Page 44 of Veil of Smoke

I stumble back a step, my foot hitting the body behind me. My hands go up, but he’s not aiming for me—

He’s aiming for Dario.

Dario meets him halfway. They collide hard—shoulder into gut—and Dario drives him back with a grunt. The man swings, the knife slicing across Dario’s sleeve. I hear fabric tear, then flesh. A hiss escapes Dario’s mouth, but he doesn’t stop.

He grabs the guy’s wrist, twists.

The blade clatters to the dock.

Dario slams his forehead into the attacker’s nose—once, twice.

There’s a snap. Wet and final.

The man reels, blood spurting from the bridge of his nose, his legs buckling.

Dario grabs the back of his neck and jerks it sideways.

There’s a crack that echoes louder than the lake wind.

The man collapses like string’s been cut from his bones.

Dead.

No sound. No twitch. Just blood seeping into the wood beneath his cheek.

I stare at the body. At Dario’s bloodied knuckles. At the blade lying inches from my boot.

And then I look at my hands.

Still stained from the first kill. My palm hurts from gripping the knife too tight.

I can’t feel my legs.

Then the ground is moving, tilting, disappearing from under me.

I drop.

Dario’s arms catch me just before my knees crash down.

He lowers me gently, his hand firm against my back.

My chest heaves. I curl in on myself, braced against the sick pounding behind my ribs.

He crouches beside me. Doesn’t speak. Just stays close.

I bury my face against his coat. It’s cold, damp from fog, and smells faintly of smoke and sweat. Familiar, in a strange way. The last familiar thing left.

My throat tightens, and then the tears start.

Not pretty ones. Not delicate streaks down my cheek.

These are ugly. Raw.

But I don’t sob. I just tremble. The release comes from somewhere deep. It’s not sadness. Not grief.

It’s change.

When I speak, my voice scrapes the inside of my throat.

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