Page 30 of Drawn to Death
His face changes. Something soft, surprised. He nods, quick, and then heads into the bedroom to get dressed.
I let out a breath. This is new. Bringing someone to Vincenzo without orders. Bringing someone I should have killed. But it is too late now. Mickey is dead. Quell’s visions are out there. And whatever this is, between us, isn’t going away.
All I can do is try to keep us both alive.
Chapter fourteen
Quell
The car slows as we roll up to this wrought-iron gate, black metal twisting up, all these curling vines welded along the bars, dramatic as hell. Talon doesn’t look at me. He just rolls down his window, his hand settling heavy on my knee. It's this silent pressure, like he’s warning me. Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t fuck this up. I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to. My mouth is dust. It went dry the second we turned off the main road and onto Vincenzo’s private drive. I've been terrified driving through the city with a body in the trunk, like the cops would know somehow. These quiet roads are better, but I know Mickey is still there. Wrapped in plastic, getting cold. I keep feeling the memory of his legs in my hands.
A guard comes out of the tiny booth by the gate. His suit fits too well to be normal, like it's hiding something. Not that I'd know, I've never worn a suit for a single day in my life. His eyes flick over me and then land on Talon, and his face shifts like he’s just solved a puzzle.
“Mr. Talon.” He sounds bored. “He’s expecting you.”
The gate swings open without a sound. I guess fancy places can afford quiet hydraulics. Talon takes his hand off my knee and goes back to the wheel. Losing his touch makes my stomach twist.
“Remember what I said,” Talon murmurs, not looking at me. “Let me do the talking. Don’t volunteer anything.”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak. We rehearsed this on the drive over, all the things I am supposed to say, and especially what I am not supposed to say, but now that we’re actually here, my brain is empty. Just white noise.
The driveway winds through these perfect lawns, with trimmed hedges on either side, all of it looking like it belongs in a magazine. Scattered between the hedges are stone statues, old ones, Greek or Roman or something, their eyes blank and cold as we drive past. Far off, a fountain shoots water into the air, catching the late sun in little flashes.
Then the house rises up ahead, and my breath catches. It isn’t just a house. It's a statement, all pale stone and glass, sprawling out in every direction, three stories high at the center, wings fanned out like arms ready to pull you in, or crush you. Every window is polished to a mirror shine. Every line, every edge, crisp and exact. It is beautiful, the way a blade is beautiful: cold, sharp, and merciless.
“Jesus,” I mutter, the word slipping out before I can stop myself.
Talon’s mouth does this half-smile thing. “Yeah,” he says, like that sums it up.
He pulls the car up to the base of wide marble steps leading to the front doors. Before I can even undo my seatbelt, he turns to look at me, eyes serious.
“Stay close,” he says. “Don’t wander. Don’t stare. And don’t make eye contact with anyone except me or Vincenzo.”
I nod, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat. Talon watches me for a second, then reaches over and tugs at the collar of my shirt… his shirt, really, borrowed from his closet. His fingers brush my neck, and even now, I feel my skin heat under his touch.
“You’ll be fine,” he nods. I want to believe him. I really do. “Hey, look at me. I’ll take care of you. I won’t let anything happen, okay? You’re mine now, and I protect what’s mine.”
The look in his eyes tells me he means every word.
Outside, the air is sharp, smelling like cut grass and expensive aftershave. Two more guards stand at the entrance, perfectly still, like statues. They watch us walk up the steps. I keep my eyes down, counting each marble stair to keep my brain busy. Nineteen steps. Nineteen steps from the car where Mickey is dead to whatever is waiting inside.
The front doors are huge, dark wood, carved all over with these twisting patterns. They swing open as we reach them, opened by someone I can’t see. Inside, the foyer stretches up forever, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling like a waterfall made of glass. The floor is polished stone, reflecting all the light in dizzying patterns. Everything gleams: the brass, the glass tables, the frames of the paintings that probably cost more than my whole life.
A woman appears, dressed in a sharp black suit, her dark hair yanked back so tight it probably aches. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t even really look at me, just nods at Talon.
“This way,” she instructs, voice flat and precise. Her eyes flick over me, quick and dismissive, like she’s already decided I am not worth the time. She's probably right.
We follow her deeper into the house. I feel weirdly naked, like someone has painted a big red target on the back of my neck. There are more guards along the hallway, each one planted at their post, faces blank, bodies coiled and ready. They all watchme as I pass, and each stare feels like a slap. They know who I am. Or what I am. The artist. The freak who sees things. The one who should be dead.
Talon’s hand touches the small of my back, just enough to guide me around a corner. It is barely there, but it keeps me steady, like he is the only real thing in this shiny, perfect nightmare.
The hallway goes on forever. Closed doors everywhere, and paintings on the walls that probably belong in museums. My hands are sweating, so I wipe them on my jeans. Talon’s jeans, actually, way too big and rolled up at the ankles. I am wearing his clothes, walking straight into a meeting with the man who wants me dead, with a body in the trunk outside. None of it feels real.
The cold, sick fear in my stomach is real. The memory of Mickey’s throat opening up under the knife is real, too. But Talon’s hand is real, and that somehow makes me feel safe.
Chapter fifteen
Talon
