing through them. "Yes," she replies quietly. "We won, Jude."

So I let myself sleep.


It is Sunday when I wake up, and all I can remember is that I have five days left.

Friday. This Friday is when I leave.

"You're awake," Hunter says.

This is when I have to face her.

To explain why it is, exactly, that I went directly against her.

To tell her why it is I launched myself straight into a war.

But I don't want to do it. Not yet.

So I blurt out, "Orange."

She pulls back from where she is sitting on the edge of the bed. Confusion flickers across her face, and it makes me want to both laugh and cry.

"Pastel orange," I continue, gesturing to the little hints of it around the room. The picture frame. The pens. The posters. The mugs.

That soft, sweet orange is buried in small touches all around, and it is my favourite colour, and I don't know Hunter picked it, and I don't want to talk about me being a murderer.

Because I am a murderer.

Oh, God. I'm a murderer.

"That colour," I say, because I can't bear to think of the blood on my hands. "Is it your favourite?"

She must have carried me back. Did she lay me down on this bed and pull the blankets overtop me? Has she been waiting for me to wake up?

It feels strangely intimate. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't fill me with warmth.

For a long moment, Hunter is silent.

"No," she says softly. "It's not my favourite colour."

"Then why━?"

"Someone I knew," she says.

This time, I don't press.

Because there is longing and quiet fierceness in her voice. Something that speaks to a long-lost love or a forgotten friend.

I don't want to intrude, but a slight tinge of bitterness coats my mouth.

Is Emilie the reason she decorated the room this way? Is this Emilie's favourite colour?

Don't let it bother you, Jude. Somehow, I'm not as convincing as I thought I was.

It does bother me, and I can't believe I can admit that to myself.

Fuck it. I say, "Who?"

But then I remember her blue eyes. Summer and storm.

You're her, I had said. You're the little girl.

And last night, she had been.

I knew her━I knew it was her.

But now . . . her eyes aren't blue.

Had I imagined it? Did I hallucinate?

Instead of answering, Hunter says, "You left the Underground. You deliberately disobeyed me."

"Disobeyed you?" I scoff, the anger inside of me renewed. "You're not my Alpha. I don't have to listen to you."

"But Anise is?" she says, a dangerous lacing to her words.

Shit. "I did what I had to."

"You damn near killed yourself in the process."

"I told you I wanted to fight. I fought."

"Tell me, Jude," she says, her dark eyes flashing. "You killed a man yesterday. How do you feel?"

I feel alive. I hesitate.

Her words become softer.

"It wasn't your first time, was it?"

This time, the words stay locked in my throat.

"No," I admit. And the memory crawls back towards me in flashes.

The golden candelabra.

The blood that lined its gilded edges.

The body in front of me, and the girl screaming, How could you?

Hunter's face betrays nothing━no sympathy, but no judgement either.

"It was last year," I say. "The reason we moved."

And I know she won't push me. But there is nobody that knows except my mother, and she's dead. I was never caught. I was never suspected.

I want to tell her.

So I swallow, conjuring the memory of that night. The fairy lights. The high school music. The science classroom.

And I whisper, "It happened on prom."


>>>

Okay, I'm on a motivation spree. Let's get it GOING.

From the moon and back,
Sarai

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