Page 21 of Martyr (Sterling Falls Rogues #3)

Something is wrong.

I scan the horizon. It seems normal out here, which is to say quiet . Peaceful, even. It’s the sort of view I always craved. Wide-open spaces.

And yet, it’s those same spaces that make my skin crawl.

Something has always been wrong with me. I’m more comfortable in the dark or by myself. I oscillate between wanting silence and noise . So much deafening noise, I feel it vibrate in my chest.

That’s why explosions are so nice. It’s both combined. Nothing, then everything .

The body under me jerks. I rise a little, bringing my knee off the small of his back, and drag his head out of the water by his hair. His face hovers over the surface, still, until I thump his back.

He coughs, water pouring out of his nose and mouth. His body flinches, spasming.

Such a big man, I thought he would at least give me a challenge. But all it took was a few pokes, and down fell the giant. The hardest part was dragging his body into the ocean.

“I hate sand,” I tell him. “It gets everywhere . I’ll be finding it weeks later in my shoes or a crease in my shirt. It’s nature’s glitter.”

He pushes at me, his fingers slick with water.

Oh, and blood.

Lots of blood.

Where we are, the water surges and recedes, but we don’t get his with those pesky white-capped waves. We’re still practically on the shore.

It leaves us, and he’s now looking at wet sand.

There was a face impression in it earlier.

His face.

Now, there’s only some bumps and ridges remaining.

I release him, and he barely catches himself on his forearms. A face-plant would’ve been a good laugh. I rock back on my heels, considering him.

Blood leaks from his stomach, staining his wet gray shirt. Nasty wound.

“I wonder if I punctured your intestines,” I muse. “Then I wouldn’t have to drown you. I could wait for your body to poison itself.”

He focuses on me and misses the rushing wave. It slams into his face, submerging him. He raises himself higher, but these waves just keep coming. He’d have to sit up to clear it.

I don’t think his legs work anymore, though. I made a few slices. Cutting through muscle is surprisingly easy if you have a sharp enough blade.

He struggles to raise his face and fails. Instead, smart man that he is, he heaves himself over onto his back. The water now works with him, his face angled to the sky, even as another wave rolls over and makes him sputter. Still, he gets the reprieve.

“He does have brains,” I whisper to myself.

When the water rushes back once again, he’s left flat on his back in the sand, staring up at the starless night, dazed.

The wrongness prickles at me again.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” I fist my hand in his shirt just under his chin. “Next wave is coming, so you’ve got about thirty seconds. Do I hold you under or lift you up and you tell me what I want to know?”

He gapes at me. There’s saltwater and blood on his lips. A blood vessel burst in his eye, giving his stare a ghoulish feel.

“Oh, right. You don’t know what I want to know.” My gaze rises. “Oops, too late.”

The water pours over him. His arms flail, knocking into my legs, but I am less moveable than a boulder. My muscles tense, holding him under. In less than a minute, he’ll be able to breathe again. He just needs to not fight it.

Artemis didn’t fight me on it. Of course, it wasn’t the rush of water that dragged her under—it was heroin. She let it sweep her far, far away.

The man chokes and coughs when he can take in a lungful of air.

“Right, now, what I wanted to know…” I lean in. “Tell me about the Hell Hounds.”

His face contorts.

Fury .

I tsk. “Did you not think that was what I wanted? Did you think I was going to ask you about Olympus, perhaps? That’s where I found you creeping like a spider through the shadows…”

He gurgles out a sound. A word.

“Try again.” My patience runs thin. “Clearer. Enunciate . You’re trying to save your own life, aren’t you?”

He wets his lips. His gaze bores into mine, and he manages two clear-as-day words. They’re just not the ones I want to hear.

“ Fuck off .”

I unfold my knife. His gaze goes to the gleaming tip, and he tries to push me off or away.

It’s no matter. I’ve broken most of his body, and now comes the rest of it.

I drop his shirt and straddle him, batting at his hands.

I sit hard on the wound on his stomach. A deep grunt releases from his chest, more pain than he thought possible.

“This was my own fault,” I say sadly. I carefully slide the blade between his ribs. “You took such a full, deep breath. A lungful . It made me think what would happen if your lungs just couldn’t hold air anymore.”

He feels it right away. The puncture. A pneumothorax, as they call it.

“ Please ,” he wheezes.

“Please, what? Please save your life? Please let you die? Please, feed your cat? Tell your loved ones you’re so fucking sorry for leading the life of a motorcycle gangster with who knows how many deaths on your hands?

” I rise and step off him. “No. No to all of that. You didn’t help me, so I cannot help you. ”

I wait for the next wave to come and rinse his blood from my hands.

Metaphorically and literally.

Leaving him where he is, I dust the stupid sand from my soaked jeans and head back to my motorcycle.

A Cyclops awaits me. He seems vaguely green in the face—or maybe that’s just the garish yellow streetlight overhead. It’s messing with my color perception.

“Boss wants to see you.” His gaze moves past me to the man. “Is that guy dead?”

I make a face. “Does he look dead to you?”

“I—”

“He’s not. Not yet anyway.” I glance over my shoulder. “I suppose he might be useful. Go and fetch him before he fades away.”

The Cyclops moves to follow my order, then pauses. “Who is he?”

I smile. “The leader of the Hell Hounds.”