Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) Matthew Hattersley (the false prince .TXT) 📖

a step back. Keeping the distance between them, like always. Neither of them blinked. This was it, Acid told herself, as the bats woke up and began beating their leathery wings. No going back. One of them was going to die. Not here, perhaps. Not in this crowded street. But somewhere. And soon.

She flinched as Magpie slipped a bony hand inside her black silk jacket. Still unblinking she gave a curt nod, informing her she too was carrying. Not a surprise. But now they both knew. If one pulled, they both pulled. With this many civilians around it would be a total bloodbath.

Acid gripped the handle of the nine, her finger poised on the trigger. If this was how it was going to be, she was ready. People would die. Innocents. But right now everyone but Magpie Stiletto was static on the radio. She drew back a deep breath, focusing on slowing her heart rate whilst relaxing her muscles at the same time. High-pressure situations like this – where the victor was decided in a split-second – required fluidity of movement. If you were stiff, too on edge, you made mistakes. And right now, one mistake would be all it took. She exhaled. A light tremor shook her breath. Her lip quivered and she caught it between her teeth, burying it beneath a smile.

“Your move,” she called over, enunciating each word before giving her hair a gentle flick. She followed this up with a wink, only brief, a mere suggestion of flirtation, but enough to rile the rancid prude.

Magpie shook her head in repulsion. “No more games,” she shouted over. “You and me, we finish this.”

Acid nodded, her hand still holding the gun in her bag. “I’m ready,” she said, making to step forward, but before she had a chance a cluster of drunken men (early twenties, English unfortunately but weren’t they always) stumbled into her and broke her focus.

“Hey,” she yelled, raising her foot and shoving one of them away with it. “Watch where you’re going.”

The man grunted as his friends laughed and jeered – “Calm down, love” – but holding their arms up in a gesture of apology all the same.

She gave them a curt nod, forget it. But as she regained her focus, she saw Magpie turn and disappear down a side street.

Pulling out the 9mm she gave chase, pushing past people, zig-zagging around others and following after Magpie. Away from the main thoroughfare, the narrow street, more of a back alley really, was dark and almost deserted. Just one other person, a man, taking a piss against the back door of a taberna. Up ahead she saw Magpie leaning into a turn, ready to vanish around the next corner. Acid raised the pistol momentarily, but from this distance it would be a wasted shot and would only draw attention. Cursing herself, along with those drunken fools back there, she set off after her, pounding the dry pavement as she thundered past the pissing man and around the corner.

This next street was busier, a pedestrian walkway with a steady flow of people all heading in the same direction – towards the park, where she could hear fireworks going off. Without losing her stride, she crossed over the street to where a set of stone steps led to a raised shop-front. Leaping up the four stairs in one bound, she turned back to see over the heads of the human traffic, catching a glimpse of Magpie’s black and white hair up in front as she spun around to lock eyes with her. The slow-moving crowds had lessened her lead and now the bats were screaming across Acid’s consciousness, telling her, Take the shot. End this.

With gritted teeth she fought against the urge, instead jumping down the steps and hitting the ground at pace. All the way to the end of the street she ran, following Magpie around a bend where she found herself on a neon-lit strip populated almost exclusively by late bars and nightclubs. The atmosphere here was electric as crowds of clubbers and drinkers alike laughed and joked with one another in raised voices, straining to be heard over the twenty different genres of music drifting out from underground caverns and merging into a heavy wall of sound.

Acid hung back a moment, throwing her gaze over the revellers and spotting Magpie up ahead. She was standing outside a nightclub, talking to a man dressed in typical bouncer attire, black jeans, white shirt, huge black bomber-jacket even in this heat. She saw Acid and shot her a strange look before raising her arms to the sides to let the bouncer frisk her. Down each arm he went, down her ribcage, nothing. Somewhere along the way she’d ditched her weapon and now she was… Really? Going inside a nightclub?

What the bloody hell was she playing at?

Magpie glanced back at her again before descending a steep flight of steps where she dissolved into the darkness of the underground space. With her mouth still hanging open, Acid squinted at the sign in bright yellow neon tubing. Club Tropical. The ‘T’ was done out to resemble a palm tree. The last place she’d ever expect to see the tightly wound Magpie Stiletto.

So what was this? A futile attempt to escape, or a trap?

She didn’t have time to work it out. With manic energy burning up her spine like a fuse wire, she side-stepped over to the closest garbage bin and shoved the Viking, along with the spare magazine, on top of a mound of food wrappers. Then, with her chest out and a huge smile ironing out her furrowed brow, she skipped over to the entrance.

“Can I come in?” she asked, breezily.

The bouncer looked her up and down with no hint of friendliness. “Brazos,” he growled, raising his own arms to show her.

“Oh, sure,” she trilled, assuming the position. “But you don’t have to worry, I’m no danger.”

“Bolso.” He nodded at the bag and she handed it over.

While he scowled at