The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,116
and the blow glances off my cheekbone. I scramble to my feet. There’s no getting away from this, from her. Bracing myself with bent knees, I punch her in the face. I’ve never hit someone like this, and the impact of my fist on her cheek is like nothing I’ve imagined. For one thing, it hurts. I cry out as my injured wrist goes hot and cradle it to my chest. She reels back. And she smiles.
We’re about three feet from the hallway now. Behind us, an orange glow. A soft push of heat. A low purr. A gray haze hovering near the ceiling.
She charges. Her head strikes me in the sternum, driving me back against the wall. One foot against the plaster for leverage, I shove her away. Her head hits a framed photo, sending it to the floor in a shatter of glass and splintered wood. She growls like a caged animal. Charges again. This time I bring a knee up, catching her in the belly. She staggers back with a shout. Yet another charge, this one so fast I can’t do anything. Her fists pummel my belly, my sternum, my ribs. I grab one of her wrists; she breaks free with ease. She’s too strong. Too determined.
The low purr grows louder. The air is heavy with heat and I smell the burning. Flames are licking the French doors, turning the exit into a devil’s mouth. Fire is consuming the sofa, devouring the rug.
“Can’t you tell the house is on fire, you fucking bitch!” I elbow her sideways, catching her off guard, and bolt for the hallway. She hooks the edge of my hood, catching my windpipe. Her fingers twist in my hair, nails scraping channels in my scalp as she drives me to the floor.
“I don’t fucking care!” she hisses in my ear. “Tell me what you did!”
I land on my chest with a grunt, hands coming up in time to keep from kissing the wood, palms stinging from the impact. I flip over, kicking out once, twice. The second lands above her knee; her leg slides out from underneath her and she tumbles.
I run into the hallway. Her footfalls go the other way. The door is six feet away when she hurtles into me, launching me forward. I slam into the floor, wheezing a scream. Turn, fists up. And she has the knife again.
She grabs a fistful of hoodie and flings me into the wall, but I hook her ankle, dragging her down with me. She drops the knife. Using her hair, I lift and drop her head, hoping it works like in the movies, hoping it’ll knock her out.
It doesn’t.
I jerk to my feet. She follows suit. We’re both openmouthed and panting. I don’t want to do this anymore. It has to end. The knife is beside us on the floor. Closer to me. I snatch it up and hold it high. But her back is to the front door, mine to the family room. And the fire.
“So now what are you going to do?” she says.
Before I can think, she tackles me, and it’s like being struck by a school bus. I shout as we collide with the floor, the knife flying. She pins my arms to the sides with her knees. Lowers her face to mine.
“Tell me what you fucking did to her!”
Then her hands are on my neck, squeezing. I wrench my right arm free, try to pry her fingers back, try smacking her wrist, pounding her forearm, but nothing works. I can’t pull her off. Can’t get up. Can’t breathe.
My head gets swimmy and everything starts to fade. I spider my fingers along the tile for something, for anything. My fingertips meet something hard—the knife handle. My wrist screams in pain when I grab it, but I hold tight.
She might be stronger, but I’m taller and heavier. I thrust with my hips and twist my chest, and her grip on my throat breaks. Sucking in air, I roll, and the momentum carries us both over. Fury has twisted her into a nightmare. Clutching the knife two-handed, I raise it high overhead and slam it down as hard as I can.
Her eyes widen, holding my gaze. I go cold all over, down to the marrow, and scrabble off, skidding away. Her hands twitch toward the knife, nestled between her breasts in a Rorschach blot of red. She opens her mouth, but nothing emerges. Then she stills.