Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (32 page)

The party went on behind me. The quartet played Vivaldi as I thought about Greta, revisiting what I’d overheard the night
of her death. Luis had been there. And so had Alain. Had one of them killed her and now come after me? But if so, why here? They’d each had plenty of chances back in Nuevo, didn’t have to come all the way to the parade, dress up in a costume, and chase me. I pictured the masked man. Had he been as wiry as Alain? As broad-shouldered as Luis? I wasn’t sure. The light had been dim, and he’d been dressed in black. All I’d noticed was the mask. I hadn’t focused on his size; I’d focused on my speed.

And now, just a block from the party, I was exposed again. Alone, in the open. My skin tingled, alert. What if he hadn’t given up but had just waited at the perimeter of the party for me to emerge? The music flitted through shadows, and the shadows held me, asked me to dance. I spurned them, clinging to buildings, trying to fade into the darkness. I assured myself that no one was breathing on my neck, it was only the night air. I told myself that no knife was aimed at my spine, but I looked over my shoulder just to be sure. No one was behind me.

Madam Therese whispered, “You sense them, don’t you? It’s your aura. Spirits are all around you.”

No. It was not my aura. It was my imagination. My dissociation. My mind travel. I had to get a grip. Susan would be here any minute. I looked over my shoulder again, checking. No one was there. Of course no one was. Just as no one was waiting at the corner with a knife. And no one lurked in the doorway of the building ahead. I moved on, left foot following right, the night air barely daring to enter my lungs. Susan was coming any minute. And I wasn’t alone. A party was a block behind me. And a couple passed, heading that way. The woman turned to me, wishing me a good evening.
Buenas noches
. I smiled back, but when the streetlight shone on her face, it revealed skin dangling in shreds, and she raised a fist. “
Quiero la venganza!”

I slammed my back against the wall of a building. Obviously, that hadn’t happened. I’d imagined it. Oh my God. I was hallucinating. Having a psychotic break? This was more than just stress. I wasn’t simply imagining or remembering or doing
another “Elle.” I was seeing things that weren’t there. Had there even been a couple? Had I just changed her face? Or had I completely created them? I took a deep breath, made myself turn and look.

The couple was still there, walking, arms around each other, oblivious to everything but each other. The woman’s white skirt swayed with her hips. If her face was in shreds, neither of them seemed to notice.

Okay. My imagination was affecting my perceptions. Distorting things. But I hadn’t imagined the demon mask—I had the knife wound to prove it. Now, I had to stop picturing ghouls. Take control. Focus. Had just another half a block to go to get to Aquiles Serdán. Had to breathe. I was fine. Susan was on the way. I mumbled to myself, told myself soothing things. The night would be over. I’d be fine.

“Elle.” Someone called from the corner ahead.

Thank God. “Susan?” I picked up my pace, didn’t look where I was going, stepped into a pothole. Went down hard, twisting my ankle, sprawling at an angle, letting out a shriek as stitches in my leg strained.

Damn. I grimaced, pushing myself up off the ground. Assessing the damage.

“Are you okay?” Susan called. “Wait, I’m coming.” There was something hungry in her voice.

Pain roared in my leg, my hip, my elbow. The palms of my hands stung. Blood trickled from my knife wound. But I clamped my jaws and answered. “I’m fine.”

I climbed to my feet, started limping ahead as if to meet my friend, but at the narrow alleyway between us, I faked to the right, racing away from the dark figure who might or might not be wearing a mask, but who definitely wasn’t Susan.

In the darkness, I didn’t see the dead end until I almost flattened my face against it. Even then, I had the absurd hope that I’d escape.
That at the last moment, I’d find a skinny passageway between buildings. Or an open door. But no exit magically appeared. I was trapped in a dank, dark cul-de-sac. No time to think. No time to do anything except spin around and charge the person chasing me. Fine. I’d do that. I took a breath, counting to three before my counterattack. One—

I never got to two. Someone grabbed my hair, yanked my head back. Pulled me down. I reached behind me, trying to break my fall, hoping to rebound and come back up, but my attacker was too fast. He came around and shoved me, pouncing onto my midriff. Landing hard on top of me. Pushing the air out of my lungs. Did he plan to rape me before he killed me? I swung my fists, pummeling the masked head. He grabbed my wrists, pressing them down. I bucked and rolled, trying to knock him off, but he rode my ribcage like a rodeo champ. We struggled that way, with Vivaldi playing faintly in the background, until, finally, I wriggled an arm free, grabbed the mask and yanked it off of him.

Except that he wasn’t a “him.” Thick tresses of long hair burst out of Spandex, concealing the attacker’s face. Even so, I could tell who it was.

“Melanie?” I croaked.

She pulled a knife from its sheath, aimed it at my face.

“Man, it was hot under that damned thing,” she swung her hair. “Thanks for pulling it off.”

What the hell? I tried to grasp what I was seeing: Melanie straddling my torso, waving a knife. So that meant that Melanie had been the one chasing me around Puerto Vallarta, wearing that bizarre wrestling mask? And Melanie had swung at me, cutting my collarbone, trying to cut my throat? Clearly, yes. She had. But why? Just two days ago, she’d rescued me from the ocean. She’d saved my life. So why was she brandishing a knife at me, trying to end it? And, just as puzzling, how had skinny, spindly Melanie bested me in a fight?

“Don’t move, Elle. If you move even a pinkie, I’ll stick this in your eye.” She said this matter-of-factly, pointing out a simple if-then relationship.

I didn’t have to think long; I decided not to move even a pinkie. I made my body go limp, hardly daring even to breathe. In the dimness of the alleyway, I watched her toy with the tip of her blade.

“You shouldn’t have betrayed me, Elle.” Her voice was lilting, almost singsong.

Betrayed her? “I never—”

“I took you into my confidence. I trusted you. And what did you do?”

I tried to remember. What had I done?

“You snuck behind my back and hooked up with Luis. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

Find out? “Melanie, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, it’s obvious. You tried to steal him from me.”

Steal him from her? I blinked, trying to make sense of what she was saying. “But you hate Luis—”

“I saw you with him, Elle.” Her voice got lower, more urgent. Her knees tightened against my ribs. “Did you think I wouldn’t see you? Did you think I’d sit by and passively watch you taunt and mock me? After everything I told you?”

“Melanie, but you told me that you—”

“Cut the bullshit, Elle. I know who you are and what you’ve done, you hypocritical, back-stabbing, lying, man-stealing whore.”

The knife pressed against my cheek, silencing me. Was she going to slice it? Make ribbons of it like Greta’s? Oh God—Greta. Greta had been involved with Luis. Is that why she’d died? Had Melanie found out and come after Greta, preventing her from seeing Luis? Making sure Luis wouldn’t be attracted to her anymore? Oh man. I needed to get Melanie off of me, but I didn’t dare move. I stared into the dark pebbles and dirt
of the alley, saw my bag beside me, its contents spilled onto the ground, the beaded jaguar that was supposed to protect me. Melanie was still talking, leaning over me. Accusing me. Explaining why she was going to kill me. Why I deserved to be killed.

“I saw him kiss you. I saw you pressing yourself against him, whispering to him.”

“But I never kissed him—”

“Stop lying, Elle.” The tip of the knife dug into my skin.

I gasped. Thought back. Remembered taking Luis aside, talking to him privately. Oh God. “Melanie, wait. It wasn’t what you thought—I talked to Luis. But I was trying to help you.”

“Fucking pathetic liar.” She looked down, her knife on my cheek, her hair dangling over my face.

“No, I swear. You said he’d been stalking you, so I told him to leave you alone or I’d go to his boss. That’s what you saw.”

“Were you jealous, Elle? Couldn’t you stand it that a hot guy like Luis would choose me over you? Is that why you tried to take him from me? Well, guess what? You can’t. I won’t let you. This time, I’ll make sure you’re gone for good.”

“But you don’t have to, Melanie. I’m leaving in a couple of days. For good. You’ll never see me again.”

“I thought I’d gotten rid of you, Elle.” She shook her head. “But you came back. Why wouldn’t you stay dead?”

Dead? What? Oh Lord. She had to be talking about when I’d nearly drowned. But Melanie had been the one to pull me out of the water. She’d risked her own safety to save me.

Unless she hadn’t.

Again, I saw the cloudy water. The floating figure with seaweed hair. Had that been Melanie? Had I kicked her away as she’d swung her knife? Had she held me under the water, bringing me to shore only after she’d thought I’d drowned?

Melanie’s knife slid deeper into my cheek. Blood dribbled down my cheek, into my ear.

“I’m so sick of you, Elle. This time, no rescuers, no CPR. You’re done. Good riddance.”

She lifted the knife off my face and her arm arced upward above her head. Fury pulsed through me, adrenaline roared. Before she could bring the knife down, I freed my fist and swung it, slamming her wrist.

The knife went flying, clattered to the ground. Melanie climbed off of me, scrambling for it, but as she did, I rolled onto my knees, using my extra thirty-or-so pounds to thrust myself onto her legs. Her knees hit the ground, but she slithered ahead, dragging herself forward on her elbows, shoving me with her feet until she slid out from under me, skittering toward the knife. I struggled to my feet, hurried to hobble past her. As she reached for the knife, I put my weight on my sore leg, lifted the other, and stomped on the back of her hand.

Something crunched under my foot. Melanie howled and cursed, then reached around with her uninjured hand, grabbed my stitched leg and dug in her nails. Air rushed out of me; flashes of white pain blinded me. I fell facedown in the gravel, my left arm on a toppled trashcan while Melanie scuttled on her knees, still trying to get to the knife, her crushed hand useless. I pushed away from the trashcan, mustering the strength to propel myself forward. I landed just behind her legs, tugged on her ankles, pulled them out from under her. Melanie plopped flat onto her belly, and I used my last bit of energy to drag her body away from the knife.

Or I thought I did. In fact, I didn’t. I was too late. I dragged her, but at the tip of her extended arm, beneath her grappling forefinger, the knife was hooked, scraping the ground right along with her. Melanie’s unbroken hand reached out, struggling to grab hold of it and close around the hilt.

I wasn’t aware, anymore, of pain or exhaustion. I had not the slightest bit of fear, no sense of time passing or of a need to hurry. Somehow, the night sky had become overly bright, improving my vision. Calm passed through me, as if I knew what
was going to happen. As if all I had to do was go through the motions of acting it out. No—as if all I had to do was watch.

Melanie held onto the knife. I held onto Melanie. When I stopped pulling her legs, she twisted and reared, swinging her body at me, the knife in her fist, hurtling toward my chest.

I grabbed her arm and turned it downward, stopping the knife. She roared, jumped to her feet and rushed at me with so much force that I almost fell over. For a long moment, we stood pushing at each other, balanced like a human triangle. Melanie thrust herself at me; I countered with equal force, clinging to her wrist and leaning toward her.

“Melanie?” I panted. “Stop. Will you?”

She pressed harder, her body angled sharply to the ground. If I let go, she’d fall.

“Truce?” I was losing my strength. My leg was done, wouldn’t hold me up much longer. Melanie snarled, yanked her arm out of my hand, and swung the knife.

I released my grip, jumped out of the way.

Melanie slid in the gravel and fell facedown, reaching out to break her fall.

I waited for her to get up. She didn’t move.

I didn’t go to her. Knew that she was waiting to grab and cut me again.

“Melanie?”

Melanie didn’t answer. Didn’t budge.

I watched her warily, braced for her to rise up and resume her attack. But she didn’t. Finally, cautiously, I ventured over to her. Knelt, despite the angry protests of my leg. Touched her. Got no response.

“Melanie,” I repeated until it became an unanswered question, no longer a name. And until, rolling her over, I saw the knife still clutched in her hand, its blade half buried in her chest.