Page 116 of Golden Burn

Another gunshot.

Another.

Blood sprays from Ford’s arm, his thigh, hisneck. He clutches the side of his throat, mouth filling with blood instantly. He stumbles, his hands catching him on the side of the cabin, his fingers leaving a red, wet streak.

“Ford!” I screech at the same time Odin roars, “No!”

Ford collapses to the ground, his back against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him.

I break free of Martin’s hold and run to Ford, my hands dropping the precious creature in my shirt so that I can reach for his wounds, applying pressure to the worst one.

“It’s not his—fault,” Ford chokes as I press my hands to his neck. “It’s not his fault. You have to tell him.”

“Stop talking,” I beg him. “Just breathe.”

“You’re dead!” Odin shouts, his voice a thousand times more pained than I’ve ever heard it. He launches to his feet, knocking the gun from Cerbera’s grip with trained precision. Cerbera snarls and swings his arm. They fight, bare knuckled and bloodied, two gladiators with nothing to lose.

I’m vaguely aware of Martin moving to my side, but I can’t take my attention away from Ford’s injuries. If I do, he’ll bleed out.

I can’t listen.

I can’t think.

Martin taps me on the shoulder. I ignore him. Blood gurgles out of the wound on Ford’s neck. His trachea is working overtime, not a good sign for his oxygen levels. I do my best to staunch the bleeding, all the while listening to Odin and Cerbera behind me, praying he won’t lethally harm my husband with my back turned.

Tap, tap, tap. I want to scream at Martin to fucking leave me alone, but then he whispers a word to me. “Blue.”

I look up.

His focus is trained on Cerbera. But Cerbera’s focus is trained on Odin, who’s holding his ground despite two wounds in each leg. Cerbera is so full of bloodlust he’s ignoring us completely.

Martin points at the octopus on the ground, still somehow moving its tentacles, and then points to Cerbera.

“On my signal.”

I glance back at Ford. His face is ashen, his skin covered in sweat. I lift his hands and press them to his neck. “Don’t move,” I say.

“Don’t plan on it,” he stutters.

Martin steps away from us and closer to Cerbera. He slowly pockets his gun and lowers his legs, preparing his body. He watches and waits for an opening. Odin cracks Cerbera on the jaw and the man takes two steps back. Like a cat springing on its prey, Martin dives onto Cerbera, taking him down with a thump, the two of them grappling for control.

I grab the octopus, my hands covered in blood and tears and sweat. The sheet is soaked, probably with the octopus’s venom, but I don’t care. I race toward Martin, past Odin, who reaches for me. “Etta!”

“Now!” Martin shouts, his arms twisted around Cerbera’s neck, legs locked on his thighs like a cobra.

Cerbera jerks under Martin’s tight grip. “What have you got for me, Etta? Gonna slap me a little?”

“Shut the fuck up, you pig,” I spit, my own rage and heartache spilling out of me. I stand above him and position my weapon. “Oh, and by the way, this is exactly how our father died. Like a cockroach writhing on the ground.”

I tip the sheet and watch as the beautiful octopus lands on Cerbera’s face, its tentacles immediately gripping into his skin, spreading its venom.

He laughs at first, the tiny creature a hilarious choice of weapon to use for his destruction. But as the sands of time slip through the cracks, the octopus’ venom spreads, blocking the communication between nerves, halting all muscle contraction.

When the paralysis registers, the veins in his neck bulge, his legs twitch, his expression shifts from annoyed amusement to object terror. He realizes his mistake and becomes the shivering prey he expected me to be. No longer the wolf, but the wolf’s dinner.

Just like my father, I watch my brother die.

Both, in the end, give me great pleasure.

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