Page 85 of Half the Summer's Night
“So you have your hands.” Charlotte crouches down in the grass and grabs it in big handfuls and then scrunches it up in her hair, making her look wild and feral. She smears dirt across her face. “Actually, you know what? I have an idea.”
“What are you doing?” Maybe she has more of a plan than I realized.
Charlotte grins at me. “Laying a trap. If you don’t want to take off that mask—I mean, killing face—you can be the bad guy.” Then she reaches down and grabs the knife out of her holster and holds it to me, the blade pointing at her chest. I stare at it.
I could kill her. End this whole charade and get back to my life in Rosado. Get back to Abi.
But I don’twantto. The real truth is that I’m intrigued by all this—by the idea that there are other people out there like me. That even if I am the monster my mom said I was, at least I’m not the weapon Uncle Nash shaped me into.
I take the knife, and Charlotte grins.
“I’ve never met our dad,” she says. “I was adopted, raised by humans, and my sister and I weren’t close. But I hope you and I can be, you know?”
I look down at the knife, the metal glinting in the hot, blazing sun. “We just met.”
“I mean, I’ve been following you for weeks.” Charlotte straightens up, smearing more dirt on her clothes. “And I know you felt me. You kept yelling at me like a crazy person.”
“I wasn’t crazy.” I scowl. “You were there. I thought you were coming after Abi.”
Charlotte laughs. “Fair enough.” Then she stops and tilts her head to the side. “Okay, someone’s coming. You hear them?”
At first, I don’t hear anything, just the rush of the wind. But then, underneath it—the purr of a car engine. And something else, too. A heartbeat. The scent of human blood and gasoline.
“Yeah,” I say, letting the sensations wash over me. “It’s a man.”
Charlotte sniffs, then lets out a bright, delighted laugh. “Oh damn, you’re right, it is. That’s even better. Now go hide behind the car so you can jump out when it’s time.”
I know it shouldn’t, but excitement is brimming up in my chest, the way it always does before a kill. All that anticipation, that sense of something building. The only thing better was when I was inside Abi, her body wet and clenching as she moaned and writhed beneath me.
I clutch the knife and duck beside the car, realizing with a start that the reason Charlotte veered off suddenly was to make it look like an accident. Like she was chased off the road.
The car engine grows louder, the tires crackling against the asphalt. I crouch down, clutching the knife, my body brimming with anticipation.
“Help!” Charlotte screams, her voice whipping away on the wind. “Oh my god, help me! Please!”
I can’t see her, but I can hear her—her feet pounding against the dirt, her breath quick and frantic even though her heartbeat is steady and the only emotion rippling off her is the same excitement building up in me.
“Help!” she wails, and the car shifts gears and slows down, the engine clicking as it idles. A door slam. A man’s voice.
“What’s wrong? Honey? Are you hurt?”
He’s nervous. He’s trying to sound brave, but he’s nervous. Wary.
I tighten my grip on the knife. I can’t remember the last time I used one. It was for Uncle Nash, not one of my kills. But it feels good in my hand. Not too heavy. Not too light. And powerful.
“He’s chasing me!” Charlotte screams. “Please, you have to let me in the car! He’s coming!”
Me, I realize with a start. She’s fucking talking about me.
And then I act like all of this is the most natural thing in the world—and it is, I realize. I’m not some human killer.
All of Uncle Nash’s warnings about getting caught fly out of my head. All I want is blood.
I leap to my feet and lunge forward, moving so fast I surprise myself. The knife blade flashes in the sun and catches the man’s attention. He looks over at me, and for a split second, time kind of slows down, and I can sense everything: the pulsating, sweet scent of his fear and surprise, the pounding of his heart as it pumps the hot, thick blood I’m about to spill.
“What the fuck?” he shrieks.
Then Charlotte leaps on him, hooking her arm around his throat. I keep running until the knife sinks into his chest, sliding through the muscle and lodging into his ribcage. He screams and tries to throw her off, but she’s too strong for him. Blood splatters out of his mouth and pours out of the wound I made.
