Page 44 of Martyr (Sterling Falls Rogues #3)

I bob out of the way and tsk at him, and his expression flashes. Fury. He thought he had me. He’s had me this whole time, and now I avoid?

I move farther down, catching the glint of a utensil, and nearly crow at the huge fucking knife waiting for me. It whispers a sweet hello when it meets my palm. The next time Ouranos comes at me, I take his hand.

He screams.

And, truth be told, I need a few whacks to get the blade all the way through.

It’s a big knife, but it’s not a miracle worker.

Who knows the last time this thing was sharpened?

I grip his fingers, trapping his arm on the bar, and I chop.

Finally, it comes free and he falls backward.

He lands on his ass in the middle of Madness.

Funny, that’s right where I’ve been all along.

He sputters, but he seems to be losing steam. Maybe it’s the blood pouring out of his wrist. He’ll bleed out in minutes if he doesn’t contain it, but I’m not a paramedic. What am I supposed to do, give him orders?

There was my blood and glass, but now there’s a lot of his blood. It’s all over. It soaks his shirt and pants, pools on the hardwood under him. He finally presses the stump against his stomach, but he’s really pale.

There’s also the ankle injury.

I wrinkle my nose. “Your lesson is messy.”

I come around the bar with his hand in my grasp.

“Lyssa is a curious threat,” I tell him. “You know I carry her with me? That I have for a decade?”

He keeps trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but every shift of his weight, every squirm, dislodges his arm and opens it right up again.

You cannot go , he said to me.

I listened.

It doesn’t matter. His end is coming.

His end is now.

I crouch in front of him and show him his hand. When he doesn’t stop with the noises, I grab a rag and come back. He moves to take it, but I shake my head sharply. I shove the rag into his mouth, and finally , there’s a little quiet.

Back to the hand. I focus on his manicured nails. He doesn’t even have calluses. How out of touch is that?

I fold his fingers down until only the middle one remains, although it’s not really staying. It takes me a minute of finagling to get it into the right shape, but I can’t let go.

“You’re flipping yourself off,” I tell him. “That’s fun, isn’t it?”

When he doesn’t react—well, he doesn’t laugh, but he keeps moaning—I slap him with the hand. It makes a wet clap when it connects. He doesn’t even spit out the rag.

I tap my chin with his extended finger. “Lyssa was named after a fury. I imagine you probably didn’t know that, right?

You could’ve looked into that, but why go any deeper than her name?

Lyssa. The goddess of mad rage. I took that and I intertwined it with what they did to her—they made her sleep .

Not sweet Artemis, of course. Just for the record, I forgive her.

It’s the people who were running Terror who were responsible.

The doctors who examined us, the ones who came up with those foul drugs.

The ones who decided heroin would be a good way to placate the unruly. ”

Lyssa and Hypnos. Fury and Sleep. Of course, we’re sort of crossing mythologies here. I have no idea if they interacted, and Lyssa isn’t technically the Greek spelling.

Whatever .

“Anywho!” I rise. “This is goodbye, Marcus Graves. I wish we could’ve played a little longer, but…

I’ve got places to be. And I’m bored, to be honest. You haven’t been the epitome of exciting.

You haven’t even been slightly entertaining.

The screaming and moaning. The hitting. You followed that playbook to a T. I’ll give you that.

“What I won’t give you is your hand. That’ll be my evidence. I’d take your head, but there’s something about what comes next that just gets me all jazzed. Are you ready?”

He stares at me. His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say anything else. I’m sure he’ll spit out the rag as soon as I leave, and he’ll call for help, and blah, blah, blah .

It’s too late.

I leave him on the floor and exit through the front door, the hand still in my grasp.

May as well take it, right? I stuff it in my back pocket, the fingers bending unhelpfully.

The two Cyclopes who dragged me in are still there, leaning against the front and smoking.

They take a look at me, then double take, but I’m already moving away.

They don’t really give a shit about me. They’ll probably take their time finishing the butt before returning to their boss, and by then it’ll be too late. He’s losing so much blood…

The street is empty. It’s broad fucking daylight and it’s empty . That’s gotta be some sort of sin in Sterling Falls, even if it’s winter. We’re in the middle of a heat wave, I think.

Or, we’re about to be.

I cross to the far sidewalk and slow my steps. I pull out the flip phone and hold down the 1 button, triggering my saved speed dial. Just like the old days.

The boom of the bomb, which is tucked in the final box of bombs I made ages ago, is probably not quite “like the old days.”

The sound hits first.

A split second later, a hot blast rushes through me. The back of my neck burns for a moment, and I imagine—without turning around—that the flames are reaching for me.

But, no. I’m far enough away. Out of the radius. The Cyclopes Ouranos had hanging around the front of the building, though…

Well, they probably got caught in it.

I touch my cheek and huff. They deserve it.

My pace quickens as I approach the end of the block. I round the corner, scanning the road. My feet stop, body freezing, before my brain catches up.

There’s a familiar car parked on the curb. The one whose trunk I was un ceremoniously tossed in by the ever-sweet Artemis. She’s stronger than she looks, that Artemis.

I blink rapidly.

Leaning against the back bumper is a phantom.

Okay, maybe I did get caught in the blast. My body is probably back on the sidewalk, half-burnt, and my spirit just kept walking. To an afterlife I don’t deserve.

Her arms are crossed over her chest. She’s wearing jeans.

Did I ever see her in jeans?

Her sweatshirt has the Cyclops logo on the breast. She drew that when she was a kid , I recall. Kade offered it to Ouranos when they were trying to expand. Said he could use it so guys on the same side could recognize each other without knowing each other.

It’s unique. As unique as her eyes, which are open.

Of course they’re open. She’s dead, and so am I.

It’s not that I expected a shiny afterlife… I was kind of counting on the opposite. Hell, burning, forever tormented, that sort of thing.

“Gabriel.”

Her voice doesn’t sound the same. It sounds different. Deeper, raspier. But the way she says it is like out of my memories. When she did finally talk to me anyway. There was a time when she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“Stop staring at me.”

I picked the wrong Greek god. It comes to me all of a sudden, this idea that’s been living under my skin for years. I was never supposed to be Hypnos.

A freaking lightbulb just went off over my head.

I slink forward and lick my lips. I taste more blood—that’s probably the punishment, then. I’ll bear the pain of a broken cheekbone and a split lip and some loose teeth forever. But I can’t not say anything. She started it by saying my name, so… I should say her name.

“Did you ever learn about Orpheus?” is what comes out.

Her brows pinch together. A silent no .

He’s me , I almost say.

“His beloved was killed. Brutally ripped from him on their wedding night. So, he ventured to the underworld and begged Hades to let her go with him back to the living.” I suck in a breath and take another step.

It’s like my feet are trapped in mud, it’s hard to move toward her.

“He told Orpheus to follow the path out of the underworld. He said that Eurydice would walk in his footsteps, in his shadow. Following right behind. But if he called out to her, or if he looked back, it would be all for naught. When his shadow passed into the sunlight, she would be there.”

My throat works. I don’t want to say this next part, but I have to.

“He was steps from the light when he looked back at her.”

She shakes her head, her expression sad. “Is that why you didn’t visit?”

“If I looked back, you would’ve died,” I say. “And now, I’m sorry to say, I failed. You died, didn’t you? And I’ve just killed myself. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re going to escort me to whatever fate awaits us.”

Lyssa pushes off the bumper and steps toward me. Her gait is wobbly, her legs shaking like a newborn dear’s. I spring forward and catch her forearms, steadying her. She’s solid. I hold tight and loose at the same time, because how tight is too tight? How much of my strength will hurt her?

“I’m alive,” she says. “And so are you.”

How did that lump get in my throat? It won’t let me swallow. I try, a few times, but all I end up doing is clicking my tongue.

“I… you…”

Lyssa laughs.

I flinch like she slapped me. It’s a new sound. One that she couldn’t have done… I don’t know this sound. I could not have imagined it. I mean, okay, I have imagined it, I’ve theorized and agonized over what the sound could be. This wasn’t it. It wasn’t that.

Her laugh is the sort of sound that could give a wretched soul like mine a clean start.

“You’re here.”

She looks up at me. Same blonde hair, but longer. Same hazel eyes, but a bit less haunted. Or maybe more. I can’t tell. I don’t know. Is she a stranger?

“I’m here,” she confirms.

I drag her into me. She wraps her arms around my waist, and I do the same around her shoulders.

And all at once, I’m crying.