Page 41 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
“And do you?” he asks dryly. “Have control?”
“It’s sure as shit better than what I had before.” I gesture at him. “Clearly, you felt the need to change, too, because you’re not covered in burn scars or anything. You weren’tmissingafter the fire or in a hospital with amnesia, covered in third-degree burns. I honestly can’t see another reason for you leaving the way you did other than you were done with an annoying little girl hanging off your every word. I should shove a horse manure pie down your throat.”
I face the window and concentrate on breathing slowly and steadily.Don’t let him see your struggle. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
“You thought I was in the hospital?”
“On a good day, Zeke. On a good day, I fantasized you were in the hospital, just waiting for me to find and claim you. I called around. But every other day, I grieved for you.”
He exhales slowly. I hear the remorse in his sigh and see it in his body language, but still, he doesn’t apologize.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I ask.
“How long was it until the Sisterhood came for you?”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. Typical. Changing the subject the moment I get too deep.
“Did the fires follow you?” he presses.
Honestly, I don’t understand him.
“Leila, the reason I left is because—”
Weird shrieks blare from the radio speakers, making us wince. Between white noise and country music, it sounds like a banshee is trapped in our car radio. Instrument lights flicker. The dial rotates between stations. On. Its. Own.
“What the fuck?” I tap the instrument panel, desperately trying not to pay attention to the back of my neck prickling with alarm.
“Probably faulty wiring,” Zeke grumbles. “It happens in these old cars.”
“But it’s...” I try to hold the dial, but it spins in my fingers like an invisible hand fights me for control. Zeke has a go but can’t get a grip. I glance up. A dark figure stands in the middle of the road, backlit by embers and mist.
“Look out!” I yank the steering wheel.
We veer to the side. Tires screech. Zeke takes over, expertly steering into the drift. We fishtail across the road, burning rubber, bumping over fallen twigs and branches. I jerk side to side, then forward as the car stops inches from hitting a tree. The seatbelt burnt my shoulder. My heart pounds so hard that I press my hand to it as if I can stop the organ from bursting from my chest. But another hand is already there—Zeke’s large palm is splayed against my sternum, holding me to the seat, acting like my personal airbag.
His wild eyes dart over my body. “You hurt?”
I shake my head.
He unbuckles and leans across me to open the glove compartment and retrieve his Colt. “Wait here.”
I scoff and lean into the back seat to retrieve my sword.
“I’m serious.” He checks the rounds in the chamber—five bullets engraved with holy symbols—and then closes it.
I open the car door and step out, searching the darkness, straining my senses for danger. The whisper of my katana escaping its woodensayais loud in the empty night. In Japan, they believe your sword carries your soul. Right now, mine is vibrating with the need to slay, eager but full of tension.
No insects chirp in the woodland trees. It’s too quiet. Goosebumps ripple across my skin as I scour our surroundings, but the Mustang’s headlights are too bright, blinding us to what’s ahead on the road.
“I swear I saw someone,” I mumble.
“I saw it too.”
I briefly lean back into the car, place my knee on the seat and toss thesayainto the back. The headlights wink out, pitching us into complete darkness. Somewhere, an owl hoots.
“Leila?”
“I’m here.” I crawl back out of the car, straighten, and face the woods. A man with rotting flesh awaits me. Black holes for eyes. Bugs crawling across exposed tendons. Demon.
