Part 29 (1/2)

For the first time in what felt like forever, all was right with his world.

And then Nora came walking in.

It was to Vic's eternal shame that he never even saw her coming, didn't have a f.u.c.king clue. One second, he was watching his new love dance, a big grin pasted across his kisser; the next thing he knew, Nora was standing beside him with the coldest, craziest expression on her face he'd ever seen. Her breath reeked of liquor, blood, and rage. She hissed at him.

You sonofab.i.t.c.h.

Every drop of strip joint sweat on his body went instantly frigid. Every hair stood on end. He knew what was coming before it came, what she was going to say before she even said it.

Are you gonna take care of this? Or do I have to do it for you?

Tristana was at the far end of the runway, oblivious to the exchange. In desperation, Vic tried to feign ignorance. No chance. She knew, she knew, there was no way around it; denying it only made it worse. He found himself wracking his brain, searching out escape routes that didn't exist. He could feel the terrible killing power of the Change, surging through Nora and radiating outward.

And he knew, in that moment, that it was too late. She would stop at nothing. She had nothing to lose. She would do it right here, in front of everyone, bring the whole place cras.h.i.+ng down around their ears-put the cops on their trail, kill herself, kill him-before she would let this violation go unavenged.

You can't make me do this, he tried to say, but he knew it wasn't true.

You OWE me, motherf.u.c.ker, she spat. We were meant to be together, remember? Well, now we are. For better and for worse, in sickness and in health, forever and ever and you f.u.c.king OWE ME THIS!!!

And then she turned and stormed out, leaving Vic to his choices.

When closing time came, he tried his best to pretend that nothing was wrong. Tristana, of course, was way too smart to buy it; and so she followed him around to the back of the club in a desperate attempt to pry loose his sudden, terrible secret. The Mercedes was parked back there in the alley, the trunk ajar and waiting. Nora was nowhere to be seen. She had thought of everything.

He brought them to a halt by the back of the car, making it look entirely coincidental. To his surprise, he found that he was shaking. She asked him what was wrong, slipped deftly into his embrace. He nestled her head against his chest.

Nora stepped out from around the corner.

Just remember, he whispered, that I love you. Kissing her lightly on the forehead. He cradled her face in his hands. She made a soft sound of unmistakable pa.s.sion.

Then he seized her skull, twisting viciously. . . .

And it should have ended just like that.

But, of course, it didn't.

Because Tristana's instincts were strong, and she picked up on tic's intent a split second before he could do the deed. Fear and confusion flared, were instantly incinerated by a single overriding impulse.

Tristana locked her neck, began to fight.

She was much stronger than he'd expected; she kicked and thrashed and raked her nails across his face. It bought her maybe another ten seconds of survival. Long enough for her to twist her head to come face-to-face with him. Long enough to see the tattoo on his bulging forearm, see Nora emerge from the darkness, see it all for what it was.

The look of sorrow in her eyes was matched only by the contempt, in the moment before she died. They fused together to burn into his brain forever, transmitting a single indelible message: You p.u.s.s.y.

And then her neck muscles gave out, with a slingshot bonecracking snap. . . .

And it was done. One second, she was a living, breathing embodiment of all his dreams; the next, she was a hundred and twelve pounds of limp and sagging meat: forever gone, useless in his arms.

It had been years since he'd allowed himself to cry, and it seemed strange to be doing it now. Her dead weight knocked him back a step, as if her flesh knew its final destination, was only trying to help. He kissed her once more, mouthed the words I'm sorry. Then he gently laid her out on the plastic trunk liners that Nora had so thoughtfully provided.

Suddenly, he was being elbowed roughly but indifferently aside. He fell back without protest, though he felt his heart constrict. Nora was there-half-human, half-beast, completely deranged-looming over the body, her features lit from the trunk light below. Without hesitation, she slit Tristana's dead throat, peeling upward in an ugly, brutal swipe. The face came clean away, leaving behind a deathmask of muscle and skull that could have belonged to anyone.

This is mine, Nora said, holding up her souvenir.

Then she reached down with her free hand and slit the carca.s.s from v.u.l.v.a to sternum, viscid tubes and exposed organs flopping to either side. A final desecration. Her last disrespects. Nora dug up under the breastbone to wrench the dead heart free, then helped herself to a big steaming bite.

Savoring the spark. Getting off on it.

You can take care of the garbage, she told him, as she tossed the leftovers into the trunk. Nora stalked off into the shadows.

Leaving Vic alone, moaning over the seeping remnants of his dream . . .

Over the ocean, a storm front was gathering. Already, its dark clouds had swallowed the moon. He felt its imminence in the pit of his stomach. A sinking sensation. Too appropriate for words. Vic wiped the last of this evening's tears on the back of his hand, snuck a glimpse at the clock.

It was twelve-fifteen.

For the first time, it fully occurred to him that Nora had been gone an awfully long time. Nearly half an hour. What the f.u.c.k was that about? Not that he was in any hurry to experience her return-just the thought of her, at this point, made his blood congeal in his veins-but it struck him as strange. She'd told him she'd be right back.

Oh no, said a voice in his head.

Vic looked at his half-empty gla.s.s of whiskey, then across the table at Nora's drink. She had drained it before she left for the bathroom. She hadn't ordered another.

Oh christ no, said the voice, more emphatic.

He clamped down hard, methodically ran down the list of reasons why panic was pointless, the worst of his options. He thought about the last year and a half spent together: eighteen months in which she'd never once tried to run away. He thought about the permanent shattering of will, her terrible crippling resignation. He thought about the words forever and ever.

He thought about the way she'd looked while gutting Tristana.

He looked at the clock again.

A sickly churn began to cycle in his gut, physical corollary to the voice in his head. A second voice chimed in now, infinitely more practical. Go look for her it said.

He stood, a bit unsteadily. Something slipped from his lap, tumbled to the floor. Vic looked down, struggling to focus. Something s.h.i.+ny lay coiled at his feet. It was fine-tooled and delicate, easily five feet long, with a tiny silver clasp on the end.

Her chain.

Oh G.o.d.

Vic stood paralyzed, unable to accept the evidence of his senses. He suddenly realized how completely he'd been suckered, how very deeply he'd been spiked.

”Oh, f.u.c.k,” he muttered, half-falling back against the wall. ”Oh, f.u.c.k.” Waiting for the dizziness to pa.s.s. The thought of dragging himself another step farther was incredibly difficult: a deep soul-exhaustion settled over and through him like a fog that freezes bone.

But beneath the killing fog was the understanding that she had planned this, she had deliberately done this to f.u.c.k him up; and what was worse, she had waited until tonight. Which meant that she'd known she was going to do this even before she made him kill Tristana.

Which meant that Tristana had died for nothing. No, worse: as an instrument of Nora's revenge.

And she had used his hands to do it. . . .