Page 37 of King Among the Dead

Then he gripped the bannister, and vaulted over it.

Rose choked on a gasp as she watched him plummet down into darkness. She wanted to yell, wanted to warn him, beg him, too late, not to do such a thing.

It was silent one terrible moment – and then she heard a thud, and a shout. A scuffle. Something hit the hardwood floor of the foyer, and something hissed, and yelled, and gurgled…and was silent.

Rose went to the head of the stairs, gripped the bannister where Beck had, and peered over the edge.

The front door stood wide, and moonlight fell in a long panel down the foyer, enough glow to make out a crumpled man on the floor – and, thankfully, Beck standing over him, the blade of his knife gleaming darkly now, coated in blood.

He tipped his head back and met her gaze. She saw a muscle in his cheek twitch as his jaw clenched. “Rosie.”

A sound farther down the hall caught his attention; he straightened and stalked forward, out of sight, moving toward the sound – toward the danger.

Rose took a deep breath and hurried down the stairs, bare feet quick and silent on the carpet. Her pulse pounded; this was a bad idea, reckless and against his wishes. But she had to follow him;had to. She couldn’t explain it. She was afraid – stomach churning with fear – but it was a fear that drew her along in his wake.

She paused to look at the dead man, toes just shy of the spreading puddle of blood. He wasn’t fully dead yet, she realized; his mouth still moved, a silent opening and closing, though his face was stark white, and the veins stood out in his temples. Beck had cut his throat, deep enough she glimpsed bone in the wide, glistening red gash that bisected his windpipe.

She’d glimpsed Beck’s insides when Kay patched him up, and that had been a terror. This seemed right somehow. It was right that a man who’d tried to hide in the shadows of their home should be laid bare, with nothing of his own left to hide, not even the vessels and sinews of his throat.

His gaze fixed on her, pleading, frightened. And then it dimmed. He stilled. She watched him die. Watched the last bit of life faded out of him.

Then she hurried after Beck.

When she reached the kitchen, it was full of the muffled thumps and grunts of close fighting. The back door stood open, moonlight framing two tussling silhouettes. She knew Beck’s straight off; saw the glint of his blood-slick knife. His opponent was larger than him, and undoubtedly less injured, but as she watched, Beck got back a step, and spun; brought his leg up in a lightning-fast arc and kicked the man in the chest. He staggered back with a rush of breath.

Rose took a step into the room, knowing she shouldn’t, that it was foolish, that she wasn’t equipped. But Beck was only just now feeling more like himself, and she was worried for him, and wanted to help, and–

A hand gripped her arm, and yanked her deeper into the room.

She shouted with surprise. There was another man – of course there was – unseen, lurking in the shadow of the counter, and while she’d been watching Beck fight, he’d snuck up on her. Dragged her now across the room, his other hand grabbing at her front, trying to get a grip on her shirt and subdue her more firmly.

She was determined not to make it easy for him.

She kicked, and felt it connect; she thought she hit his torso somewhere, based on the solid meatiness of the mass her bare toes glanced against, but he grunted. Pain, maybe surprise. She kicked again. Raked the back of his hand with her nails. Thrashed.

“You little shit,” he grumbled, and slammed her up against the counter. The edge bit into her hips, and he pressed in close behind her, pinning her in; she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck; felt a low laugh vibrate through his chest. He took hold of her other arm, and she was caught. At his mercy.

Panic left her heart beating wildly; squeezed her lungs.

But right there in front of her, at eye level, a gleam of metal. Bright, clean, sharp-edged. The magnetic strip, and all of Beck’s lovingly-sharpened kitchen knives.

The man leaned in close, his breath rustling her hair.

Rose gathered herself – and slammed her head back. Pain moved through her skull in a shockwave, but she heard the crunch of bone breaking, heard his garbled yell of pain; felt the hot wetness of blood against her neck, sliding down her spine. She dropped like a stone, fast and hard, and his grip had gone loose, and she twisted her arms out of it.

He roared, and grabbed for her, but she was quicker than him, and didn’t have a freshly-broken nose bleeding down into her mouth. She dodged, and sprang back upright. Snatched a knife off the strip.

He took hold of her arm again, and spun her toward him.

When she turned, she led with the knife. He was a big man, fleshy, and she drove it in like she would throw a punch, with all her weight behind it.

It was so, so sharp, and it went into his belly so, so easy.

He gasped. Enough moonlight filtered through the window to catch the whites of his eyes, to show his shocked expression, his mouth open, blood showing black on his teeth.

Rose pulled the knife free, and blood splattered across her feet, droplets hot as bathwater between her toes.

She stuck him again, higher this time; the knife hit something hard, the impact juddering up her arm. Bone. Pulled back. Found a better, softer target, in to the hilt again.

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