Page 18 of This Violent Light
I lean against the wall, waiting for the building owner to arrive. I’d found his phone number at the same time I’d found Grace’s new address. A quick call, claiming I was a locked out tenant, and he was on his way.
A couple approaches from off the street. The man types the code to the door, earning a short buzz. The door unlatches, and he holds it open, tilting his chin toward it.
“You coming in?” he asks.
If only it was that simple, I think. I shake my head.
Minutes later, the owner arrives. He’s a tall, beefy man with a hundred-fifty pounds of muscle and at least four inches of height on me. He grins with the confidence of someone used to being the strongest in the room. He doesn’t pause to size me up—he already knows he could overpower me if needed.
At least, hethinkshe could. If I were blood and flesh and human, he’d be right.
“Hey, man,” I say. Humans speak differently than we do, and I do my best to flatten my voice. “Sorry about this.”
“Not a problem,” he says easily. He digs a set of keys from his pockets and enters the door code with his opposite hand. He doesn’t look back at me as he swings open the door and steps into the building.
The door starts to close, but I don’t grab it. Instead, I stand at the threshold, looking at the building’s shabby interior.
The owner catches it just before it closes, shooting me a bemused expression.
“Well, come in,” he says with a snorted laugh. “You need a special invitation or something?”
Come in will do perfectly, thanks.
“Sorry, I’m out of it today,” I say. I do my best to mirror his carefree expression, but I’m already mapping out the building’s interior. There’s an elevator to the left, a set of stairs just beyond it.
“All right. Remind me your name,” he says. He pulls up a chart on his phone that has a list of tenants and their respective apartments. I could easily pick a name off the chart and pretend it’s me, but that only prolongs the inevitable.
“Tyler,” I tell him.
While he’s scanning the list, I consider my options: force feed him the confusion potion or…
I lunge forward, punching him in the temple. He collapses like he’s made of paper, his stocky frame crashing against the cheap carpet. He’s not bleeding, but I can already tell he’ll have an impressive bruise. I watch him until I’m sure he’s properly unconscious.
Then I heave his limp body over my shoulder and take the stairs two at a time. Once I reach the fourth floor, I count the doors, coming to a stop in front of 415. I shift the man on my shoulder and knock on Grace’s door.
As I wait for her to answer, I make the mistake of breathing in through my nose. Fuck. This place smells dangerously delicious. It’s a concoction of human blood, all congested and desperate to be devoured. I’m still feeling it, the heady overwhelm of bloodlust, when the door swings open.
It’s Tessa, not Grace. Her dark eyes widen in surprise, and I capitalize on it. I’m through the door before she fully realizes it’s me. I slam the door behind me and glance over the space. There’s a collection of dark furniture and a fish tank in the corner. The whole place reeks of sage and looks like an elderly woman’s library.
It’s hard to believe pretty and poised Grace liveshere.
“What…” Tessa trails off, her eyes snapping from me to the motionless man over my shoulder. Her mouth continues bobbing, but no sounds come out.
I unceremoniously dump the building owner onto the floor. His head smacks a kitchen chair as he falls. Two bruises and counting.
“You’re from the bar,” Tessa finally says. She’s blinking rapidly, as if she’s trying to make sense of my appearance.
I study her, the way she balks at me, the way she steps away, eyes flickering toward the owner’s body. She’s confused and scared, but it’s clear…
“Little Gracie didn’t tell you, did she?” I ask. I can’t keep the smile from pulling over my teeth. Of all the possibilities I considered, this isn’t one of them. “She came home last night and acted like everything was fine. Is that right? As if she hadn’t torn a fucking hole through my chest.”
Tessa’s own chest heaves, but she remains silent, eyes wild.
“To be clear,” I say, stepping over the building owner’s body, crowding Tessa’s space. “I don’t mean a metaphorical hole, like she hurt my feelings. I mean a fucking hole. Right through the skin and bone. Left me to bleed out in a fucking park.”
I don’t realize I’ve raised my voice, that I’m screaming, until a closed door springs open. Grace stumbles into the living room. She’s wearing a frilly pajama set, white and dotted with miniature hearts. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head, and her face is clean of makeup.
Beautiful, terrible little witch. She doesn’t have any right to look comfortable and content after what she did to me.
