Page 81 of A Murder of Crows

He leans into my face, spit flecking across my skin as he bellows. “Tell me where she is!”

I brace myself. But I say nothing.

The kick is harder this time, directly into my abdomen, and my head smacks against something hard as I crash into the ground, the air rushing out of me as I gasp for breath. “A-animals.”

He pauses. “Say that again.”

“Animals,” I gasp. “I… got rid of it. The evidence.”

His face nearly crumples. “She wasn’tevidence. She was a person. Like Nicci was a fucking person, you fucking cunt.”

Brace.

Breathe.

He grabs my hair, twisting it around his fists. “I’m almost glad you won’t tell us. You deserve nothing but a slow death, Corvo.”

And he begins to pull. It feels like my scalp will rip from my head as my feet scrabble, trying to keep up. As he drags me towards my own grave.

I fight, then, fight as best I can, but my body is as weak as a fucking newborn kitten. My head is ringing, my shoulder burning, pain ripping through my body, but I scratch and claw and punch, until Leo grabs my face in his hand and smashes his fist into it.

The crunch of my nose breaking under his hand is audible. Much louder than my cry, broken and rasping and weak.

I can’t fight them all. Not half-blind and filled with pain.

And the fear. The fear is crawling up my throat, sealing off my ability to breathe.

We are all born expecting to die. We live the reality of it every day. Knowing that at some point, a knife will find its mark. The gun will meet its target.

But nobody expects to die like this.

They slowly force me down into the box, pushing and twisting until I can’t hold back my scream at the agony in my legs. They don’t fit, just as I thought, and I grunt as someone holds me down for Leo to tie them into place, forcing them into an angle that they’d never normally contort into.

He’s out of breath when he stands. I stare blankly at the edges of the cheap pine, at the whorls in the wood. And then I turn my head, looking up at the sky. Drinking in the sight of the stars.

The pain is almost indescribable, my legs already cramping.

They take my wrists next, wrapping the rope around them. The air is full around me, full of wishes for a long and horrific death. Vile taunts ring out, money exchanges hands on how long it will take for my lungs to run out of oxygen. Someone calls out not to scream, because it takes up too much oxygen.

Leo has one final gift for me.

I stare at the bag, and I start to struggle again.

Not that. Please, not that.

“This is goodbye, Caterina Corvo.” His voice is almost soft. “If it makes you feel better, this is still a better death than what Nicoletta had.”

He ignores my pleading, shoving something that smells strongly like oil into my mouth. “Can’t have you removing yourself from the game early, can we?”

I take one final, desperate glimpse at the stars before Leo forces the dark material over my head. Before my world narrows down to the sound of rushing blood in my ears, to the hot feel of my own breath against the cloth.

A dull thud sounds. Another.

And then I’m moving, the box lifted.

I land with a jolt.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.