Page 22 of Secondhand Soul

Or maybe my imagination is working overtime.

Only one way to find out.

Chapter Eight: Lies... Possibly

I decide—as the headache starts to fade more fully and the second nap makes me feel warm and cozy—that I can kill Lazarus, but only if it’s a fair fight.

It’s never going to be a fair fight. He’s a huge gray beast with razor teeth, I tell myself as I snuggle into the armchair, bathed in the dim light of an old brass reading lamp in the corner—but I also know what I mean, even though my brain, with post-near-hypothermia, possible shock, smoke inhalation, and migraine, is hazy at best.

My version of hazy is probably sharp as a tack for other people, people who don’t die if they make a mistake.

I mean that I won’t use his family and his kindness against him. I won’t sink that low, to try to do something like holding his parents at gunpoint to get him to come quietly.

I mean that I’ll leave, and I’ll try again, maybe tomorrow morning, watching for open graves, and getting the element of surprise. Coming up to him, maybe holding out a gift bag, a thank-you present for helping me (I swallow away guilt that I haven’t felt in months), and I’ll wait until he takes it before...

Bang. Close range.

Head.

Messy.

Ugly.

He’ll still keep moving, probably. If the head is damaged enough, I’ll get a few minutes to remove it, and then the rest should stop.

Right?

Panic spikes in my chest, and I curse Pazcuso and myself. Him for sending me to do this, even though his men all failed. Myself for getting into positions where I felt like I couldn’t say no.

Again.

Focus, Victoria. Back to the matter at hand. You have the element of surprise now, a different element. You’ll flutter your lashes, smile, slink, hold out a pretty present—and decapitate the monster once you blow most of his brains out.

How do I move all that bulk?

Tarp. Dragging.

Of course I have a tarp in my trunk. What kind of assassin doesn’t have a tarp in her trunk?

It would help if I could walk to my car.

There’s no way I’m going to be able to pull this off today—or even in a couple of days.

I have time.

My body relaxes slightly—then jumps as the front door slams open.

I turn my head and pain shoots through my shoulders as I gasp.

Lazarus fills the doorway, and it’s dark behind him. His eyes glow green and narrow, and when he steps into the apartment, the gentle, concerned look is gone. Nothing but a cruel kind of handsomeness and brutish size about him.

The part of my head not worried about getting killed in the next thirty seconds thinks that Dr. Lazenby had more than just a sick knowledge of anatomy and dark magic, but also had quite the eye. I know Lazarus wasn’t born but made—but they made his face absolutely mesmerizing. Angular jaw. Naturally sinister set to his lips. Wide-set eyes and a nose that somehow... somehow looks so perfect, a combination of cute and elegant.

The perfect villain face.

“I brought you a plate.” Lazarus stops standing like a dark shadow and turns on the lights overhead, the ones that were kept off earlier to spare my migraine. “Still warm.” He unwraps it and sets it on the end table.

“Thank you. Thank you, seriously, for everything.” All my resolve starts to melt.