Morphine (Complete)

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!! NEW BOOK PUBLISHED !!

Heaven Sent. IT'S GONNA BE SO FUCKING GOOD UGHH, literally the name describes exactly what it is. go read it or I'LL REMOVE YOUR EYEBALLS AND MAKE THEM INTO tiny little MEATBALLS

Chapter Forty-One

The monster moved with grace uncannily similar to that possessed by the daughter of the Romeros. The monster, too, sported the same face, the same body, the same soul.

It called itself Garcia.

Perhaps Rannia's first error was naming the monster. Names humanzied things. The last thing she needed was humanity.

Detachment. Cold. Solitude.

That was the trick--to not feel. Garcia brandished a few small mines from her belt, checking the electronic trigger to make sure it was intact.

She tried not to see as she placed and tied the mines to different parts of the founding wall tunnels, making sure to space them out so they'd collapse in the roof and cut off most exits.

Just as she'd placed down the eleventh bomb, the sound of footsteps began coming from around the hall. Garcia startled, turned slowly, and eyed the bend of the hall, still empty of the approaching person. Cursing every single asshole at the event, she soundlessly darted towards the approaching waiter. She pressed her back against the wall, entire body tense, and slowly removed the double-headed knife from its holster. The slight echo of metal on leather slid past her ears like a familiar voice. This calmed her, it allowed her breathing to pause--and just as the footsteps came right next to the corner, she darted out, caught the server from behind, and locked them in a chokehold. The server let out a strangled cry of surprise, which was quickly muffled by the thick sleeve of Garcia's cloak.

"I will make it quick," Garcia whispered in the server's ears, pressing down the sharp edge of the blade to the waiter's exposed neck.

She could feel the person's racing pulse beneath her body, she could feel as their breathing turned erratic and their body tumbled uselessly against itself, trying to preserve whatever sad life it had left.

No witnesses.

Her grip tightened around the knife handle, and with a quick, decisive slice, the server's neck was cut clean open. Blood sprayed all across the walls and floor, pumping from the open wound like a fountain of hot crimson. No screams came from the waiter's bleeding corpse, all that could be heard was the sound of blood splattering onto the floor.

Worldlessly, Garcia stepped back and cleaned her blade against her cloak. As one hand slid her knife back into its holster, she dropped the body to the ground and lifted a thumb to her cheek. When she pulled her hand away, a small blotch of blood was on her thumb. She licked her lips and tasted blood.

She'd never killed someone without a reason before. Was it supposed to feel like this? So empty? So numb?

No, it was not supposed to feel like that at all.

Leaving the body behind, she continued on. She worked like clockwork, placing the bombs, double-checking the triggers. Once they were all placed, she found her way to one of the outcropping balconies hovering over the main ballroom. People were scattered about, all dressed up in their fancy clothing, with their fancy hair, fancy shoes, and fancy wives. Garcia wondered, briefly, how many of these people would make it out alive. Then she wondered why she cared at all--if the Amirs were dead, that's all she cared for. Huffing out a breath beneath her mask and hood, she placed her hands on the rails and scoured the crowd for her targets. First appeared to her sights Mykel, standing tall at the side of the dance floor, looking rather bored as he tapped an empty champagne glass in his hands. Garcia's breath caught at the sight of him. She hated it. She hated it so much. She hated him.