Page 111 of Slay Ride

“Wait a minute,” Eve says. “If Cat’s weapon is a crossbow, why doesn’t she just shoot him now? She doesn’t need close combat.”

“Cat is a special killer,” I say. “She needs a little foreplay before she can commit the act.”

“Are you twosureyou don’t want us to give you some privacy?” Maverick shifts uneasily.

“Not that kind of foreplay,” Cat says. “I just need to know what they did. I have to get mad.”

Eve peers skyward. “The color of his jumpsuit isn’t enough?”

“No, I think I get it,” I say. “We hear about their crimes so often that the blanket terms used to describe them don’t carry the same weight. We’re desensitized. Sexual assault is awful, but the term doesn’t make you feel awful enough. Hearing about the crime, however? The victim’s name? It makes it?—”

A red blur barrels from the sky, heading toward the snowy earth and silencing my voice. The man doesn’t even scream as he collides with the ground, but Cat, Eve, and Maverick do. Cat nearly leaps into my lap.

The figure on the ground coughs, then tries to roll to his side. His eyes nearly bulge from his head as realization dawns on him. “My legs! My legs! I can’t feel anything below my chest!”

He’s bent in half at the waist, and his feet rest near his head. It’s probably good that he can’t feel his legs. The unnatural angles they’re twisted into can’t feel great. Not even the heavy tranquilizers can cut through his panic.

“Tell us about your crimes, jackass,” I say as I step near him. “What did you do?”

He licks his lips, covering them in blood. One side of his tongue is missing, likely bitten off on impact. “She asked for it, man. She wanted it. The bitch let me buy her five drinks, and she was hanging all over me. I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Cat nudges me out of the way and steps closer. She squats down and looks into his face. “You’re dying. If we leave you here, you’ll suffer for hours, but youwilldie. I’m giving you a chance to confess your sins and receive a more merciful end.”

“Confess . . . confess my sins? What the fuck are you? The Grim Reaper?” The man pushes his arms out to his sides to gain traction to pull away. That’s when he discovers his mangled legs. “Oh, fuck! I’m dying. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going?—”

I pull back my leg and send the steel toe of my boot into his jaw. His head rocks to the side, and he shuts up.

“You killed him,” Eve says, but then the man groans again.

Cat turns his face toward hers, but his unfocused eyes are concerning. I didn’t push him through death’s doorway, but I brought him right to the threshold.

“He hurt women, kitten,” I say. “Look at his neck. He has tattoos of flowers with very few petals. There’s a meaning there, I’m sure.”

“The bitches who accused me of rape,” the man gargles through a mouthful of blood. He drops his head to the side and spits, but his words are still slurred. “They wanted it. All three of them. The first two juries got it right. They let me go.”

“Cat, you have about three seconds before I take the kill myself,” Eve grits out behind us.

Unfazed by Eve’s warning, Cat grips the man’s collar and stares into his unseeing eyes. “What were their names?”

“What does it matter? They aren’t the victims. I am!” He spits into Cat’s face, and I’ve had all I can stand.

I nudge Cat out of the way and grip the man’s right arm. Maverick has the same idea, because he grabs the man’s left arm, and together, we hoist him into what would have been a standing position if his legs didn’t dangle below him as they do.

“Kitten, load that crossbow and nail him to the tree by his wrists.”

Cat sets to work on her task, then sends a bolt straight through his lower wrist. He yowls and tries to jerk his arm free, which only intensifies the pain.

“Other side too,” I tell her.

“No, no more!” the man squeals.

It’s music to my fucking ears.

Maverick holds his wriggling arm in place as Cat fires another bolt and pins him to the tree. We all take a step backto admire our pseudo-crucifixion, and as the man screams and throws his head from side to side, two black birds join us. I don’t know if they’re ravens or crows, but either way, they’re harbingers of death.

The bolder of the two birds hops closer, then flutters upward to perch on the man’s head. It cocks its head and peers down at the blood around the man’s mouth before lowering his beak and pecking his upper lip.

“Ow! Fuck!” the man screams, and the four of us laugh.

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