Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,41

screaming and rolling around, trying to extinguish the flames. But all they’re doing is rolling over into the pooled gasoline, splashing it around and spreading the fire.

The Armenian has doubled over. I knee him in the face and smash my fists down on the back of his skull. Siberia swings his blade at my face again and I jerk back, the tip of the knife cutting down my right cheek. I dive at Siberia, grabbing his knife hand by the wrist. My hand is slippery with blood and it’s hard to hold on. I hit him again and again with my left fist, and he does the same, while straining to force the blade forward into my chest.

I hear a whooshing sound behind me. It sounds like a high wind rushing down a very small tube. I’m afraid I know what that means.

Releasing Siberia’s hand, I let him stab the switchblade into my right shoulder. Meanwhile, I hit him hard in the throat with the heel of my hand. He stumbles backward, choking.

With the blade still embedded in my shoulder, I crouch down low and run as fast as I can away from the gas pumps. I’ve only taken a dozen steps before the pump explodes. The heat hits me first, like a wall of liquid heat, shoving me from behind. The sound comes a split-second later—loud, booming, and metallic. I hear it as I fly through the air, crashing down hard on the concrete. My head slams against the curb.

I’m dazed and deafened.

It takes me a minute to even raise my head. I look back at the brilliant remains of the fireball, and the flaming hulk of metal that used to be Nero’s car. The Russian’s SUV is likewise on fire, as are two of the bodies next to the pump. The other two figures were thrown farther out, including Siberia, who’s still alive. I can hear him groaning.

I pull myself up onto the curb. I grab the handle of the knife jutting out of my deltoid, and I yank the blade out. It hurts worse coming out than it did going in.

My hand looks like a bloody glove. The whole arm is stiff and useless.

I can feel blood leaking from my nose and ears. Several of my ribs feel cracked, if not broken. I don’t know if that’s from Siberia, the explosion, or landing on the cement.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. The screen is shattered. My watch is broken too. I have no idea what time it is—all I know is that I’m late. My car is out of commission, and I hear the distant wail of sirens headed for me.

I haul myself up to my knees, and then I stand, hunched over.

I’ve got to get to Simone.

I can’t hail a cab—nobody’s going to pick me up in this state. I could steal a car, but that would only draw more attention.

There’s only one thing left to do. I’ve got to run.

I start limping in the direction of Lincoln Park. After a few yards, I break into a shuffling kind of jog. My head is throbbing with every step. My ribs are agony, stabbing me with each breath.

But I have to get to Simone.

I can’t stop even for a second.

17

Simone

Serwa helps me sneak out of the house. It’s not terribly difficult, because we’re not actually in a prison. My main concern is that I don’t want to be followed, because I want to speak to Dante uninterrupted, without my father hearing or calling the police.

Serwa carries a huge load of recycling out to the bins in the backyard, then drops it all over the patio, with a whole lot of shattering glass, bouncing milk jugs, and rolling cans. When the two security guards run over to help her pick it all up, I sneak out the back gate.

I hear that nasty dog growling as I run across the lawn, but the guards have him on a leash so he can’t chase after me. Thank god for that—I’ve never seen a meaner animal.

Dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up, I feel like a criminal. I never go out at night alone. Lincoln Park is a safe neighborhood, relatively speaking, but I’m still in downtown Chicago. I flinch away from anybody walking the opposite direction down the sidewalk. I feel like everybody’s looking at me, even though nobody is.

I walk about six blocks over to the park. I wanted to meet here