Page 49 of Veil of Dust

I came to snap his nose clean off. To send a message back to Alfeo in blood.

The machete Tiziano gave me is tucked along my back its handle flush against my spine. It presses warm through my shirt, a weight that steadies more than it burdens. I feel him in it, Tiziano, his strength woven into the steel, a silent vow that I’m not alone out here. It grounds me, keeps my pulse even as I hunt.

I crouch low behind a cluster of palmetto fronds, their sharp edges brushing my thighs. My eyes fix on the shack ahead, its shape barely distinct through the fog.

Rotting boards sag under their own weight. The caved-in roof tilts, threatening to collapse. No windows, just gaps where wood has split, revealing slivers of the dark inside.

But a man-shaped shadow paces within, framed in flashes between the cracks in the wall. His movements are restless, careless, like he thinks he owns this place.

No lights. No fire. Just the faint creak of floorboards under his weight.

But movement.

I watch. Still. My breath is low and shallow, barely stirring. The fog clings to my skin, damp and cool, but I don’t shiver.

My eyes don’t shake.

My hands don’t sweat.

I’m not prey.

Not anymore. Not the bartender’s girl, not a name to be crossed off Alfeo’s list. I’m something else now, something sharp and unforgiving, forged in the fire of Tiziano’s blood and my own defiance.

The grass parts around my thighs as I shift low to the ground, knees bent, knife sheathed and ready at my hip. I circle downwind, boots pressing soundlessly into the wet soil, each step measured to avoid the snap of a twig or the splash of a puddle. The fog peels back just enough to clear my view, like the bayou’s granting me passage.

The front of the shack is exposed. Rusted hinges hang loose, the door half off its frame. Slatted steps lead up, broken halfway through, jagged edges glistening with dew.

Then the door opens.

He steps out to piss. His silhouette is broad, careless, outlined against the faint gray of dawn.

His head is down. One hand sits on the doorframe to steady himself, while the other tugs at his zipper, fumbling in the dark.

No weapon visible. His rifle’s probably inside, propped against a wall, useless to him now.

Perfect.

One step. Two. My boots glide over the mud, silent, my body low and coiled like a spring.

I close the distance before he registers the movement

I grab a fistful of his hair, wrench his head back with a sharp yank. His scalp pulls tight under my grip, and he stiffens, caught off guard.

His hand jerks up, too slow, flailing for something he’ll never reach.

I draw the blade across his throat in one clean pull. The machete bites deep, steel parting flesh with a wet, final sound.

He gargles, blood spraying warm across my forearm, hot and slick, soaking into my sleeve. His knees hit the ground, a dull thud in the mud. Then his chest follows, collapsing forward. Then his face is pressed to the earth, swallowed by the swamp’s embrace.

Dead.

Fast.

No scream.

No warning.

No chance.

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