and went back to reading. More like holding a book and sulking. She gave up after a half-hour. She looked at the phone. Maybe I'll paint.
She grabbed her brushes, easel, and canvas, tucked her box of paints into her right elbow, and walked out into the hall.
Her head rang.
The world slowed, smeared.
Paint brushes like spilled spaghetti onto the floor, beautiful in their simplicity. Tiny paint cans bumbled and bustled their way over the railing, a suicide of color trapped in chrome.
The world hazed red, and she crumpled to the floor.
Something grabbed her shoulder and rolled her onto her back. Several figures in black stood above her, looking down, swimming in and out of each other. As they knelt, they resolved themselves into a single shape.
Dylan.
His hair was black again, but his chin was coated with downy blond peach fuzz. Black turtleneck, black jeans, white makeup. He wore his stupid silver bracelet. She tried to speak, but her tongue was thick and syrupy in her mouth.
"Shhh," he said, raising his right hand. He held a pistol, the grip wrapped in black electrical tape. "I don't want to hit you again, but I will if you force me to." He straddled her and brushed her cheek with the back of his left hand. He sucked in a breath, held it, and let it out, shuddering.
She struggled, but her arms were pinned by his legs. She was strong, stronger than any normal human girl could be, but she had no leverage, and he was twice her size. He shook his head, his frown almost sad.
"Ani. Stop. It doesn't have to be like this." She kicked. His legs tightened, and the barrel of the pistol tilted down to her face. All emotion left his voice, and his face went slack. "I said stop."
She froze.
He leaned forward and put his elbow on the floor, the pistol cold against her temple. "Don't move. Don't even breathe." He shifted so that he lay half on top of her, interposing his leg between hers, and his left hand slid down her body, nestling between her legs. He gasped and leaned in close, his eyes flat, mouth open in ecstasy as he felt her through her jeans. She forced herself not to react.
"See? We can be—"
Ani lunged and bit down, then wrenched her head to the side.
His cheek tore from his face as the pistol went off beneath her head. Crimson gore showered her as he screamed, recoiling. She grabbed his thigh with her right hand and heaved, half-standing as he crashed through the railing. He grabbed her arm and yanked her off her feet. They fell in a shower of splintered wood.
Dylan hit the floor headfirst with a sickening thud. Ani landed on her side and heard a crack as pain blossomed in her hip. She sat up and felt bone grinding in her pelvis, a numb inferno wracking her body. Gritting her teeth against it, she looked at Dylan.
His eyes were half-open, and she could see bone through the ruin of his cheek. He wasn't moving. His chest rose, then fell. Rose, then fell. He looked delicious, but the pain in her hip obliterated thoughts of food. Without taking her eyes off him, she clawed her way up the couch, then used the armrest to stand.
She took a step and cried out, a hot iron stabbing into her hip. Oh, God. She slid her right foot forward and put weight on it, gasping. I can't do it. Then her left foot. It's too much. She gritted her teeth and shambled to her mom's desk, one foot at a time.
She grabbed the phone off the cradle and lowered herself into the loveseat. Sitting was almost as bad. She dialed her mother's cell phone.
She picked up on the first ring. "This is Sarah."
"Mom, you have to come home right now." The calm of her own voice surprised her.
"I'm at the bank. It'll be—"
"It's an emergency."
A brief pause, then, "Two minutes."
It took her three.
Her mom strode into the room, took stock of the situation, and took charge. "Ani, get yourself cleaned up. Now. I'll take care of Dylan."
"What are you—" Her mom held up a finger, then used it to point at the bathroom. Ani pulled herself to her feet and
She grabbed her brushes, easel, and canvas, tucked her box of paints into her right elbow, and walked out into the hall.
Her head rang.
The world slowed, smeared.
Paint brushes like spilled spaghetti onto the floor, beautiful in their simplicity. Tiny paint cans bumbled and bustled their way over the railing, a suicide of color trapped in chrome.
The world hazed red, and she crumpled to the floor.
Something grabbed her shoulder and rolled her onto her back. Several figures in black stood above her, looking down, swimming in and out of each other. As they knelt, they resolved themselves into a single shape.
Dylan.
His hair was black again, but his chin was coated with downy blond peach fuzz. Black turtleneck, black jeans, white makeup. He wore his stupid silver bracelet. She tried to speak, but her tongue was thick and syrupy in her mouth.
"Shhh," he said, raising his right hand. He held a pistol, the grip wrapped in black electrical tape. "I don't want to hit you again, but I will if you force me to." He straddled her and brushed her cheek with the back of his left hand. He sucked in a breath, held it, and let it out, shuddering.
She struggled, but her arms were pinned by his legs. She was strong, stronger than any normal human girl could be, but she had no leverage, and he was twice her size. He shook his head, his frown almost sad.
"Ani. Stop. It doesn't have to be like this." She kicked. His legs tightened, and the barrel of the pistol tilted down to her face. All emotion left his voice, and his face went slack. "I said stop."
She froze.
He leaned forward and put his elbow on the floor, the pistol cold against her temple. "Don't move. Don't even breathe." He shifted so that he lay half on top of her, interposing his leg between hers, and his left hand slid down her body, nestling between her legs. He gasped and leaned in close, his eyes flat, mouth open in ecstasy as he felt her through her jeans. She forced herself not to react.
"See? We can be—"
Ani lunged and bit down, then wrenched her head to the side.
His cheek tore from his face as the pistol went off beneath her head. Crimson gore showered her as he screamed, recoiling. She grabbed his thigh with her right hand and heaved, half-standing as he crashed through the railing. He grabbed her arm and yanked her off her feet. They fell in a shower of splintered wood.
Dylan hit the floor headfirst with a sickening thud. Ani landed on her side and heard a crack as pain blossomed in her hip. She sat up and felt bone grinding in her pelvis, a numb inferno wracking her body. Gritting her teeth against it, she looked at Dylan.
His eyes were half-open, and she could see bone through the ruin of his cheek. He wasn't moving. His chest rose, then fell. Rose, then fell. He looked delicious, but the pain in her hip obliterated thoughts of food. Without taking her eyes off him, she clawed her way up the couch, then used the armrest to stand.
She took a step and cried out, a hot iron stabbing into her hip. Oh, God. She slid her right foot forward and put weight on it, gasping. I can't do it. Then her left foot. It's too much. She gritted her teeth and shambled to her mom's desk, one foot at a time.
She grabbed the phone off the cradle and lowered herself into the loveseat. Sitting was almost as bad. She dialed her mother's cell phone.
She picked up on the first ring. "This is Sarah."
"Mom, you have to come home right now." The calm of her own voice surprised her.
"I'm at the bank. It'll be—"
"It's an emergency."
A brief pause, then, "Two minutes."
It took her three.
Her mom strode into the room, took stock of the situation, and took charge. "Ani, get yourself cleaned up. Now. I'll take care of Dylan."
"What are you—" Her mom held up a finger, then used it to point at the bathroom. Ani pulled herself to her feet and
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