Page 115 of Veil of Dust

“Always,” she replies, voice low, fierce, her gaze anchoring me.

Blood streaks my hands, my neck, some real, most fake, drying in the chill. My hands shake as I press them to my thighs, not from fear, but from the weight of her, of us, of what we’ve done. She lifts a cloth, wiping my face, her touch rough, practical, scraping away the blood.

“Anyone see you?” she asks, voice sharp, demanding truth.

“Just heard,” I say, meeting her eyes, my voice steady. “No one saw.”

She nods, grabbing my wrist, her fingers firm, feeling my pulse, checking I’m still here. “You’re alive,” she says, softer, a crack in her steel mask.

“Barely,” I reply, a half-truth, my body heavy, my soul heavier, but still hers.

“Good,” she says, final, her strength burning through me.

Her hand lingers on mine, warm, real, her thumb pressing my knuckle, a silent vow. I squeeze back, hard, promising what I can’t say.

“We’re not done,” I say, my voice low, her touch keeping me whole.

“Not tonight,” she replies, her eyes fierce, “not ever.”

Inside, the bar is a ghost town, dim, shuttered, its tables empty, neon dark, the air thick with stale beer and dust. We cross to the storeroom, steps soft, the floor creaking under us. Tomas waits, shotgun over one shoulder, the burner phone in pieces on the table, useless now.

“You’ve got an hour,” he says, voice steady, eyes flicking between us, knowing too much.

“Not long,” Vespera says, her gray eyes calculating, weighing the risk.

“Won’t need it,” I say, certain, my focus narrowing to the next step, to vanishing clean.

Tomas studies me, his expression serious. “They’ll ID the body eventually. Dental. Prints.”

“No teeth,” I say, voice flat, cold, the truth of my work laid bare. “No fingers.”

Tomas exhales sharply, respect or disgust, I can’t tell. “Savage.”

“Necessary,” I say, no apology, just the cost of freedom, of her.

Vespera doesn’t flinch, her presence unyielding, a rock I lean into. She knows the cost, the seconds, the days, the chance to breathe free.

“You’re worth it,” I say, my eyes on her, her strength my reason for every cut, every lie.

“Damn right,” she replies, her voice steady, a spark in her gaze.

Sirens scream down the next block, their wail cutting through the fog, red lights flashing, painting the mist bloody. Bianca’s here, her arrival a threat, the final test of our lie. I press into the brick, watching her blonde braid swing as she steps into the scene, her boots polished, her expression cold, commanding.

“She thinks she’s won,” I whisper, my breath shallow, watching her believe. “She thinks I’m gone.”

“Let her,” Vespera’s voice from earlier echoes in my mind, sharp, certain.

Bianca kneels by the body, slow, deliberate, pulling the collar back, exposing the blood, our lie. Her lips press into a line, a flicker of doubt—or triumph—crossing her face, gone fast.

“Believe it,” I mutter, my heart pounding, hands clenched, willing her to take the bait. “Let us live.”

“Bag it,” she orders, voice sharp, cutting through the sirens. “Don’t broadcast. We control the narrative.”

“Yes,” I breathe, hope flaring, small but fierce, as they load the body, their steps heavy, voices muted.

The van pulls away, its lights swallowed by fog, the alley emptying, the lie taking root. Back at the bar, the lights stay off,the room a tomb for the man I was. Vespera pours two shots, amber glinting in the dim, a farewell we don’t drink, the act enough.

“We’re ghosts now,” I say, voice raw, feeling the weight of our new lives.

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