Page 8 of Bird on a Blade

But then I hear something that shatters that warm dreamyfeeling I get when I think about her, when I see her. The men waiting in the bakery.

They’re fucking talking about her.

“Look at that,” one of them says, and my skin gets tight over my bones. “They’re always flitting around here, huh? The huge ones.”

And the other onelaughs,and that sends the blood surging up into my head, sounding like the ocean. Everything goes burnt at the edges. My knife presses into my side and I’m going to use it to shatter everything in this place, to turn everything red.

I take one step forward?—

And so does she.

She nearly runs into me. Stops herself just in time, gaze jerking up. We’re close enough that I see her eyes beneath the lens of the sunglasses.

She’s crying.

Sheheard.

She pushes past me, the moment lost. For half a second, I consider following her, but she’s not my prey right now. Not anymore.

Still, something about her tears focuses me. I don’t need to kill the other humans here, the old woman and the two cashiers. It would be stupid, anyway. I can hear Mama chiding me already:Don’t draw attention to yourself, Sawyer. Kill smart. She doesn’t approve of bloodbaths. Says they’re stupid. They are stupid, considering the last one got me killed.

I calm the rage. I’ll follow the two men, kill them someplace private.

While I wait for them to leave, I go over to the display that Edie had been looking at. A cupcake too pretty to eat, just like she’s too pretty to kill.

The counter girl calls out a name and hands over a big white box to the bigger of the men, the one trying to impress a woman. I turn sharply and go outside through the bookstore, listeningbehind me for heavy-soled footsteps. Back before I died, I always kept a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in my pocket so I could fiddle with them, eyes down and face hidden while I waited for a victim. I don’t have that now, so I try to press back against the wall, squinting at the boarded-up old storefront across the way. My perfect prey is gone, which is good—no distractions. I’ll look in on her when I’m done.

I might even bring her a gift or two.

It takes them five minutes to leave the shop, the two assholes. They don’t notice me. You’d be surprised how little people notice predators.

No, they just breeze past me, still laughing and assholing. I watch them through the fringe of my lashes as they climb into a big blue pickup truck, which is more perfect than I could have hoped for. I was prepared to hotwire one of the old junkers parked on the street, but this is even better, because I move quick as lightning to pull myself into the pickup bed as they roar away. Hunters like me, we can move so soft we can become invisible if we like.

And, like I said, you’d be surprised how little people notice predators.

I flatten myself down on the truck bed, let the engine rumble up through my bones. My knife sears at my side, and I finger the blade, my skin itchy and hot. I’m ready for the release, that gush of hot red blood. Ready for the screams and the begging. Ready to breathe in their last gurgling breath. I need this. It’ll calm me so I can focus my attention back on Edie.

The truck pulls out of town, flying down a bumpy country road lined with trees. Already I can feel my next steps forming in my mind. They probably won’t look back here, so I can go slow, slide myself out, watch them for a bit before launching my attack. But even if they do, my body’s quick and strong after reforming in the dirt. Quicker and stronger than either of them.

We slow; the truck turns. Gravel crunches under the tires andtree branches zip up overhead, concealing the blue sky. My heart thuds with anticipation.

Almost time.

The truck stops. The engine turns off. The doors open, and the men’s voices spill out. More grating laughter. They’re talking about a football game from three days ago. Mindless chatter. They do not look in the truck bed but instead walk away, voices fading.

I slide the knife out of its sheath and rise up, slow and careful. The truck is parked in front of a run-down little house, and the men are just stepping through the front door, letting it slam shut on its hinges.

My blood is up, raging like a thunderstorm. I can taste copper in the back of my mouth, my jaws aching with an old and primordial hunger. Hunter’s hunger, that’s what Mama calls it. Jaxon and Ambrose, the closest thing to friends I have, call it the void.

I walk across the yard, sliding through the dappled shadows. The house seems to yawn open for me. I can hear them inside, shuffling around like rats. Laughing. More of that awful, aggravating laughter.

Silencing it is going to be so fucking satisfying.

I go in through the front door because they didn’t bother to lock it. Doing this without my old mask feels a little odd, like I’m naked, but I’m so hungry for a kill it’s gonna be quick. They won’t even see my face.

I find them in the living room.

They don’t notice me. They’re sitting on the couch, drinking beer, talking and talking and laughing and laughing. The TV’s on, some action movie, the volume turned up high even though they aren’t watching the stupid thing. For a minute, I just watch them, taking deep slow breaths. I always liked this part, these moments before the blood, when everything’s normal for them and my body’s on the verge of exploding.

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