A Glimmer of Hope (The Avalon Chronicles #1)(14)

“What the hell?” Nigel shouted from upstairs after opening the window and seeing a triumphant Layla standing over his unconscious girlfriend.

The window slammed shut and Layla knew it wasn’t over. Nigel would try to hurt her, that was just the way people like him were. The constant need to dominate. To hurt anyone who made people question his toughness. In another era he might have been a gangster thug, roughing people up for nonpayment of loans.

Nigel burst through the door, making a huge racket in the process, and charged toward her without a second thought.

Break him, she thought to herself, but instead she calmed her mind and let her years of training take over.

Layla stepped toward Nigel at the last second, grabbing hold of his jacket and launching him over her shoulder. He slammed into the rear of the Fiesta, smashing the back window. He slumped to the ground and tried to get back to his feet, but the second he put his arms in front of him to steady himself, Layla kicked them out, sending him back to the concrete.

She grabbed his arm and locked it at the elbow, causing him to cry out. Break it, the voice said.

“I’m gonna kill you for this,” Nigel screamed.

“Take your time,” Layla said, and broke his arm at the elbow.

Break more.

She placed a foot on the back of Nigel’s head and was about to stomp his face into the concrete when she stopped herself and darted away. She’d come too close to seriously injuring him, but that wasn’t who she was. She wasn’t a psycho. Sharon began to stir, forcing Layla to take immediate action.

Layla used Sharon’s phone to call the ambulance, before running into the building, hoping that none of the other tenants had seen what had transpired. She reached her front door and almost broke the key in the lock in her haste to open it.

She slammed it shut behind her, locking it and using the chain and bolt to make her feel more secure. She expected the police would come for her at some point during the evening. She’d badly beaten two people, leaving them breathing, but hurt.

She had a shower, and watched the water turn pink as she washed away all traces of blood from her hands. She wasn’t a psycho. She wasn’t her father. She remembered how good it had felt to hurt Sharon and Nigel, how much tension had been released after doing it, and she knew she’d enjoyed it. She knew she’d felt good about it. She refused to become her father’s daughter. She refused to allow that enjoyment of violence to turn her into a new version of him.

Once she was washed and dressed, she sat on her sofa and waited for a knock at the door that never came. The ambulance turned up—she could see the flashing lights through her second bedroom window—but no police knocked, no one came to arrest or even question her. How was that possible?

Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep, full of dreams where she hurt people and enjoyed it. Where she went out to hunt random people, reveling in their pain and torment. Where she’d become the very thing she feared most.





6

Layla spent the following day in a sort of semi-daze. Half expecting the police to come by at any moment, she stayed in rather than have them track her down while she was out. By the time she had to go to work, her concern about the police had disappeared. She’d seen both Sharon and Nigel return home; neither of them looked good, and Nigel’s arm was in a sling. She wanted to feel guilty, but it didn’t last for long. Her neighbors were bullies, threatening people they thought they could get away with intimidating. Hopefully that had now come to an end, at least for a while.

Just as she was about to leave for work, she discovered a card put under the door. She opened it, feeling nervous that it was a death threat or something, but it merely said:

Hopefully we’ll get some peace for a few weeks.

Thank you.

Your friendly neighbors.

It had made her feel better, although she had no idea how they’d come to figure out that she was the one who had done something.

By the time she got in her car and set off for work, she was beginning to feel better about what had happened. She was still concerned that she’d come home to a broken window, and there was always the fear of what she would become if she continued to fight, but she had been forced to defend herself. Just as she had been against Rob. What were the chances it would happen three times in the span of a few days? Hopefully zero. With any luck, she could go back to ignoring the joy she got from fighting. From hurting someone who deserved it.

She pulled up next to the card reader at the train depot and wound down the window, swiping her card and waiting for the large gate to move slowly open. Her car now had so many miles on it that it was probably due for retirement. It had developed the ability to start only when it felt like it, and reliability had been replaced by a game of chance as to whether or not the car would make it to its destination, no matter the distance. On the plus side, it hadn’t been damaged in the fight. Small mercies and all that.

Eventually the gate opened enough to allow her entrance. She drove inside, the gate closing behind her. She had never really thought about it before, but one electric gate was hardly going to stop anyone determined to get in. A child could probably climb it in a few seconds; it wasn’t as if it had a barbed-wire top or anything.

She parked the car and got out. The evening was cold and drizzly, as it usually was at this time of year. Several people waved or said hello as they ended their shift for the day. She returned the courtesy automatically, wishing she were joining them as she entered the depot. It wasn’t that she disliked the people; the majority were both pleasant and friendly. And in fact, she considered a few of them to actually be her friends, but there was a minority who thought that because she wasn’t a technician, she wasn’t worth their time. And the majority of management were dicks, but she imagined that was the same in every company on the planet.