Page 93 of Hell Hath No Fury

“Don’t move, old man,” I instruct, trying to keep myself centered enough to fix the problem. “I can use your belt to help stop the bleeding.”

I move for his belt, and once again, his hands slap me way. Frowning, I meet his eyes, immediately shaking my head at the truth I see shining back at me. “Don’t fucking do that. You’re fine. You’re going to be fine.”

Sighing, he shakes his head. “Not this time, Lils.”

“Absolutely not—“ I fume, but he interrupts me, his gaze and his voice steady,

“It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

“No. I will not be okay.”

“I love you, kid,” Mickey murmurs, a small smile on his lips. “It’s been an honor living my life by your side.”

“No. No. No,” I mutter forcefully, my hands gripping his suit jacket as I lean in close. “Don’t fucking do this, you dickhead.”

He smiles faintly, a low, pained chuckle escaping. “It’s time, Lils. No fucking takebacks.”

“Fuck you,” I sputter, blinking back the burning in my eyes. “You don’t get to make that call.”

He smiles. The motherfucker smiles up at me, his chuckle now echoed by a gurgle. “I did my job to the very fucking end, Lils. I’m an old man who can rest easy knowing you no longer need me.”

“Of course, I need you. Don’t be stupid,” I say hurriedly, refusing just to accept his bullshit right now.

His smile broadens. “Give it a rest, Lils. Just tell me you love me, then go finish this.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Gritting my teeth, I push back the slew of denials I want to spew everywhere. I ignore my urge to shake him, to scream and shout back at reality with wishful thinking and childlike fanciful diatribe.

“I love you.”

He smiles again, his hand squeezing mine.

And then nothing.

His eyelids droop, his hand releases me, and the light in his eyes dims.

And he’s gone.

The chaos that surrounds me fades. The shouting ceases, the cursing is muffled, and the lights flicker dramatically as bulbs explode from bullet ricochets.

My heartbeat stutters in my chest.

My breath stops in my throat.

My hand moves to the sword’s hilt on the concrete beside me. Gripping it tightly, slowly, I come to my feet, my eyes focused on my dead uncle at my feet.

The last surviving elder of my family. The man who gave up his entire life to see that, if nothing else, I survived.

Agony jackknifes through me, and I choke it back, stomp it down, and shove it away with the blunt ends of the rage bubbling inside me.

Fuel. Focus. Fire.

---