Page 110 of Decimation

He releases my arm only to send a punishing hook into my ribs. I feel something crack, a jagged, blinding lance of pain that folds me in half. I collapse onto my side, gasping, unable to do more than curl into a protective ball. Through blurry, tear-soaked eyes, I see him reach into his coat. He produces a small, dark glass bottle, its contents an oily, virulent green. He uncorks it with his teeth.

“No,” I croak, trying to scramble away. “No, please…”

He’s on me in an instant, straddling my chest, his knees pinning my arms to the floor. “Open wide wife, and let me cleanse you. Let me purify your soul.” His free hand clamps over my jaw, his fingers digging into the hinges until my mouth is forced open.

I gag, choke, try to turn my head, but he’s too strong. The mouth of the bottle presses against my lips, and the liquid floods in. It’s thick, hot, and tastes of rot and something bitter. I try to spit it out, but he pinches my nose shut, forcing me to swallow or suffocate. The liquid slides down my throat like liquid fire, coating my insides in sickening warmth.

He pulls back, watching me, his face a mask of ecstatic anticipation. “There now. That’s it. Let it do its work.”

I retch, convulse, but I can’t bring it back up. I can feel whatever it is already spreading, a seeping coldness that belies the initial burn. I feel it in my veins, a creeping numbness that starts in my extremities and crawls toward my core.

My heart begins to stutter in an erratic, panicked rhythm.

“What did you do?” I whisper, my voice already slurring.

Konstantine leans over me, cradling my face in his hands almost tenderly. “I killed you once before, remember?” he says, his voice a caress. “It was an accident, a mistake. I let my anger get the better of me. You weren’t meant to die, but you were so beautiful in your death…” His words fill me with horror as he caresses my hair. “…But I brought you back, didn’t I? I can do it again. I can kill you and resurrect you, and this time you will be obedient. Third time’s the charm, isn’t it?”

I realise then what has been so fucking obvious, what has been staring me in the face this entire time. The Esau did not kill Ines. Konstantine did. He murdered his wife and then put them blame on them. On us, his family. Konstantine is a murderer.

Oh god, I’m going to die here, in this burning house. I’m going to die here, today.

I heave against him, a final, desperate surge of strength. For a moment, I almost throw him off. I catch a glimpse of his shocked face but my limbs are growing heavy, my muscles are turning to water. The poison is a freezing tide, drowning the fire of my resistance. My struggles become sluggish, uncoordinated. He slaps me, hard enough to make my ears ring, and pushes me back down.

“Stay,” he commands, as if I’m a dog.

I try to crawl away, my fingers scrabbling uselessly against the floorboards. I manage only a few inches before his hand tangles in my hair again. He drags me back across the floor, my ruined body a trail of blood and filth.

The room swims in and out of focus. The flames have reached the doorway, their heat a palpable wall, their roar a hungry symphony.

“You’re dying, wife,” he murmurs, his voice coming from very far away. “I can feel your pulse slowing down. It’s beautiful, you know. The transition. The void. But don’t worry, I’ll bring you back. I always do.”

My eyes snap open to the sound of my phone shrieking on the nightstand. The room is pitch-black, the air stale and cold, and for a disoriented heartbeat I’m still trapped in a dream where I’m tangled up in her.

Then the phone screams again, and I lunge for it, nearly knocking over the glass of water beside it. The screen blares a live security feed: motion detected, multiple points.

I’m already on my feet, bare soles slapping against the marble floor of the villa. I’m not thinking; I’m pure instinct, a raw nerve firing on all cylinders.

Leandra.

Leandra is in trouble.

I snatch my jeans from the chair and yank them on, my fingers fumbling with the button. The phone is still in my hand, and I’m already dialling Devin as I stumble into the hallway. The villa is silent, the kind of silence that feels far too fucking ominous. The sconces along the walls are dim, casting long, trembling shadows that seem to reach for me as I run.

The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Then voicemail.

I hang up and call again, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Devin, pick up. Pick up, you bastard. He’s supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be watching over her. The line clicks to voicemail again, and a cold, slick dread slides down my spine.

I round the corner and nearly slam into the wall, my shoulder grazing the rough stone. The villa is a labyrinth of narrow corridors and heavy wooden doors, and right now every single one of them feels like an obstacle designed to slow me down. My mind is a hurricane of worst-case scenarios, Konstantine finding her, dragging her out, her eyes wide with terror.

I can’t breathe,

I can’t think.

I just have to move.

The door to Konstantine’s room is at the end of the east corridor. I left him there hours ago, slumped in a wingback chair by the fire.

But as I reach the door, I can see it’s ajar, just a crack, but it’s the first warning sign. My hand hovers over the iron handle, and a voice in my head, cold, rational, tells me to be careful. But the louder voice, the one that sounds like Leandra’s name repeated over and over, screams at me to move. I shove the door open so hard it slams against the wall.