Page 13 of Descent

Flashes of a life I don’t want to remember run through my aching head.

None of it feels real, none of it feels like me. But who the fuck am I anyway?

And what am I thinking getting tangled up with this hit woman, con woman, ex-who-the-fuck-knows-what-else woman?!

The evening wind blows my coat back, tosses my hair, cools the heat in my cheeks. Half of the scalding fire in my chest is anger, the other half is raging desire. Fuck, I want her.

About as much as I can’t stand her.

Everything about her attitude, her cocky nature, raises my hackles. Probably because she reminds me of me and my twin.What I can remember about him, anyway. Headstrong, flippant, snarky, and she knows just how hot she is, just like us.

Not that I feel like much these days.

You have to have an identity to look at yourself in the mirror and make an assessment, make a judgment whether you hate or like what you see. All I see is a stranger.

Maybe that’s why she gets under my skin too.

Every time I’ve met Circe she’s been wearing a different disguise. A new face, completely changing aspects of herself to avoid detection, to trick me, to manipulate me.

Gotta give her credit, she’s damn good at it.

What she’s not good at is making me trust her. Maybe I’m just broken that way.

Doesn’t change the fact that I can’t shake the look in her eyes, that ache in my chest, and the feeling of her skin under my fingertips.

She haunts me through the nighttime streets of Prague, ghosting in the shadows and keeping pace with my headlong escape. Not that I know where I’m going.

I realize somewhere past the cluster of bars I pass that I still have a bottle of beer I swiped from her fridge. Downing the brew, I chuck the bottle into a dark side street, sucking a cold breath through my teeth at the fizz.

I’m considering turning back to one of the bars when it registers.

The bottle didn’t break…

Never breaking my stride, I strafe toward the wall of buildings, letting my steps look loose, maybe a little drunk. As soon as I make it out of sight of the alley, I duck back, under an alcove, hopping and muscling up to the overhang. Three side steps along the ledge take me back to the corner and I peer down at the silhouette crouched next to the dumpster my bottle should have hit.

Called it.

Now, are you cop or crook?

One way to find out.

“Talk about gettin’ the draw on him…”

“It’s ‘getting the drop,’ you nitwit.”

I shake the echo of my brother’s voice away. With a little shrug and a nod, I step off the edge, straight down.

A strangled yelp accompanies my elbow connecting with the back of his head. Rolling with the fall, I hook my arm around his neck, twisting around and letting my momentum drag the sneaky fucker with me, right into a choke hold.

Shit.

Probably should have kept him awake for questioning…

His body slumps to the concrete, a wet gurgle warning me I may have overdone it. I’m a lot less worried about it when I pat the guy down. He’s dressed in high-quality leather, expensive shirt and pants. But it’s the knives, the three pistols, and the garrote that tell me he wasn’t waiting to give me a pat on the back and buy me a drink.

Taking the small arsenal for my own, I find a slight pep in my step as I leave the darkened nook, heading back toward the neon glow of the bars. Something about an assassination attempt really gets me amped up.

Or maybe it’s the lack of direction, the whirling thoughts of Circe and my past that drive me straight to the bar top and through four shots of tequila before I can chill out and let the chronic knot out of my upper back and neck.

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