Page 82 of Karma

“Stay away,” I tell them. “You’ve done enough damage. Either finish me off or get the fuck away from me before I kill you.”

Karma is sobbing. Grim looks like I’ve taken away his favorite toy. In the dusty distance, Joker is fighting a guy one-handed, his other arm hanging uselessly by his side, covered in crimson blood.

He needs my help. He’s the only person in my life who never betrayed me. The only one who always stood by me. Always did right by me. No matter what.

And here I am, taking a bullet for a woman who sold me out to my worst enemy. And wanting to believe her lies when she tells me she’s sorry. I should be taking bullets for Joker. And our brothers.

“We wanted to stop this from happening,” Grim says. “All of this. And it was my idea to try and rescue Eden. Karma was against it.”

“Shut up, I don’t want to hear it,” I say and eventually manage to stand firmly enough to start making my way to Joker.

They’re walking after me. Shielding me. Begging me to listen. I don’t.

“I’m gonna finish this standing with those who never betrayed me,” I tell them. “So either kill me or disappear. Stop following me.”

I think they do. I don’t know, because I don’t look back. I just keep walking. Their apologies, lying or real, mean nothing to me. They change nothing. This is the eleventh hour.

The dust is just dust now. No golden glow left. As it should be. There’s no beauty in any of this. And none to look forward to. There’s only vengeance. Only justice.

And every dead or wounded Devil I step over to get to Joker is a part of that justice. It’s cruel and heartless and bleak. But right. Exactly as it needs to be.

44

Karma

We made it out of that battle in the desert alive. But not unscarred. I don’t know how many Lost Sons we left dead in the dust of that vast plain, but I know I didn’t kill any of them.

Except one.

He lived, I saw him ride away with Joker on the back of his bike. The bullet he saved me from only grazed him. But I killed him nonetheless. Grim and I killed him.

The one thing we tried so hard to prevent—risked so much to prevent—ended up happening.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Scorpio’s face change. Go from the loving gaze that is the reason he took a bullet for me, to the stone-cold mask of a stranger as he walked away from us. He wouldn’t even hear our apology.

It’s been a week since that battle. My pain’s not getting better. It’s getting worse. I see that love we shared disappearing when my eyes are wide open now, not just in nightmares. Grim and I don’t talk much. There’s nothing more to say. Maybe time will heal this wound too. Maybe death will come sooner thanthat can happen. I’m not ready to give up yet, but maybe we never stood a chance to fix this in the first place.

Moments stolen. That’s how all this started. Our time at the lakeside cabin. Our time in LA. Our time at the inn. All stolen from the hard, black reality of this fight, this war, this thing barreling towards us, ready to destroy us whether we ignore it or not.

Thieves don’t get to keep what they stole. Not when all is said and done. There’s always a reckoning. That’s where we are now.

I’ve been getting as close to Cross as I possibly can. Telling him all I know about Joker and his plans. It’s my one last shot at getting to keep what I stole. Futile as it may be.

The memory of what was, the hope of what could be, is forever inked into my skin. I can’t let the hope die, any more than I can rip that tattoo off.

Grim spends his days alone now, wandering around, speaking to no one, sharpening his knives, cleaning his guns and fixing his bike. Lost in this hell we’re in just as I am.

The execs of all the clubs standing with the Devils in this fight are gathered in a large, airless room at the bunker where we retreated to after the battle. The same room we’d been gathering in since the battle in the desert, futilely trying to figure out what to do next, where to turn next.

No new intel has come in since that battle. No new challenge from Joker. No new bit of hope that we still have a chance to turn this around.

Cross walks over to where I’m standing by the open door, trying to get some fresh air, wondering if I should just make a run for it.

“Rogue told me about your troubles,” he says.

The only troubles I have now revolve around getting Scorpio back, but no one knows about that, so I just stare at Cross blankly.

“How you have keep looking over your shoulders, afraid the law’s gonna catch up with you,” he elaborates. “That’s no way to live.”

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