Page 247 of Bitter’s Sweet

Bitter stays where he is.

Ten steps.

Twelve.

I expect his voice.

It does not come.

I look back anyway.

Stupid.

Bitter stands alone in the road with festival lights behind him and blood drying down one arm. Orange, gold, and white glow around him, the whole twisted carnival throwing light over a man who looks like the kind warnings are written about.

Maybe he is.

He does not call me back. Does not give me one last speech. Does not tell me I am everything. Does not ask me to forgive him because he almost lost me.

He simply stands there and lets me leave.

For the first time since this started, Bitter Adams does not try to decide what comes next.

I turn around.

Mercy walks me into the funeral home through the side door.

The hallway is quiet compared to the carnival. Old wood. Flowers. Floor polish. That faint chemical cold no funeral home ever completely loses.

Somewhere down the hall, Raven rests in his rider’s coffin, waiting for a procession the club postponed because living men keep making the dead wait.

The guest room upstairs is small but clean, with a quilted bed, a crooked lamp, a dresser missing one knob, and a window overlooking the back lot and the edge of the carnival.

I sit before my legs decide for me.

Mercy kneels. “Let me see your wrist.”

I hold it out.

Crypt unwraps the temporary bandage and checks the swelling again before wrapping it properly.

“Keep this elevated.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gives me a suspicious look.

“What?”

“You said that too easy.”

“I’m concussed by romance.”

“You said you weren't dizzy.”

“Emotionally concussed.”

“That I believe.”