Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) by Matthew Hattersley (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

Another vision flashed across her recall. Some seedy bar somewhere. Buying drinks for someone. Had she brought them home? Was this them? She couldn’t remember names, or faces, or even genders, only a sense of hot, sweaty flesh next to hers. A brief moment of shuddering, shaking distraction, before succumbing once more to the incessant numbness of her existence.

Could be anyone…

She gasped. “Oh, shit.”

The Dullahan.

He was here. In the house. She screwed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to pull more memories from her troubled mind. He’d asked her for help, wanted her to do something, be somewhere. She groaned, a flicker of a conversation coming back to her. She’d been rude to him. Disrespectful.

Not cool.

Not a good idea, either.

The Dullahan might be past his peak but he was still a fierce customer. Still the only person to have ever bested her. She ran her finger down the deep scar on her forearm, remembering their first encounter. Back when she was the new killer on the block and he was still top dog.

Another creaking floorboard told her he’d reached the landing. Was he coming for her? Pissed off she wouldn’t help him, that she – oh bugger, now she remembered – shook her arse in his face.

She pressed her cheek to the door, talking in a gruff whisper. “Hey, Dullahan. Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. It was the booze talking. My head’s not in a good place. I’m sure you guessed that. But I’m very, very sorry.”

She listened.

No answer.

But she could sense the presence standing outside her door, could hear heavy breathing.

“The bathroom’s at the far end,” she offered. “Follow the landing around.”

The Dullahan sniffed and the footsteps shuffled past her room. He was half-asleep himself, she presumed. Nothing to worry about. In the morning she’d explain herself properly, apologise profusely, fall on her sword sort of thing. But her answer would be the same – whatever it was he needed, she couldn’t help him. She was in no fit state to help anyone, physically, mentally or spiritually. She knew that much. Her heart and sense of self had been splintered into a million tiny pieces. She was lost. Unfixable.

Satisfied The Dullahan had moved on, she slunk back into bed, pulling the duvet over her and laying her head on the soft pillow. With her eyes closed and her breathing slowing, the benign embrace of sleep was already close. So much so that when her door handle clicked open and a shaft of light speared across the bed, she hardly stirred.

“Wrong room,” she mumbled. “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll talk properly.”

She kept her eyes closed but could sense he was still there at the door, looming above her. What the bloody hell was he playing at? One eye flickered open, then the other, both wider now, a lot wider, realising the dark presence standing over her was far too broad to be her old rival. She made to cry out, to move, but before she had a chance he was on top of her and with a large, rough-skinned hand over her mouth.

The bats screeched across her nervous system as she wriggled to free herself, raising her legs and scissoring them around this neck. With a lurch she pushed herself upright and kicked out, pushing him off her. She followed this up with a foot to the face that did little to stop him but meant she had time to slide off the bed and get her back to the wall. In the darkness of the room it was difficult to make out the man’s face, but his body was taut with muscle and malice. He clambered across the bed towards her, snorting heavily with each breath.

Despite her head screaming for her to move, to get the hell out of his way, she remained still. Because the bats had other ideas. She sucked back a sharp breath as a rush of adrenaline parted the fog in her mind. Then, as the man lunged at her, she shifted to one side, and with a hand on the back of his bald head, drove his face into the wall with a satisfying crunch. She followed up with a sharp knee to his kidneys and a heavy hammer blow down on the nape of his neck, the muscle memory from sixteen years living on her wits taking full control. She leapt back as the man stumbled against the side of the bed.

“Oh, come on,” she gasped, as he immediately righted himself and turned to face her. Now illuminated by the light coming in through the windows, she could see the determination on his face. A face that was covered in scars and pockmarks with a grotesque boxer’s nose spread across the centre – to truly emphasise he was a man not to mess with. He eyed her in readiness, his tongue greedily licking at the blood gushing from his nose.

“Time to die, bitch,” he snarled, before rushing forward and pummelling her in the chest with a heavy fist that sent her tumbling into the wall.

A sinewy forearm wrapped around her throat, pushing down on her windpipe as she fought for air. She clawed at his skin, digging her nails in as far as they’d go and scraping them down his flesh, but he held on tight. An elbow to his ribs did nothing either, nor did an overhead punch which only found empty air. She gasped, fading fast. One last chance. She sprung her legs off the floor, finding purchase with the wall and pushing against it with all her might. The room spun, falling over on itself as the two of them toppled across the bed and landed on the floor with a heavy thud, Acid on top. From this vantage point she delivered a swift double elbow which loosened his grip on her and, with renewed vigour, smashed her head back into his already broken nose. She rolled off him and stumbled for the bedroom door, gasping