Chapter 79: Come Again

Chapter 79: Come Again

Day eight. Kyle sat in the chair. The door was closed, locked. He hadn't slept. His phone lit up. A message from Seer: [He sent more people. Two of them. They'll arrive tonight.]

Kyle stared at the screen. Didn't reply.

He set the phone down. Stood up, walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank it by the window. When he finished, he set the glass down. Walked to the mantel. The key, birth certificate, box of crayons, textbook—arranged in a row. He looked at them for a while. Didn't touch them. Walked back and sat down. Hands resting on his knees. Two knives at the small of his back, pressed against his spine.

Eleven p.m. Headlights swept around the corner, blinding, the beam cutting across Maple Street and hitting the front steps. The sound of brakes. A car door opened, then closed. Footsteps. Two people. Coming from the corner, dress shoes striking the asphalt, steady, unhurried. They stopped at the door. No knock. Kyle stood, walked to the door. Put his hand on the doorknob. The metal was cold. He opened it.

Two men stood at the bottom of the steps. Black jackets, hands hanging at their sides. The streetlight fell across their faces. The one on the left—a scar ran diagonally from his left eyebrow to his right jaw. The one on the right had a bandage wrapped around his ear, white, glaring. Scar-face. The one who'd stolen the key. He saw Kyle and reached for the knife at his back.

"Back again," Kyle said.

Scar-face didn't speak. The man on the right pulled a knife from his waistband—long, longer than his forearm. Scar-face drew his too, short, black-bladed. Both knives caught the streetlight. Kyle walked down the steps, stopped in the middle of the street. Drew one knife from behind his back. The other stayed tucked at his waist. No rush.

"You're alone. One knife. We're two people with two knives. You can't beat us."

Kyle took a step forward. Three men standing in the middle of the street, five paces from the door.

"Let's find out."

Scar-face moved first. He lunged, short blade slicing upward. Kyle sidestepped. The tip grazed his ribs. His left hand caught Scar-face's wrist, his right brought the knife handle down hard. Scar-face jerked his head aside. The handle slammed into his shoulder. The old injury from Steel Smash. Bone cracked. Scar-face didn't retreat—drove his knee up. Kyle pulled his abs tight. The knee hit his thigh instead. They collided. The man on the right didn't move, just stood across the street, watching. Scar-face let go of his knife, switched hands, grabbed Kyle's wrist with his left, swung his right fist. Kyle turned his head. The fist caught his shoulder. Same spot Steel Smash had hit. Pain flared. He didn't make a sound. His right hand flipped the knife up, pressed the tip to Scar-face's throat.

Scar-face froze. A bead of blood welled up against his skin.

"You can't hold me."

Kyle said nothing. He pushed Scar-face forward, knife tip never leaving his throat. Scar-face backed up. The man with the long knife didn't move. Kyle looked at him.

"Drop it."

The man didn't move. Kyle pushed the blade forward another inch. More blood seeped from Scar-face's throat, running down his neck.

"Drop it."

The man threw the knife to the ground. Kyle shoved Scar-face away. Scar-face clutched his throat, stumbled back two steps, blood leaking between his fingers. Kyle bent down, picked up the long knife, tucked it behind his back. Three knives now. He straightened, looked at Scar-face.

"Go back and tell him. Next time, I won't let you walk away."

Scar-face stared at him. Turned. Staggered off. The other man followed. Car door opened, closed. Headlights flared, turned the corner, disappeared.

Kyle stood in the middle of the street. The streetlight glowed, illuminating the empty asphalt. A few drops of blood on the pavement. He stood there for a moment. Turned around. Walked back inside. Closed the door. Locked it. Walked back and sat down. Hands resting on his knees. Three knives at the small of his back, pressed against his spine. Hard. Cold. Irene came down from upstairs, hair loose, wearing a gray sweater. She walked up to Kyle, looked at him.

"Kyle. Are you hurt?"

"No."