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

pleased with the extra hundred euros coming his way, sped through the night streets. She rolled her head to one side to take in the plucky Irishman who was sitting forward in his seat, pensive for the first time since they’d met. At least he appeared to be taking the situation seriously for once.

“Where are we going?” she whispered.

Danny glanced at her, then back at the road. “The apartment.” He held his hand up. “I know, I know, it’s been compromised, but we don’t have any other options. My guess – my hope – is she’ll stay dark, for a day at least. Lick her wounds, so to speak. Besides, I just gave yer man here my last hundred euros.”

“You have more at the apartment?”

“I’m hoping so, if she didn’t find my stash. Plus we need to get you patched up. We’ve got work to do.”

She let out a bitter huff. “Come on. It’s over. We both know it. You don’t know Magpie, don’t know what she’s like. She’s not the type to lick her wounds, for Christ’s sake.”

He moved his head from side to side. “Mmm, reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea what she’s like.”

She was about to respond when a deep cough erupted from out of nowhere, hacking at her insides and leaving her feeling weaker still. Danny was right about one thing, she needed patching up. Even if all she was doing in the next forty-eight hours was catching a plane home (something she was adamant would be the case), she needed her wounds attending to. And then some rest.

She closed her eyes, leaning into Danny as the taxi took a sharp corner. “Hope, hope, hope,” she muttered into the darkness. “You shouldn’t live on hope, Danny. That’s what gets you killed. Prolongs the torments of man.”

He sniffed. “Quoting Nietzsche now? Shite. Things must be bad.” One eye flickered open to see him peering down at her. “Oh, you’re surprised I knew?”

“A little. Impressed, mainly.”

“I am Irish, remember. We do know a thing or two about bleak existentialism. I’ve read Nietzsche. Beckett too, and Ulysses – well, most of it. I’m not just a pretty face and a wily art dealer, ya know.”

Acid patted him on the thigh, smiling to herself despite the pain. “Who said you had a pretty face?”

Forty

Back at the flat Acid stripped out of her remaining clothes and headed straight for the bathroom. Not pausing to look at herself in the mirror, she leaned into the shower unit and twisted it into the red.

“Can I help?” Danny called through from the bedroom as she peered around the bathroom door.

“I’m going to clean myself up. Then once you’ve done the same, we can dress these wounds.” She nodded at his arm. It had stopped bleeding. “How are you feeling?”

He looked glum, his usual cheekiness gone. “It looks worse than it is. I think. I’m just angry at myself, so I am. This stupid glass jaw of mine. Ya know, I could have been a great cruiserweight if only—”

“Danny,” she snapped. “Enough. It’s fine. But we need some supplies. If you’re feeling up to it, can you go to the shop while I’m in the shower?”

“Aye, I think there’s an all-night store a few blocks away.” He looked up, eyes wide and fearful. “But what if she comes back?”

“What if? We need things. Surgical tape. Bandages. Anything you can get. Plus get some bananas, peanut butter and chocolate milk, if you can.”

“Sure thing, Elvis. Want some ice cream as well?”

She sighed. Her glycogen levels had depleted so much she didn’t even have the energy to pretend-laugh. “Just go,” she told him, before moving back into the bathroom and closing the door.

Stepping under the shower she huffed with the pain. The water was almost too hot and as it ran down her body, rinsing out the puncture wound and slashes, her entire being chimed with an intense agony. But it also felt good. She relished the feeling – upset when a few minutes later the pain began to subside – because at least she felt something. Her heart, her head, they were just numb. A crushing sense that something should be there, but it was missing.

“Sorry, Mum,” she whispered as she put her head under the shower, watching the red foamy water swirl around her feet.

She stayed there with her forehead pressed against the tiled wall until she heard the front door being unlocked and someone entering the apartment. Danny, most likely, back with the supplies. But if it was Magpie here to finish the job, then so be it. She wouldn’t resist. How could she?

She turned off the shower as she heard his brusque Irish brogue filtering through from the kitchen. “Couldn’t get chocolate milk,” he called. “But I got some normal stuff. And some protein bars. For energy.”

Ignoring him, she remained in the shower cubicle a few minutes longer as the water dripped from her, then she stepped out and stood in front of the mirror, wiping the steam away with the palm of her hand. Her wounds looked even worse now than they had done before she cleaned up – the heat puffing up the surrounding skin. But at least the blood had stemmed in most places, even the deep slashes on her underarms, although they still stung like hell.

She padded into the bedroom, still without a damn towel, and yanked a sheet from the bed, wrapping it around her as she joined Danny in the kitchen. He held up a banana for her.

“How you feeling?” he asked, as she accepted the offering.

“How do you think?”

“Bit sore, but raring to go? Ready to make a new plan? To get the eggs back?” He grinned, but it was half-baked to say the least.

Acid peeled the banana and walked through into the lounge area where she sank onto the couch. “It’s over, Danny,” she told him. “You know that. We lost. Our best plan – our only plan now – is get you