Page 156 of Scatter the Bones

Snick. Snick.

A grunt of effort. The unmistakable scrape of metal against metal.

My eyes snap open.

The tweaker lunges at me like a rabid vulture out of a fucking horror movie.

“Shit!” I twist to the side.

A flash of silver.

Something sharp and cold punches into my thigh.

White-hot pain sears through my leg.

“Motherfucker!” I roar, grabbing his wrist too late to stop the blade from plunging into my flesh but fast enough to keep him from twisting it deeper.

Murphy launches forward, slamming him against the wall of the van. “You stupid son of a bitch!” He knees him in the gut, driving him to the floor.

“What the fuck’s happening?” Wrath shouts.

The van fishtails, gravel spitting underneath us.

“What the fuck?” Rock’s voice booms from the front.

“We’re fine,” Murphy answers, struggling to subdue the guy. “Just get us there.”

“We arenotfine,” I seethe through my clenched jaw. “That fucker stabbed me.”

“Fuck.” Rock turns. “Jiggy. You all right? Where?”

Hot, wet blood soaks through my jeans.

“My leg,” I groan.

“Stabbed you with what?” Wrath barks, already flooring it. “How’d he get loose?”

I shoot a glare at Murphy. “That’s an excellent question. Where was your situational awareness, jackass?”

He winces. “This.” Murphy holds up a short, stubby blade. “He sawed through the ties at his ankles and wrists. Lucky he didn’t snap the one under his knees.”

Fuck, this burns like hell. A deep, searing throb that pulses with every single bump in the road.

Murphy shoves the bloody knife in his pocket and wraps his arm around the guy’s neck. The tweaker struggles and fights but Murphy finally chokes him unconscious.

“You good?” Murphy tosses his knit cap to me. “Put pressure on that.”

“Thanks.” I grunt, pressing my palm against the wound. “Fucker got me good, but I don’t think it’s that deep.”

Just another fucking scar to add to my collection.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Margot

The sharp tangof lemon soap and formaldehyde clings to my skin. No matter how many times I scrub, the chemicals linger, soaked into my pores. Not that odd scents are my biggest concern tonight.

I duck into my closet and peel off the demure navy dress I wore for the service. The fabric sticks to my arms as I tug it off. I toss it toward the dresser—sorting can wait—and grab a pair of black leggings, a black tank top, and a hooded, zip-up sweatshirt with deep pockets.

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