Page 105 of Priest and his Anarchist

My leg crosses over the other, my pointed heel directed to the front door. It has been five minutes since I’ve been here, and despite River’s warning, the Upper East Side is quiet tonight, and the house didn’t take a lot of effort to break into.

The tiny blue dot moves over the watch, stopping right when headlights beam through the curtains in the lounge. Streetlights spill through when the door opens, keys tossed into something hard.

Heavy footsteps become louder before his shadow sprawls out over the floor in front of me.

“Ah, I did wonder when this might come.” He unbuttons his coat, tossing it onto the single sofa.

I don’t answer, flicking my hand around the space. “Nice house.”

Kicking off his shoes, he moves around the room unaffected. He is. He has always been great at hiding it.

“Drink?” he asks from behind an opened cupboard, snatching a bottle of tequila and two glasses when I don’t answer him.

He lowers down onto the chair opposite me, pouring an equal amount into each one. “For old times.”

“Hmph.” I smile but it doesn’t reach my eyes, swiping the glass and running the base of my thumb over the rim. “Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer, leaning further into the chair and crossing his arms in front of himself. “Simply, because at the time it was what I was told to do. I’m afraid the longer version would bore you.”

Stillness surrounds me like thick layers of fog, and I blink when my eyes burn. “I assure you, it will not.”

He has the decency to wince. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.”

“About as much as the moissanite on her future bride’s finger.” I gesture to the photo behind me with a nudge of my head.

That gentle apology evaporates, his face hardening. “I stopped working for them a long time ago. I stuck it out until I found out that they’re as bad as everyone else. As bad as even you.”

“I doubt that.” I don’t blink.

“True…” he whispers sadly, throwing back the rest of his drink before placing it down. “I know why you’re here. I know what you do.”

I don’t answer. Jeremiah Huckleberry was a good friend of Danny Dale. One would even say his right-hand man. Until he wasn’t.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “I’m going to go ahead and assume that Priest doesn’t know this little secret of how we know each other.”

Tension snaps through the room. “Why would you assume that?”

He laughs, falling back against his dining chair. “He has a little secret of his own, Luna Nox, and let me tell you, it’s much larger than the one you’re keeping from him.”

“I don’t care.” My finger glides over the metal before I loop my thumb around the familiar device.

He smiles, this time not like the last. “You’re going to.”

In a single fluid movement, the star spins through the air in a deadly harmonic pattern. The splitting sound of flesh and muscle being severed cuts through the silence, before the deep thud of his head hitting the floor.

I sit a moment. I could sit here for days and watch as the blood finally runs cold, and decomposition sets in. I’d find each passing minute satisfying.

Jeremiah wasn’t a good person. He was disloyal, sure, but most importantly, an enemy to your enemy is an enemy to all.

Danny Dale and Jeremiah. I have one left, and it is the one that scares me most, but his parting words haunt me. There was no use torturing him to get it out, even if I had the time, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of my rage when in the end, he’d never give it up.

My watch starts ticking down from twelve. Stepping over the pool of blood, I pull my star out of the wall, sliding it back into my holster before heading to the back door. A photograph stops me in my tracks.

The house is beautiful. It’s a classic, two-story home set in the middle of valleys, with a dying sunset as its backdrop. There’s a swing on the porch and a tree slightly to the left. A woman smiles from the swing, her brown hair faded and her dress long. The man is mowing the lawn with a cowboy hat, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Was this his family? Probably. I don’t and shouldn’t stop to ask these questions, since it goes against everything I’d been trained to do.

I rush out the door and cross the pathway to the road. I don’t stop until my helmet is secured on my head and I’m straddling my bike. I’ve barely burned off down the street when my phone starts ringing and I answer the call with a tap of my AirPod.

“Are you okay?”

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