The Book of Fate (57 page)

I’m tempted to yell, curse, scream at what she did to me. But there’s no need. The closer I get, the more clearly she can see it for herself. It’s carved deep into my face.

For a second, her eyebrows tilt. Then she takes a tiny step back and lowers her umbrella so I can’t see her face. I’ll take it as a victory. Lenore Manning has faced just about everything. But at this moment, she can’t face me.

Shaking my head, I turn back to The Roman, who’s now forty feet away.

“Keep coming,” he says.

I stop. Diagonally to my right, between two stubby headstones, Lisbeth is down on her knees, cradling her bloody hand toward her chest. In the eerie bluish light, I can see that her hair is soaked, her left eye puffy and already swollen. I’m nearly there.

“I’m sorry,” she stutters as if it’s her fault.

“I said
keep coming
,” The Roman insists.

“Don’t!”
Lisbeth interrupts. “He’s gonna kill you.”

The Roman doesn’t argue.

“Promise me you’ll let her leave,” I say.

“Of course,” he sings.

“Wes!” Lisbeth says, her breathing growing heavy. It’s all she can do to stay conscious.

There are no sirens in the distance, no one riding to the rescue. From here on in, the only way Lisbeth’s getting out of here is if I step forward and try to make the trade.

The train gets louder in the distance. There’s a whisper over my shoulder. I turn back to follow the sound, but the only thing there is my own reflection in the red and blue stained-glass doors of the crypt. Inside, behind the glass, I swear something moves.

“You’re hearing ghosts now?” The Roman teases.

As the whispers get louder, I continue toward him on the path. I’ve got barely twenty feet to go. The rain lightens overhead as I reach the cover of the tree. Its tendrils dangle from above like a puppeteer’s fingers. I’m so close, I can see Lisbeth’s body shaking . . . and the First Lady’s pinkie flicking her umbrella strap . . . and the hammer on The Roman’s gun as he cocks it back with his thumb.

“Perfect,” he says with a wry grin. Before I can even react, he turns to the side and raises his gun. Directly at Lisbeth’s heart.

111

N
o—don’t!”
I shout, already running.

There’s a high-pitched hiss. But not from his gun. From behind me.

Before I even realize what’s happening, a burst of blood spurts from The Roman’s right hand, through the back of his palm, just below his knuckles. He’s been shot. At the impact, The Roman’s own gun goes off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lisbeth slapping her shoulder like she’s swatting a mosquito. I can make out something dark—blood—leaking out between her fingers, like water seeping from a cracked well. She pulls her hand away from her shoulder and holds it up in front of her face. When she sees the blood, her face goes white, and her eyes roll back in her head. She’s already unconscious.

“Shit, shit,
shit
!” The Roman yells, bent over, jerking wildly and holding his shattered right hand to his chest. On his right, the First Lady takes off, running back toward the main entrance and disappearing into the darkness. The Roman’s in too much pain to stop her. On the back of his hand, the hole’s no bigger than a penny. But the signature with the stigmata is unmistakable.

“You lied to me! He’s an angel!”
Nico howls from the back of the graveyard, up by the shrubs. He plows toward us through the darkness, his gun straight out, ready for the kill shot. He’s in silhouette. I can’t see his face. But his arm is steady as ever.

“Y-You’re going to Hell,” The Roman whispers as he anxiously throws his own personal Hail Mary. “Like Judas, Nico. You’re Judas now.”

The way Nico flinches, it’s clear he hears it. It still doesn’t slow him down. “God’s laws last longer than those who break them!” he insists as he gathers his strength. “
Your fate is rewritten!
” Up the path, he grips his rosary with one hand and aims the gun with the other.

“Nico, think of your mother!” The Roman begs.

Nico nods as the tears again stream down his face. “I am,” he growls, but as he takes aim, there’s a loud whoosh from behind the back fence of the cemetery. Up on the train tracks, a silver passenger train bursts into view, moving so fast it almost appears from nowhere. The clanking is deafening. My ears pop from the sudden vacuum in the air. For Nico, it’s fifty times worse.

He still fights it, gritting his teeth as he squeezes the trigger. But the noise is already too much. His arm jerks for half a second, the shot hisses from his gun, and as the bullet zings past The Roman’s shoulder and shatters a hunk of bark from the nearby tree, Nico Hadrian actually misses.

A dark grin returns to The Roman’s face as the train continues to whip by. Barely able to hold his gun with his right hand, he tosses aside the umbrella and switches the gun to his bandaged left. The way his right fist is shaking, he’s clearly in pain. He doesn’t care. His shoulders straighten. His knees steady. As he raises his gun and takes aim, I’m already running at him. So is Nico, who’s at least thirty feet behind me.

The Roman has time for just one shot. There’s no question who’s more dangerous.

Bam!

As the shot explodes from The Roman’s gun, it’s drowned out by the still-passing train. Behind me, just over my right shoulder, there’s a deep guttural grunt as Nico takes it in the chest. He still keeps running toward us. He doesn’t get far. Within two steps, his legs lock and his too-close-together eyes widen into full circles. Tumbling forward and off balance, his body hurtles face-first toward the ground. In mid-fall, the rosary flies from his hand. He’s not getting up.

As Nico crashes, The Roman turns his gun toward me. I’m already moving too fast. Lost in momentum, I collide with The Roman like he’s a tackling dummy, my arms wrapping around his shoulders as I ram him at full speed. The impact sends him staggering backward to his left. To my own surprise, it feels like there’s a metal plate against his chest. He learned it from Boyle. Bulletproof vest. The good news is, he’s already weakened from being shot in the hand. We trip over his umbrella in the dirt. I hold tight to his chest, riding him like a lumberjack on a falling tree.

As we crash to the ground, his gun flies from his hand across the wet grass. His back slams into a zigzagging tree root bursting up from the earth, while his head smacks backward into a jagged rock. The vest helps with his back, but his face clenches in pain as the rock jabs his skull.

Scrambling up and digging my knee into his stomach, I grab the collar of The Roman’s shirt with my left hand, pull him toward me, and punch as hard as I can with my right, ramming my fist just above his eye. His head whips into the jagged rock again, and a small cut opens above his left eye. He grits his teeth at the pain, his eyes squeezing shut to protect his sockets. Flushed with adrenaline, I hit him again, and the cut reddens and widens.

The real damage, though, comes from the rock under The Roman’s head. With each of my punches, there’s a sickening dull
gkkkk
as it drills through his black hair, into the back of his head. Still reeling from being shot, he thrashes his bandaged left hand toward his head, trying to protect himself from the rock.

Refusing to let up, I punch him again. And again. This one’s for all the surgeries. And for having to learn to chew on the left side of my cheek. And for not being able to lick stuff off my lips . . .

Below me, The Roman shoves his bandaged hand between his head and the rock. It’s not until that moment, with my arm cocked in the air, that I realize he’s not protecting his head from the rock. He’s pulling it from the dirt.

Oh, crap.

I punch down as hard as I can. The Roman swings his left arm like a baseball bat. He’s got the jagged gray rock clutched in his fist. I’m fast. He’s faster.

The sharp edge of the rock drills into my jaw like a razor on the tip of a missile, sending me falling to the right and crashing on my shoulder in the soaking grass on the edge of the path. Tasting victory, The Roman’s almost up. Climbing to my feet, I scramble as fast as I can, clambering to get out of there before he can—

He jabs me with the rock, his own personal pile driver. It’s a solid shot too—just above my neck at the base of my skull. I feel every ounce of it. As I stumble forward, unable to slow down, my vision goes blurry, then blinks back. No, don’t pass out . . .

I crash down on my knees and palms as tiny rocks from the stone path gnaw into my hands. The Roman is right behind me. He breathes heavily through his nose. His feet pound at the path, kicking a spray of pebbles at my back. “You’re—!” He grips the back of my shirt. I try to run, but he’s pulling too hard.
“You’re fuckin’ dead!”
he roars, whipping me around like an Olympic hammer throw and flinging me backward toward the polished stone crypt with the X-shaped wrought-iron bars that protect the red and blue stained-glass doors. If I hit the bars at this speed . . .

There’s a sickening crunch as my spine smacks against it. A half dozen panels shatter and pop like Christmas lights, one right where my head hits the glass. There’s something warm and wet on the back of my neck. If I can feel it, I’m bleeding bad.

As he tugs me forward, my neck goes limp and my head tips back. The rain comes down in slow motion, millions of silver frozen pine needles. My vision goes blurry again. The sky fades to bl—

“Nnnnnnnn,” I hear myself say, fighting awake as he drags me away from the crypt. Still gripping my shirt, he looks around for a moment. Lisbeth’s unconscious. The First Lady’s gone. Nico’s down. Whatever The Roman had planned, he needs to improvise now. His eyes scan the— That’s when he sees it.

He yanks hard, and I stumble forward, barely able to stay on my feet. Tucking my head under his arm, The Roman spins around, grips me in a headlock, and leads me across the stone path like a dog being tugged from the dining room. The way his sausage wrist wraps around my throat, it’s nearly impossible to breathe. I try to dig in my heels, but my fight’s long gone. Still, it’s not until we cross the stone path that I finally spot our destination. Diagonally behind two matching husband-and-wife gray headstones sits a small patch of grass that shines a bit greener than the rest of the surrounding mossy plots. At the bottom edge of the patch, a small piece of the grass puckers. Like a carpet. Oh, God. That’s Astroturf. He’s dragging me toward— That’s a freshly dug grave.

112

T
ugged toward the open hole, I frantically backpedal, almost vomiting up my Adam’s apple. The Roman squeezes the headlock tighter, lugging me toward the hole.

“Get off me!”
I scream, clawing at his arm and trying to free my neck. He doesn’t budge, pulling the leash even harder. As my feet slide from the path, through the damp grass, and toward the husband-and-wife graves, my arms and legs flail wildly—at the ground, in the air—searching for something to latch onto. At the foot of the matching rectangular headstones, I grab a branch from a nearby bush. I try holding on, but we’re moving so fast, the sharp woody stems stab into my palm. The pain’s too intense. With a final grunt, The Roman yanks me free, dragging me forward.

The freshly dug grave is dead ahead, but as we squeeze between the matching graves, I lunge to my left and clench one of the headstones. My fingers creep like tarantulas across the front, digging into the engraved letter
D
in the word
HUSBAND.

Enraged, The Roman tightens his vise grip around my throat. I feel my face swell with blood. I still don’t let go. He tugs harder, and my fingers start to slide. From the angle he’s pulling, the sharp granite corner of the rectangular headstone scratches the underside of my forearm. The Roman yanks so hard, I feel like my head’s about to come loose from my neck. My shoulder’s burning. My fingertips start to slide. The granite’s already slick with rain.

Stretching out his leg to the foot of the grave behind us, The Roman kicks off the Astroturf covering. I look up just long enough to see the seven-foot hole . . . the crumbling dirt walls . . .

I dig my fingers in, but the engraving’s only so deep.

The Roman’s right hand is soaked in blood, useless from being shot. No doubt, he’s in pain. But he knows what’s at stake. Leaning forward and closing the vise, he puts his full weight into it. My feet slowly slide across the grass. I try to take a breath, but it doesn’t come—he’s holding too tight. My arm is numb. My fingers start shaking, skidding from their perch. Darkness again presses in from the sides.
Please, God, take care of my mom and d
—

Blam! Blam!

Small stones spray across my face. The Roman’s grip loosens. And I fall to the wet grass, coughing and hacking as oxygen reenters my lungs.

Above me, the top edge of the husband’s grave is shattered from one of the bullets. I stare at The Roman, who spins to face me. His blue eyes flit anxiously. There’s a brand-new hole in his shirt, at the center of his chest. But no blood. He staggers backward, but not for long.

On my left, just a few feet away, Lisbeth is on her feet and breathing heavily, her own hand bleeding as she grips The Roman’s gun. As she lowers it, she thinks she’s won.

“Lisbeth . . .” I cough, fighting to get the words out.
“His vest!”

Lisbeth’s eyebrows leap up.

Snarling like a cheetah, The Roman lunges toward her.

Panicking, Lisbeth raises the gun and clenches the trigger. Two shots go off. They both plow into The Roman’s chest. He’s moving so fast, they barely slow him down. Inches away, he grabs for the gun. Lisbeth pulls the trigger one final time, and as the pistol explodes, a single bullet rips through the side of The Roman’s neck. He’s so lost in rage, I don’t think he feels it. Lisbeth steps backward, barely able to get a scream out. He’s all over her within seconds.

Ripping the gun from her hands, The Roman tackles her head-on. As they fall onto the stone path, Lisbeth’s head slams back into the concrete. Her body goes limp. Taking no chances, The Roman pins his forearm against her throat. Her legs aren’t thrashing. Her arms sag at her sides.