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

– was striding towards the apartment. He’d watched her for a moment, unable to comprehend what he was looking at through the fog of sleep and whisky, but as soon as he did he’d rushed to the couch and gathered up his clothes. After almost falling over stepping into his jeans on the way to the bedroom, he only had time to pull on a t-shirt and grab his holdall before a faint scratching at the door had him clambering out the window. It had been a decent drop to the street below and he’d jarred his leg on impact. But he’d escaped. For now, at least.

The sight of the assassin’s callous and inhuman expression – illuminated briefly in the glare of a streetlight – had been enough to shock him into alertness. It was the cruelty in her eyes as she scowled down the street that got to him, more so even than the suggestion of a blade, gripped tightly in her paw and shimmering in the moonlight. The woman was evil. Pure evil. And she meant business. As he waited in the shadows he suddenly felt dumb, like a young child who’d been playing at being an adult. Acid was right. It was really time to take things more seriously.

Acid. Shite.

Where the hell was she?

Gripping the holdall to his chest, he moved around the side of the building, walking swiftly but cautiously up to the end of the street and peeking around the corner. His calf and shins throbbed like hell after jumping two storeys, but he could walk okay, most of the pain overridden by the sheer amount of adrenaline shooting through his system.

He checked both ways, double-checked to make sure, but the nun was nowhere in sight. But then neither was Acid. Danny had a vague memory of her getting out of bed, but in his dreamy state he’d assumed she was going to the bathroom and must have fallen back asleep.

Had he done something to piss her off?

Upset her?

From what he could tell she’d enjoyed herself, having made all the right noises, but what did he know? She was a complete and utter mystery to him. Unlike any woman he’d ever met. And still his mind was drawn to that hint of sadness he’d noticed. Only slight, almost undetectable, but it was there. Something was tearing her up inside. Despite the fact she could definitely handle herself – and would no doubt be pissed off with him – he set off towards the centre to find her. She was alone in the city, unaware that the crazy nun was nearby. She might be a tough lassie and dangerous with it, but that meant diddly-squat if she was caught off guard.

As he pressed on, Danny told himself to stay on track, not let his imagination run riot. Only, the sight of Sister Death had freaked him the hell out, even more so than on their first encounter. Now the determination coming off her was profound, like a zealous fury that radiated into the night sky. She wasn’t messing around. And he couldn’t afford to either. He had to find Acid before she did.

Thirty-Four

The barman smiled wearily as Acid caught his eye. “Otra cerveza, por favor,” she purred, giving the lispy pronunciation both barrels. Thervetha.

He scooped up the empty glass, carrying it to the tap at the far end of the bar and pouring one out for her. This was her second already of the evening, but the glasses were small and the beer weak, nowhere near strong enough to derail her, or to take the edge off the chattering symphony going on in her brain. But that was okay, she told herself. Important, even. It meant she’d stay vigilant. Although why that mattered was fast becoming a moot point.

She shoved a folded ten euro bill at the barman as he placed her drink down, and held her hand up for him to keep the change.

“Gracias, señorita.”

Hunched as she was over her glass, she was able to watch him through her hair as he took her in. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Typically Spanish, with shiny black hair and a good nose. His mouth twitched as though he wanted to say more, but he must have thought better of it because a second later he turned and busied himself with a trayful of clean glasses, removing each one in turn and placing them on a shelf above the bar. It was a wise choice, Acid felt. Whatever he was about to say, it wouldn’t have worked out well for him.

She slurped the froth off the top of the malty beer and sat upright, flicking her hair over her shoulders and catching a whiff of it as she did. Geez. It stank. She stank. Of sex and whisky. Of sweat and misery. A good wash and some sleep would have helped, but right now those things were pretty far down on the list of things Acid needed. The top items being: Magpie Stiletto dead, Beowulf Caesar too, and for this draining revenge mission of hers to be over. After that she’d appreciate some peace and bloody quiet, perhaps a deeper knowledge of what she might do with the rest of her life. As it was, she had none of those things. All she had was a rapidly diminishing Spanish beer and a heap of infuriating and unfathomable questions.

She looked up to see the barman was staring at her again. He smiled, but any further suggestion of kindness was parried by her deep sigh that sent him scurrying to the far end of the bar. As is most people’s go-to distraction in these sorts of situations, she pulled out her phone and began to scroll through the menu. Before she’d even acknowledged to herself what she was doing, or why, she’d found The Dullahan’s number in her contacts list and hit call.

He answered after one ring. “Acid? Everything all right?”

She sniffed. “Define all right.”

“Is Danny safe?”

Define safe.

She stopped