Deja Who (Insighter #1)(67)
Hmm, I get quite sentimental when I’m about to be murdered. Who knew?
“He’s a young fool, not worthy of—”
“He’s not young,” she corrected, “he’s rasa.” Somehow saying it—defining it—out loud to someone else made it even more real than it had seemed in her head. Which made sense, because it was true. She’d seen glimpses over the past couple of weeks, but now she saw the entire portrait of Archer: a clean slate, a new beginning. All past-due accounts squared up, firmly in the black. A fresh start . . . for both of them.
Tom, meanwhile, had let out a disbelieving snort, for which she could not blame him. “I know. Absurd to contemplate, much less pronounce. Which makes it no less true. Archer is the man you’ll never be: someone who could face what he’d done, and become a better person for it.”
“Shut up!”
“It’s all right. I had no expectation you would understand.”
“You’re mine, you’re for me, and Nellie lied and now I have to—don’t you understand?”
“I do understand. Understanding is irrelevant. Shall I compile a list of all the fucks I don’t give about your pain?”
“I’m tired,” he said. “I’m tired all the time.”
“Well, so am I!” she snapped back. “What, you think waiting around for you to kill me in every life isn’t exhausting?”
“I’m tired of thinking about you and needing you to bleed on me. I feel like I’ve been tired for a thousand years.”
“Oh my God, enough sniveling! And yes, that’s about right, that’s how long it’s been, give or take a century. Is that my cue to feel pity for you? ‘Poor killer, ultimately he was a victim, too’? Tom, you’ve known me most of this life and in an awful lot of others. When, in any of them, did I ever feel sorry for you?”
Except she did, a little. A very little. He was as locked into his pattern of murder as she was in hers to be murdered. She knew he was in his forties, but he could have passed for sixty. She wondered what it was like, stumbling through life after life with the same maddening itch, never being able to rest until it’s scratched, even knowing the scratch will destroy you. And then returning again and again, waiting for Leah each time, and then being alone again and again, until the next time.
She would have let him kill her a thousand more times before admitting such a thing aloud.
His hand was glittering. The knife, of course. In his hand, of course, he had pulled it from somewhere in one smooth motion she hadn’t noticed. That was bad, because she was paying attention to the proceedings but still hadn’t seen it. He would be good with the knife, quick with it. Of course. He never minded getting his hands dirty, which made him perfect for Hollywood.
“You are tainting everything the industry stands for, you’re betraying your own kind. Nellie Nazir made a lot of money for you and you do this. No Agent of the Year wall plaque for you.” Hmm. Did I just defend Mother?
“I loved you so much.”
“I don’t care,” she replied evenly, “so much.” She remembered thinking how tedious meeting with him was. How she would give him ninety seconds. His time was up. Hers, too, maybe.
She began to move to his left, opposite his knife hand. She knew she would get cut; several clients had told her that anytime the other person has a knife and was within five feet, you will get cut. She didn’t mind that; she minded bleeding out.
“So is that it? You come here, babble your insipid woes, and then on with the stabbing—ah!” She jerked back in time, felt the air displaced as the blade hissed past her cheek. “I guess so. What a surprise, you’re not original in this life, either.” Hysterical laughter bubbled out of her nose as she dodged another swipe. He’s here to kill me and I still find this meeting tedious! And why, exactly, am I goading him? Oh. Yes. So I can do this.
She was too jittery to try a martial arts move, and to be honest, she liked the symbolism of the blade. So she popped the balisong knife free from her bra and the handle was snug in her palm one second later. “You aren’t the only one who practiced, Tom. And unlike all the times before, I will fight. Do you know why?”
They were circling each other like alley cats. “Because you love me,” he said with a shining smile.
Ugh. “I love the idea of killing you,” she corrected. “I’ll be honest, Tom, the idea of slicing you into cat food makes me salivate. But if I can’t, I’ll be a pragmatist and at least take you with me.”
“Together,” he breathed. “We’ll go together.”
“Ugh. Just . . . ugh.”
He swiped and she lunged, and felt a line of fire streak along her temple. Going for the face this time, no head or belly wounds for you. Did not ruining Nellie’s looks make you want to ruin mine, stupid man? My mother was a thousand times more beautiful. I don’t CARE if you ruin my looks. Archer loves my looks; Archer thinks I am a sexy shark, which should be off-putting but is endearing.
Don’t think about Archer now.
“You do not get this, any of this, and you never did and you never will. It’s 2017; do you think I mind a few scars? With all the surgical advances? Idiot.”
Despite her words, perhaps he thought she did. He remained stagnant, always seeing her as a past victim instead of the person she was now. She had been able to force change within herself this time; he could not. Or would not.