Blake comes home, tracking blood on Miss Durand’s nice rug. Stands there a moment in her own black-wet footprint. Sighs. That’s going to be trouble, and somewhere in her is the sick mute guilt of a caught dog, but tonight has already been so much trouble. Someone tried her with a fire axe. That’s not… civil.
Alright. From the top.
Step back. Unlace shoes, ease off. (Fingers slippery.) Forward again. Sag unexpectedly. Smear blood (own) along wallpaper. Lose two or three seconds, but don’t hit the ground.
Reassess.
Gunshots, conventional, one in the shoulder, one along the ribs. Fire axe into forearm. Misc. blunt force trauma (fell down fire escape). Knife wound, upper left side of ribcage. Knife wound, right thigh. Knife wound, throat. Knife wound, right eye socket.
Within tolerance. She’s good. Walk it off.
Miss Durand isn’t in the lounge, or her study, which at this time of night means she’s taking a bath. Blake licks her knuckles clean. (O-, universal donor, terrible waste. Should've worked a nicer job.)
Knocks.
She must’ve said come in, or something like that, because then Blake is kneeling by the tub, the tiling warm through the knees of her suit, and Miss Durand doesn’t look angry so she must have invited her in. What’d she lose, three, four seconds? Trouble, maybe...?
Tired.
Miss Durand is talking. “Productive night?” she says, thumbing her novelette. Bath’s mostly suds. All kinds of perfumed stuff. (She likes to smell good.)
Blake nods. Throat’s thick, all of a sudden. Can’t swallow. Can’t stop looking at her wrist, the way it bends as she holds her book. The softness of the skin. Fine like kid leather.
“Blake,” Miss Durand says, looking back; caught her staring. Fuck Blake loves her. Loves her like roadkill. “I asked if you did a good job tonight.”
Blake thinks about the target. Thinks, too, about the footprint in his blood, pressed into the hallway carpet. Lies, because she’s stupid and everything hurts and she doesn’t wanna be kicked.
“I did a good job tonight.”
Miss Durand lolls her wrist over the edge of the tub; Blake catches it in her hands, cradles it, so gentle, like a little live bird has been dropped into the cage of her fingers.
Waits.
“Att-a-girl.” Every syllable rolled like a caramel. The whine pushes out of her, squirms between her teeth. Clamps her jaws down on its tail, too late. Attagirl isn’t permission. Attagirl isn’t drink. Attagirl isn’t you can crush the little bird against the roof of your mouth now.
“You’re pitiful, you know that?”
She does. Not permission.
“Drink up, chiot.”
Blake puts her teeth through Miss Durand’s skin, and everything is okay.
