Curran sagged against the spear. Blood poured from his mouth and his face went slack. “No,” I heard myself whisper. “Please, no.”
The upir’s body jerked. His mangled chest shuddered and slowly he rose to his knees. He remained upright for a moment, fell again and pushed himself forward across the soot-stained ground toward me.
I watched him crawl, his body straining to mend the damage. His head came level with mine. I could see the red sack of his heart pulsing through the gap in his chest half-hidden by ruined spongy lungs.
“Nice fight,” he said through the bloodstained lips. His right eye wouldn’t stop blinking. “Something to remember on our honeymoon.”
I jammed the bone blade into his heart.
Bono screamed. His unearthly howl shook the prison and the windows exploded. His hands flailed, trying to reach the dagger, but failed to find the small blade. He clawed at my neck, but I couldn’t feel it. It didn’t matter. That final thrust had taken everything I had.
There was nothing left to do but to lie here. I’d see him die before I did. That would be enough for me.
Bono lay on his back. “I don’t want to die,” he whispered between short, hoarse breaths. “I don’t want to die . . .”
His body began to smoke. First a thin sheen of indigo fog coated his skin and then it grew, curling into long tendrils and escaping into the night sky.
“My power . . . leaving me,” Bono rasped. The smoke thickened and the upir began to whisper in the language of power. His words made no sense to me. He chanted feverishly, trying to hold onto life or simply praying, I wasn’t sure which.
A shudder troubled his ruined body. His speech faltered. His heels dug into the ground. The blue smoke vanished, like the light of a candle snuffed out by someone’s breath. The upir’s unblinking eyes stared into the night. It was over.
I wished I could push myself farther and reach Curran. Maybe I’d have someone to fight with in the afterlife if we went together.
It was a hell of a kiss . . .
Darkness claimed me.
EPILOGUE
HELL LOOKED A LOT LIKE MY HOUSE.
I lay under what appeared to be one of my blankets on what appeared to be my bed. A dull gnawing pain chewed on my ribs. Do people still feel pain in the afterlife?
There was a glass of water sitting on the night table next to the bed. Suddenly I was very thirsty. I reached for the glass and discovered that both my hands were heavily bandaged. I stared stupidly at the bandages then at the glass.
A hand wearing a cutoff glove picked up the glass and offered it to me.
“For a second I thought I might actually be alive,” I said, looking at Nick’s unshaven face. “Now I know—I’ve gone to Hell and you’re my nursemaid.”
“You’re not as funny as you think,” he said. “Drink the water.”
I did. It hurt going down.
He took the glass away from me and got up, trenchcoat brushing the edge of my blanket.
“Careful with the germs there,” I said.
“My germs are the least of your problems,” he said. He reached over, swiped his fingers across my arm, and studied the glow. “Doesn’t usually shine this bright. Or last this long.” He turned slowly, surveying my place: the old, beat-up couch, the scratched night table, the ancient rug, the basket full of clean laundry, all threadbare jeans and faded T-shirts, and waved his shimmering fingers. “See? Still going.”
I raised my bandaged hand and put it on his fingers, smothering the glow. So many people died because of me. Every time I thought about it, my chest ached, and I wanted to grab onto someone and make them tell me it would be alright, the way I wanted to hear it at my father’s funeral. But there was nobody left. And if someone did reassure me, they would be lying.
I always went out looking for other people’s trouble. Strangers hired me to solve their problems. I’ve spent years making sure problems did not ram my door and tear my life apart. And it didn’t work. So much time wasted. And what did I have to show for it, except the body count?
“Responsibility is a bitch,” Nick said.
“Yeah.”
He took my hand off of his. A faint white radiance still danced on his skin. He shook his head, as if in wonder. “If I were on my own, packing some power, and for some reason not wanting to be found, I might lay low for a while. But I’d know that sooner or later I’d have to come out and play, because whoever’s looking for me would eventually find me. I’d start building some connections. The thing about a lone wolf? Once you corner it, it has no one to turn to.”
He put a small rectangle of paper on the blanket and walked away. I swiped the card. A phone number without any name or address. I stuck it under my pillow.