Page 41 of Marked

I search my memory, but I don’t find the name. Walking away from Artie, I pace behind Zack while he finds new piece of Artie to cut.

It’s all there. In my mind, I know it is, but I can’t reach it.

Fuck, this is annoying!

And Artie won’t stop screaming. The sound proofing tiles on the walls soak up his cries, but it’s like nails on a damn chalkboard to my brain.

“Zack.” I tug on the back of his shirt. “He’s not going to tell us anything else. We have his phone and a name.” I see the fear in Artie’s eyes. It has nothing to do with what we’re doing to him, and everything to do with what will happen if he tells us.

Zack’s shirt is covered in blood, his knuckles are drenched in it.

“You’re right.” He nods, pressing the tip of the knife to the man’s throat.

“You hurt me. You hurt my sister,” I say, reaching over to Zack’s hand and covering it with my own.

Zack glances at me; pride fills his beautiful eyes. “Are you sure, little bird? There’s no going back.”

“He’s a monster.” I grip his hand. “And monsters need to be slain.”

“That’s right.” He nods and turns back to Artie.

“No!” Artie cries out, but it’s too late.

We’re finished with him.

Together, we push the knife into his throat until the blade is completely in.

He gurgles, choking on the blood filling his throat.

Zack guides my hand, and we slice across hard, until his throat opens up, and blood pours out.

Pulling back, we let him fall to the floor. His blood pools around him as his head rolls to the side and all life drains from his eyes.

My heart beats against my eardrums, blocking out Zack. His mouth is moving. His eyes are drilled into mine, but I can’t hear him over the thunder clapping in my ears.

I squat down and touch Artie’s cheek. He’s still warm, but there’s nothing to him.

Any soul, as corrupt and wicked as it was, is gone.

“Harley.” Zack’s voice finally cracks through the noise, and I look up at him. His brows are knit together.

Slowly, I get back up and turn to him. Blood is on my fingertips. I rub them together.

He grabs my wrist and pulls my attention to him.

“Are you all right?” His question is so small. Am I all right?

I smile.

“He hurt me,” I say. “He hurt other people. And he didn’t care.”

He nods. “He was a monster, you were right.”

I look down at Artie again. A limp little man is all that’s left of the terror he was to me in those days, in all the years following. Nothing but a shriveled-up dead man.

“There are more out there,” I say, barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” A single word crashes down between us.

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