Page 41 of Drawn to Death
Not a question. A statement. My skin prickles, as if she’s run her fingers down my spine. She looks normal. Mid-forties, brown hair in a tight ponytail, practical shoes. Ordinary. But the way she stands is off. Too straight, too still. And her eyes…
My breath snags. I’ve seen her before. Not in person. On paper.
In the dream, she's standing there, a puzzled look on her face; her death is a complete surprise. It's faded because I didn’t draw this one, but I recognize those tight curls.
“Just a hobby,” I manage, though my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
She crosses to the table, picks up the sketch. Her fingertips leave little smudges on the paper. “You’re good. Very precise.” She looks up at me, her eyes sharp and bright. “You draw him a lot. Must mean you’re close.”
Déjà vu doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s more than that. Prophecy, maybe. The words echo in my skull, pounding, insistent. I’ve drawn her. I’ve seen her. And now she’s here, in our space, touching my things, saying things she shouldn’t know.
My hands shake. I shove them deep in my pockets.
“Like I said, just a hobby.” I can barely hear myself. The words feel thin, far away.
She sets the drawing down and wanders the apartment, running a cloth over surfaces that don’t need cleaning. I stand there, frozen. The room feels smaller every second, the air thick and heavy. Sweat gathers along my hairline, trickles down my back.
“You’ve got a nice place,” she says, wiping a shelf of books. “Secure. Private.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “Must be important, keeping things private.”
The implication hangs there, heavy and obvious. She knows. Somehow, she knows who I am. What I can do. What I’ve seen.
She comes closer, step by step, still holding the cloth. I back up until my spine hits the wall. Nowhere else to go.
“I should check on that glass again,” she says, but she’s not looking at the kitchen. She’s looking at me. “Make sure I've got all the pieces. Wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Her hand slips into her coat. My heart stops.
I remember how this scene ends. Metal, fast, a body dropping. Knife or gun? I can’t remember. Just the certainty: violence, as familiar as my own heartbeat.
I try to move, to run, but nothing happens. My body won’t listen. I’m stuck inside the vision, watching it unfold exactly as I drew it, helpless to change a thing.
Her hand comes out of her coat. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for pain, for the end, for the blackness.
The air cracks. A sound like a whip, so sharp it feels like a slap. My eyes spring open. I catch the look on her face: surprise, sudden and wide. Then she collapses, folding up like paper, hitting the floor with a dull thump.
Talon stands behind her, gun still raised, face blank. He just appears, stepping out of shadows I didn’t even see. Calm. Precise. Inevitable.
Blood starts to pool, spreading darkly across the floor. The smell hits me next: iron, gunpowder, and under it all, the harsh lemon of her cleaning spray.
Everything splits apart. And just like that, she’s gone. Not her body; it’s still there, sprawled out on the floor, but the life, the threat, the danger. Gone in a single moment.
My knees buckle. I slide down the wall, landing hard. A sound rips out of me, raw and ugly. Not a scream, not a sob. Something in between, torn from deep inside.
Talon moves fast, checking her pulse, pulling a gun from her coat. The one she was reaching for. He tucks it into his waistband, then turns to me.
“Quell.” His voice is rough, scraping out my name. “Did she hurt you?”
I shake my head, mouth glued shut. My whole body trembles, teeth chattering like I’ve just stepped out into a blizzard, even though sweat glues my shirt to my back. I can’t stop staring at the blood spreading in a slow, glossy pool across the floor, inching closer to my feet. I scramble back, pressing myself against the wall.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you sooner,” Talon says. His voice is flat, practical. “She was going for her weapon.”
A weird, sharp laugh tries to claw its way out of my throat.
“I know,” I say. “I saw her. Before. In the dream” The words come out in pieces, jagged like the glass on the kitchen floor. “I didn’t draw her, and it still came true.”
Talon crouches next to me, careful to keep himself between me and the corpse. He doesn’t touch me, just waits, patient, while I shake.
“She knew me,” I gasp. “Knew what I could do. The drawings.” My vision blurs with tears as I look up at him. “It’s never going to end. Not until I’m dead.”
