Page 38 of A Christmas to Die For
"What happened? Anything?" Phoebe asks from where she stands, hovering near the small dining table.
We're both waiting for a bomb to go off. Maybe this wasn't the smartest idea.
"Was it fake? Something to throw us off?" I contemplate.
I'm standing in a puddle of some unknown liquid before I even realize it's trickling slowly into the room. It's only when I feel the heat melting my shoes and the steam rising from the soles, burning into my skin, that I know something is very wrong.
"Mara!" Phoebe shouts, panicked, as a small pool of acid creeps across the kitchen floor.
I stumble backward, yelping in pain, kicking off my shoes like they're on fire, because they might as well be. The rubber of my boots sizzles against the tile, and I'm far enough from the growing puddle to sit down and tear at the laces. My socks are soaked, the sting crawling up my legs like fire under the skin.
Phoebe grabs dish towels, hopeful the chemical will wipe up cleanly. But when I look at the bottoms of my feet, the flesh is already bubbling.
Panic and bad choices flood my brain. Any thought of making a smart move goes out the window—house be damned. The only thing that sounds like it could numb the pain is the freezing cold snow.
I sprint toward the back door, and behind me, I hear a faint, desperate, "Mara, wait, let me check-"
The door flies open with ease, and I don't expect to see someone standing in the way.
A figure dressed in black stops me in my tracks.
Head to toe in protective gear—gloves, ski mask, some kind of hood—I can't even tell if it's a man or a woman. Just the shape of a body's profile blocking any hope of escape.
And that hope shatters the moment the unseen ax head slams into my skull.
"Mara!"
I wouldn't even call it a scream. It's a howl, ripped from somewhere deep, soaked in so much fear and disbelief that I don't recognize my own voice.
She slumps onto the kitchen floor, the ax still lodged in her head, her body collapsing like a rag doll. It went so far into her face that it split the eyeglass frames resting on her nose. They clatter next to her.
"Noooooo!" I'm hyperventilating, unable to catch my breath as the masked assailant joins me in the kitchen, putting a foot on Mara's shoulder—stepping on her like trash—as they jiggle the handle free.
The squelch, the sickening sounds of the ax tearing from her brain, makes me queasy.
I can't even size them up—whoever they are—because the thick clothing hides everything. Could be a woman,could be a smaller man. The heavy tactical boots don't give much away either, except they look a little too big for someone my size.
I stand paralyzed, unsure where to go or what might be safe. But I need to decide fast.
Because—oh fuck, the ax is finally loose.
Mara's head lifts like she's been yanked back to life, the weapon slipping free and gravity slamming her skull into the floor again. I flinch, fighting back tears, sickened by the sight.
In one fluid motion, I throw the hand towels onto the puddle of acid blocking the door and lunge to free the shotgun.
Even if the strings snap and trigger another trap, at least this asshole will be two steps behind me and they'll also feel the blowback of whatever hits.
The strings rip free from the double-barreled firearm, and I grab it like my life depends on it.
Before I can even turn to face the attacker, the ax slams into the wall inches from my ear. A few strands of loose hair float to the ground, the only sign of how close the blade came.
The assailant steps toward me, and I kick out, aiming straight between their legs, praying for a direct hit.
But they don't buckle. They barely even flinch, just let out a low growl of pain and annoyance.
And that's when it hits me: this isn't a man.
So who the hell is it?
