Page 33 of Odder Still
for you I’ll ignite and for you I’ll withdraw.
Forever circling,
rigidly in tune.
But never quite touching, lest one be consumed.
TAVISH COULD BE NEXT.
In the instant it takes me to come to terms with that, the assassin glances up. A full mask richly painted with silver swirls hides their face. They stall. The paintbrush slips from their fingers.
I sprint at them. The assassin jolts into motion as well, snatching up an ornamental knife in place of the brush. But they don’t raise it against me. Instead, they turn and dive for Raghnaid, blade aimed at her throat. I crash into them just as they connect—just before or just after. A muted scream leaves Raghnaid, and her eyes lurch open, but the assassin grabs the back of my neck, taking my attention with it.
They flip their knife around to drive it toward my stomach, but their grip on its handle wobbles. I slide to one side and slam my fist into their ribs with such force their whole body jerks. When I hit their wrist next, the knife tumbles from their hand. It scrapes across the tile as it rolls toward the double doors.
The assassin grabs my collar and shoves their knee into my gut. A harsh ache shoots through my insides. The parasite writhes against the sensation, and I can feel its unhappiness in the same inescapable way it must feel my pain. Like a fist clenching, it pushes against me—into me—straining for something. I strain, too, barely ducking the assassin’s next punch as I grit my teeth against the parasite’s unnamable desire.
Splashing rises from the pool, undercut with Tavish’s worried muttering. As I block the assassin’s next attack, a wave of panic rushes over me. “Pull off the netting but don’t touch the ignit!” I shout. Whether he hears me—whether he understands what I’m talking about to begin with—I don’t have time to check.
The assassin bursts forward, catching me between the ribs with their fist. The parasite shoves at me with the same force, as though trying to meet the blow, tearing me up from the inside out in the process. I slam my heel into the assassin’s stomach. They stumble backward.
I glance toward the pool. Tavish holds Sheona by the shoulders as she sits bent over at its edge. Water streams from her hair. A series of rough, wet curses leave her.
“A gun,” Sheona growls, lifting her head. “Get me a damn gun.”
The assassin stalls. Their hand goes to their waist as though they’re checking for that very thing, but their palm only bumps against their cloak. They take a step back. Turning on their heels, they flee the way we’d come, only pausing long enough to swipe their knife off the floor.
I lunge after them. My fingers graze their cloak. If only I could shove myself a little farther, a little faster. If only I had less alcohol intoxicating my system and more of that furious strength from my one-sided fight with the poachers. If only I could end this here and now, then Tavish might be safe.
As though the mere thought opens the floodgate, the parasite rips into me.
It winds through my shoulder, pressing down my arm, and writhing along the ignation-soaked fabric of my bathrobe sleeve. It crashes through my nerves, its heat blistering as it grabs for the ignation there with an excitement so vibrant that a laugh spews out of me. I fight the feeling. Every inch I gain, I lose a mile. The parasite digs into the skin between my fishnets, tearing needle-thin gashes of color from the tips of my fingers up my right arm. Its warmth surges through my brain, polluted with color and light so bright and bold I can taste its presence on the back of my tongue, metallic and salty.
I cough, and blood comes out. A sob follows.Stop, stop, stop, stop.
My legs buckle, spilling me onto the floor.
I receive a reply in my own voice, ‘I get odder the more you know of me.’With it, the parasite finally stops its invasion. It doesn’t retreat, but it watches through my eyes, like a guard dog on high alert. A guard dog who guards the body it means to take over and not the person still trying to live inside it. The crisscrossing gashes of color it sliced into my right arm remain.
The assassin is gone. Sheona holds her gun, but she’s slumped to one elbow beside Tavish, still coughing in rough, gurgling hacks.
Raghnaid groans from the sofa. A red line snakes across her cheek—that first swipe the assassin got at her. I must have shoved it away just in time. It’s so light the bleeding has already stopped, but the gag is mere threads now. She tears it in two with her teeth. “Tavish!” Her voice is crystal even when hoarse. “Untie these.”
Tavish goes still.
Raghnaid calls him again, stern, sharp, just enough scolding to sit squarely between mother and queen. “Now, Tavish.”
“Aye, of course,” he mutters. His cane rattles against the floor as he tiptoes toward her voice.
My veins course with an energy not my own. I lurch to my feet as though standing fast enough might leave the parasite’s presence behind. As I do, I realize the other bodyguard still lies, forgotten, at the bottom of the pool. Raghnaid’s bodyguard. It’s been so long since he was dumped in. Too long. I try to cling to my earlier ambivalence, but now that I stand at the edge of the pool, I can’t just leave him there.
I drag his body out, but he doesn’t breathe, not even after I carefully peel off the net-bound ignit and toss it away. By the time I’ve confirmed his pulse is gone, Raghnaid stands before the red fish symbol, rubbing her wrists. She’s even shorter without her heels. She picks up her feet with Lavender’s dainty delicacy, stepping between the wet paint, nose wrinkled. With half of it shielded by her dress, its familiarity hits me.
It’s the same marking the workers were covering near the lower-district gate when I fled Lilias. Same color, same rugged, minimalist style, even roughly the same size. The assassin might have worn a fancy mask and carried an ornamental blade, but this symbol is a thing of the lower districts.
I lift my hand to rub my face, but the tiny lines of color cutting through my skin stop me.
Raghnaid picks up the end of the netting I’d tossed aside, careful not to touch the paralyzing ignit still glowing at its center. Her nostrils flare. She looks at me. “You are meant to be in a lab.”
