Last Hit(33)

The look in her eyes becomes soft. “You’re a good friend to offer that to us, Daisy.”

“Or just you,” I say automatically. “You could go there in case you wanted to get away from Saul.” I try to keep my tone light. “You know, just for a day or two.”

“Why would I want to leave Saul?”

I shrug. “I’m just saying. If you ever fought or something. I want you to know there’s a safe place to go.”

But she sees right through my cheeriness. The word “safe” triggers a flinch. Her expression shutters again, and she flings her books into a pile. “You know what? You don’t know anything about me, Daisy. I don’t need your help, and I don’t need protecting from my boyfriend.”

“Christine, wait.” I get to my feet, concerned at her anger. “I’m just trying to help—”

“I don’t need your help!” Her bellow of anger is surprisingly strong, considering Christine’s voice is always meek and quiet. “Just fuck off, Daisy, and leave me alone. You think you’re so perfect but you don’t know anything.”

I’m taken aback by her strong language, her attack on me. We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends don’t tell friends to fuck off. And I certainly don’t think of myself as perfect. It hurts that she thinks I’m judging her when all I want to do is help her. Protect her.

As she stalks away, I watch her beaten-up backpack bounce on her narrow shoulders. Then, I get up and gather my things, heading after her.

Nick would follow his mark. He would find out where his prey lives, find out its patterns, learn everything he could before taking action.

I can do that, too. If I follow Christine, I’ll find out where Saul is. I’ll find out where she lives, and maybe, just maybe, I can figure out how to help her.

And I can do this all without involving my sweet Nick. Because I can’t live without him, and I won’t put him in danger. Not over this.





Chapter 12


Nikolai

I follow Daisy as she follows Christine. Neither women are very aware of their surroundings. Christine’s apartment is nearly a mile from the campus, and the surroundings are shabby even though the snow covers many sins.

Still the state of disrepair is obvious. Christine hurries inside the house that appears to be cut into several apartments, while Daisy loiters on the corner. She watches for several minutes, longer than I would expect any civilian to wait in the cold. Her patience is rewarded when the lights on the top floor go on. The cold does not appear to affect Daisy. When the shouting begins, she creeps closer as if she can somehow make out what the inhabitants are saying.

If she’d come to me, I could have lent her my listening kit. Alas, that is at home in my studio. But then if she had come to me, I would have told her to not interfere. Ignoring others’ pain is one way to survive in this world. But Daisy’s heart is too big. She cannot ignore the injustice and . . . this is part of her loveliness. I can but watch and protect.

My need to smooth her path, erase any ugliness in her life, threatens to overwhelm me, but I beat it back. When her father held her hostage for so many years, she grew to resent restraint.

More than anything, I know she will run from me if my bonds are too tight. The struggle between my innate desires and what I understand to be appropriate behavior is difficult, but I will prevail, for to lose Daisy would render life meaningless.

The words on my chest burn.

The exchange between the occupants of the top floor floats down to the ground in indistinguishable sound clips. It is impossible to decipher what they are saying, only that there is anger and unhappiness filling the air. Daisy stares and shivers. I start toward her, her discomfort strafing my stomach. While I could withstand the cold for hours, seeing Daisy shiver even once is agonizing.

But before I reach the corner, she turns away and moves in the direction of our apartment building. I drop back so she does not see me. We walk to our home, her about a hundred yards in front of me.

Because I am always watching, I see the man from the shooting range leaning against his dark car. He steps toward Daisy, and my hand reaches inside my jacket, molding around the gun handle.

She whips inside our building before he can reach her. Sprinting forward, I catch him by the arm before he can follow her inside.

“Why are you here?” I demand.

He turns his dark visage on me and with no small disdain says my name. “Nick Anders.”

“Yes.”

Shaking me off, he steps back out of the light of the doorway. I follow him, pushing him toward the side of the building. The building sits on a quiet street. There are other students housed here but also young families. I do not know if I can kill this man without being seen, but he represents a threat. My instincts tell me he is dangerous, and I have survived this long only by being cautious.