Page 42 of Drawn to Death
The words hang there, heavy and final. I’ve been trying to dodge that truth since the first vision, the first death I saw through Talon’s eyes.
Heat prickles across my skin, sweat and fear and the warmth from the body on the floor. My clothes cling to me, damp and gross. The smell of blood fills the apartment, thick and metallic. I gag, pressing my hand over my mouth.
“I thought it was my life ending,” I whisper, voice muffled against my palm. “But maybe it was yours.” The drawing flashes behind my eyes again, Talon kneeling, gun in hand. “That’s what they want. That’s what all of this is about.”
Talon says nothing, just watches me with those calm eyes. Always steady, even with a body cooling at his feet. How does he do that? How does he live with death so close all the time?
“I drew Mickey’s kills, and I'm the reason he's dead. I drew others. Maybe they were hers. Now I've caused her death." I sob. I’m not even sure who I’m talking to. My voice sounds weird, hollow, like it’s echoing off the inside of my skull. “Is that why I dream yours? Because I'm going to cause your death?”
Except, yeah, no. That’s not true. Not really. The dreams drag me all the way here, to this blood-splattered room, to thisfreaky connection with a killer. But they also brought me Talon. His quiet, steady vibe. His hands, careful and deliberate. The way he looks at me sometimes, like I’m something fragile and worth keeping safe, even from myself. I may have dreamed these deaths, I may have caused them, but he carried them out. That's why I drew him so defeated. I cause the deaths, and he carries them out.
Talon reaches out, slow and unsure, and brushes my cheek. His fingers come away wet. I haven’t even noticed I’m crying.
“We need to move,” he says. His voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath it. “This place isn’t safe anymore.”
I nod. I feel numb, like my brain is wrapped in cotton. He’s right. Obviously. Vincenzo sent someone to finish what Mickey attempted, what Talon had started before that. It has to end now, one way or another. And there’ll be more. Always more. Killers lined up out the door, hunting for the guy who sees too much, who can draw their faces from memory, who knows shit he’s not supposed to know.
Talon stands up and holds out his hand. I take it. He pulls me up, steady even though my legs want to fold.
“Pack what you need,” he says. “Nothing that can be traced. We leave in ten minutes.”
I stare at him, really stare, trying to see if he has that dead-eyed look I sketched, the one that means he’s ready to just let go. It’s not there. Not yet. But it will be someday. I’ve seen it.
“Okay.” My voice doesn’t shake. “Ten minutes.”
I turn away, but his hand grabs my wrist. I look over my shoulder, waiting.
“Quell.” His gaze is locked on me, serious, stubborn. “This isn’t the end. Not for either of us.”
I want to believe him. I really, really do. But the drawings never lie, and what I’ve seen,
Still, I nod, and manage a smile, even though it feels sharp and raw and wrong. “Ten minutes,” I say again.
I leave him there with the body, the blood, the mess of it all. Another death. Another nightmare I’ll have to live with. But this time, I’m not going to draw it. I’ll keep it in. Locked up. If I don’t put it on paper, maybe it’ll stay small, and quiet, and mine.
Some visions are better kept secret. Some futures happen whether you see them coming or not. Drawn or not, they show up eventually, ugly as ever.
Chapter twenty-one
Talon
Blood pools around the cleaner’s body, spreading in a perfect circle, like ink on wet paper. I watch it creep across the floor, inching toward Quell’s feet where he sits on the floor, pressed up against the wall. His sobs come in short, broken gasps, each one sounding like it’s tearing something loose inside his chest. “It will never end unless I’m dead,” he says. Over and over. The words blur together, barely language anymore.
We're supposed to be packing. I'm going to get him out of here, hide him somewhere better, but when he returned with his few items of clothes and every art supply he has here, he froze. It was the blood, the body. I should have moved her, but the focus was moving us instead.
I don’t argue with him. What can I possibly say to make this better? There is nothing to fix what’s been broken since the first time he saw through my eyes.
The gun is still warm in my hand. I stare at it, feeling the weight, the purpose. Then at Quell. His face is wet with tears, glasses askew, hands shaking so badly it makes his whole bodytremble. He looks like he’s coming apart, piece by piece, right in front of me. And it is my fault. I’ve been the reason all along.
His drawings show me kneeling, gun in hand, waiting. Accepting. Ready for an end. I thought it was a threat. Now I understand it’s a solution.
“It will never stop,” Quell whispers, fingers digging into his scalp. “Not until I’m dead.”
No. Not until one of us is dead.
I step away from the body. My footsteps are silent on the hardwood. The apartment feels small, airless, shrinking by the second. I move toward Quell, each step slow and deliberate. When I reach him, I lower myself to my knees, back straight, shoulders squared. Just like in his drawing. Just like the vision he didn't want to tell me about.
Quell’s eyes lock on mine. Wide, glassy with panic. His pupils are so dark they drown out the color.
