Page 6 of Even Robots Die (Even Ever After #3)

Florentine

I start with the side where I can see three holos coming my way. Two of them look like they’re following the walls, so I start with those.

I can’t actually see them because the street is really long and there isn’t even a sliver of moon shining tonight. There is also no light on this street. I bet that’s why they picked it in the first place.

At least I can use my visor.

I aim at the guy following the wall on the side of the bar and see the little line showing where my bullet will hit on my visor.

I love that little gadget. I aim the second gun in the direction of the guy following the other wall and shoot with both guns at the same time.

They don’t see it coming. I aim again for the last guy on this side of the street and his fall is immediate and, well … noisy. I turn in the other direction right away and aim.

But I’m not fast enough this time.

The sound of the person falling on the other side of the street definitely clued them in and now they’re moving in a way that makes it harder to aim. I can’t use both guns at the same time anymore.

I put the one in my left hand back in my pocket and pull one of my blinding grenades from my left pocket.

I throw it and cover my eyes. The people in front of me don’t have the same reflex—can’t blame them, they’re clueless—and the two moving targets finally freeze where they are.

If I was a better person I would just run, but I didn’t come here to make friends, so I aim at one of the targets and shoot. Then I change my aim and …

A hand wraps around my wrist from beside me. And then another comes to curl at the dip of my waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a deep and velvety voice says in my ear.

Shit, one of them didn’t have a holo.

I feel my body shiver under the entrancing voice’s melody.

Except I know that voice.

I heard it through a holo once. I heard it in Notre Dame too.

But it was never right in my ear and with his hands on me.

Wait.

What am I doing?

I came for this.

I came for exactly this.

I turn on myself and throw my elbow into his ribs before I hit him in the face with my gun.

Like I said. Not—completely—stupid. I know the gun will hurt him more than my chubby hands.

“Fuck,” Brice swears at my back, but he still keeps a tight hold on me. So much for hoping he’d set me loose enough so I can face him with my gun.

The hand at my waist circles my stomach and grabs the other side of my waist, and my stupid body just wants to let him tuck me against him.

The traitor.

That’s what happens when you wait this long without getting laid.

Now my body thinks this attack is just a little foreplay.

Before I know it, his other hand is wrapped around mine and my gun falls to the ground.

In the next second, he turns me in his embrace and I’m finally facing the man I’ve been looking for for days.

I just wish I still had a gun.

Wait, I do.

My left hand dips into my pocket to retrieve the second gun, but once again Brice is too fast and I have no idea how he does it, but I end up with both of my hands at the small of my back held together with one of his hands.

Just one freaking hand and I’m still unarmed.

And worse? I’m panting, and the way he’s holding my arms is pushing my boobs up like an offering to him.

Well, maybe not like an offering, but it almost looks like my ample breasts decided it was time to get some air, and since I’m plastered to his front …

Yes, those beauties look ripe for the picking.

“So much violence in such a pretty package,” Brice says.

I’m not sure it’s really for me, more to himself, but I can’t help but notice that he thinks I’m pretty.

Did I say I wasn’t stupid? I would like to revise that. I’m the stupidest of the stupid.

Brice has me locked in his arms and all I can think about is the fact I’m in his arms.

I should focus on the fact he’s holding my dad against his will.

“Come with me,” Brice tells me as if I had any choice with him still holding me against him.

“You may need to release me for that,” I answer, but once again he acts faster than I can comprehend.

He’s now right next to me, but still grips my hands in his.

“I don’t think so,” he answers. “Unless you’re planning to use more of your weapons on me or my men.”

His last sentence is said with an upward inflection at the end as if it’s a question.

“You’re leaving them here?” I ask instead of answering his interrogation.

“I’ll have someone pick them up once we’re back at the castle,” he tells me. “We’ll give them a proper burial in the morning.”

“Bad idea,” I answer, happy to finally have the upper hand.

“And why’s that?” he asks, and without even turning my head to face him, I know that he has one of his eyebrows raised in question.

“You wouldn’t want to bury them alive, would you?” I ask, amused.

“What did you do to them?” Brice asks, no longer amused. “I can’t hear a single heart beating.”

“Oh. Does that mean you have a deserter? Because I only shot four of your men,” I tell him smugly.

I shouldn’t poke the bear—well, the bat—but it feels so good to have something he doesn’t have at this instant.

He doesn’t answer my question.

“None of your business,” he says instead. “How can they be alive?”

“Hmm. Let’s see,” I say. “Maybe because my bullets don’t kill, just paralyze.”

He doesn’t say anything after my little assertion and I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t believe me or if he finally understands what I’m capable of.

I turn my face in his direction so I can decipher his expression, but his face is blank.

“Why should I believe you?” he finally asks when our eyes meet.

“Believe me or not,” I answer him. “I don’t care. They’re your men, not mine. And as far as I know, they were going to beat me to death, so good riddance.”

“Who made those bullets?” he asks, and I’m surprised by the question.

I thought he would ask about his men’s health or at least how to get them to, well, be resuscitated.

Because he’s not wrong. Their hearts stopped, and it’s never good for those to stay paralyzed for too long.

“I made them. Why?”

“Like you built this AI of yours?” he answers by way of his own question.

“Yes,” I tell him. I don’t see why I would hide that. I thought all of Paris knew because of all the work Christina sends me. Maybe only humans know, though.

I might be wrong.

“How do they wake up?”

Here it is. The million euros question.

“Only I can wake them,” I answer with all the aplomb I can muster. I’m calm, collected, and maybe a little smug.

When your dad makes lying his profession, you’re bound to pick up a few things. And when you have to keep lying through your teeth to make sure your little sisters will never know about it, you get better than even him.

Lying is like second nature to me. I don’t get the little adrenaline peak people usually get at the possibility of getting caught. I’ve lied so many times that I know I’ll always manage to say whatever I want.

The trick is to never really lie. It’s to bend the truth. Because if I’m not really lying, why would I stress about it?

So yes, I’m bluffing.

I do have the tools to wake his men up.

If I want them awake earlier than the three hours those magnificent bullets give me.

I might lie through my teeth most of the time, but I’m not a monster.

At least not that kind of monster.