Page 129 of Hurt

“Let Willow go, and I’ll tell you.”

Willow’s high pitched yell cut through the air. She yanked and pulled at the hands holding her, sneakers digging into the gravel with the force of her protests. Her long chestnut hair was tangled and stuck to the tear stains on her face.

“Tell me and I’ll let you both go,” Luther lied.

He didn’t even try to make it convincing.

Kurt closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the desert. He thought of how badly he had wanted to see his guitar resting up against Grant’s couch. He pictured lazy mornings with Grant watching him pick the strings with that languid expression on his face, eyes bright with interest and lips soft and kissable.

He had never told Grant how much he liked kissing him. Even through the haze of fear, he could feel the tingles of pleasure beginning when they touched. The warm firmness of Grant’s lips. The strong taste of that godawful tea he drank in the morning. Grant’s hand on his cheek, gently guiding them closer—never demanding, never forcing. Asking. Grant always asked.

Kurt wished he had answered. Just once.

Suddenly, he remembered why it hurt so bad to hope. For a moment he had thought he would be okay. That the curse had been broken and he had a future. With Grant, he might even be able to find lasting happiness. His audacity in finding happiness had only made his curse double back on him. Willow was being dragged down with him.

Looking up, he locked eyes with Ezra. He dug deep. Beneath the sharp tang of his fear was the coiled anger. He shoved the terror aside and gave it room to strike.

“Fuck you.”

Ezra’s smile deepened. A hand reached for Kurt’s face and blocked out the sun.

He had really thought he had more time.

23

YOU MAKE ME MORE AND MORE A VILLAIN EVERYDAY

The glow of three computer monitors backlit the room. A single oscillating fan ruffled pages of notes, lifting their edges so that they hovered precariously close to taking flight. Soft snores accompanied the gentle whirring of the fan—occasionally punctuated by restless snuffling. Owen shifted and his head rolled onto the keyboard. Angry pinging came from the computer. It was angry at receiving too many instructions at once. Years of flinching at the sound caused his muscles to jerk at the sound, waking him from his sleep.

Snapping his head up he immediately squinted at the screen and took in the information. A piece of paper was stuck to the drool on his face, and he peeled it off, glancing at it quickly before tossing it into the pile with all the others.

He reached for his coffee cup and grimaced when he realized it had turned to sludge. Even he wasn’t desperate enough to chew his caffeine. Ruffling his dyed hair, he sat back in his chair and glanced past his monitors.

His desk was pressed into the back room of the safe house. He had spent the last four days stuck in this room staring at his monitors. Between watching Tonka Tony’s movements, searching for Vega drug houses, and running a facial recognition algorithm on local CCTV cameras for Asher or Ezra, he was exhausted.

Catching quick twenty-minute naps weren’t cutting it anymore. He hadn’t showered in days and even his constant supply of Cheetos was growing stale.

Glancing past his monitors he saw that the Weavers had not moved since the last time he looked. Grant was flicking through Vega financial reports they had managed to swindle, and Roland was staring unblinkingly at a map of the state.

Owen glanced at the heart-shaped sticky note on the farthest monitor to the right. There was only one tick mark. The only time he had ever seen Roland blink—and it had been because the toaster had spat out a burnt piece of toast at him. More surprise than an actual blink. Owen still counted it.

That sticky note was the current representation of his mental health.

Tony hadn’t moved since they put the tracker on him. So, he was either an extreme homebody, to the point of being agoraphobic, or he had taken off his belt and not put it back on. Grant thought it unlikely that he had discovered the bug. If he had, the Vega Cabal certainly would have made a move of some kind.

The tracker was probably sitting at the bottom of his closet in the spacious apartment Tony’s substantial paycheck allowed him to rent.

Roland reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He checked it and made a small ‘mmn’ noise of dissatisfaction. It was the first time he had moved or spoken in hours. The Weavers' uncanny ability to remain completely still was nightmare-inducing.

So was their work ethic. Did they sleep? Owen was pretty sure they didn’t even take bathroom breaks. Privately, he was convinced they were actually some type of hyper-advanced cyborg. They only mimed eating, drinking, and breathing to fool the humans they had come to destroy.

But that could be the lack of sleep talking.

He reached under the desk and withdrew a can of energy drink. It wasn’t cold, but Owen wasn’t drinking it for the taste. Popping the tab, he lifted the can to his mouth and let the carbonation tingle on his lips. It tasted like bubbly battery acid.

Wallace had retired a few hours ago. The old goat had hung on for longer than Owen would have thought for a man old enough to have tasted Coca-Cola made with Cocaine.

Glancing down at the drink in his hand, he wondered if this stuff he was actually any better than Pemberton’s original formula.