Chapter 19 | The Devil of Siren City

Adrian

Miller lunges first.

He plows into me, using the full strength of his shoulder to knock me down. I anticipate it, rolling on the balls of my feet to take the blow as a mere graze as I pull the switchblade out of my hoodie pocket. Before I can flick it open, Miller smashes the empty bottle against the side of my head.

Ouch.

My vision blurs, but I stay steady, expecting another lunge. I trace his towering shape in front of me, the details of him finally coming into focus again as his fist collides with my nose. Warm blood flows along my lips, dripping down my chin. Still, I stay standing. I block the next hit, twisting to punch him in the ribs. Miller grunts, moving back a step, and I take the opportunity to hit the same spot again. He rushes forward, knocking me off my feet. I fall back, the full weight of him slamming me against the ground.

I grunt in anger but, truthfully, this feels nostalgic. Miller and I would often spar this way on days off. To blow off steam. To keep our senses sharp. Just for fun. But there is something different about it this time.

He’s not even trying.

Not that we seriously tried to kill each other before, but Miller never pulled his punches, nor did he encourage it from me. Now, his blows are weaker. His groans of pain are longer, deeper. While his punches connect, they don’t quite reach their intended pressure points.

A full body slam like this from Miller would have knocked me clean on my ass before, but I easily slip through his attempt at keeping me pinned to the floor. A few kicks, a few punches, and I’m free, rolling away from him to retrieve my switchblade off the floor.

Trembling with rage, I pull myself up. All of this happened so quickly. The full weight of his confession hasn’t sunk in until now. Miller. My friend. My bodyguard and companion.

He betrayed me.

I grip the handle tighter, flicking open the blade.

I trusted him like family.

And he betrayed me.

He betrayed Dom, and now he’s dead.

I stalk toward him, his body still hunched over on the floor. Grabbing the collar of his tank, I yank him back to expose his neck. Miller looks at me through his bruised and bloodshot eyes, winded, his breath coming in short bursts, and smiles.

This fucker betrayed me, and he has the audacity to smile?

I rest the knife against his throat.

“Do it,” he says.

The urge to kill is overwhelming, but my muscles lock in place. I study him closer. His pale eyes. His paper-thin skin. His cheeks; thin enough that his cheekbones poke through. He’s weak. Trembling.

“Do it,” he says again, a stronger urgency in his voice.

I loosen my grip on him.

“No—” He grabs my wrist and pulls, forcing the blade to push even harder against his skin. “Do it! Adrian, kill me!”

I don’t move.

“Adrian.” His voice breaks. He digs his nails into my hand. His eyes water. “Please.”

“Miller,” I say, my calm returning. “Let go.”

He refuses, pulling on my hand again. I drop the knife. “No!” He picks it up and slaps it against my open palm. “Do it. Do it. Kill me! Slit my throat! Bleed me dry! Please! Please.”

I step back. Miller’s touch falls away, and he collapses forward on the floor, tears and blood blending on his cheeks.

“Miller,” I say, the word heavy.

He heaves a breath and sits back on his knees. “I’m already dead,” he says.

“Whatever they have on you, it doesn’t matter,” I say, desperate to forgive my friend. To forget. “I can protect you.”

“No.” He shakes his head. He wipes the blood off his mouth. He exhales slowly. “I’m dying, boss.”

Silently, I step closer.

“Brain cancer,” he says, his eyes on the floor. “Inoperable. Not long left. Weeks, maybe.”

I kneel in front of him. He looks up, then away, his expression cloaked in shame.

“Docs keep telling me to leave,” he says. “Pack a bag, go to some facility where I’ll be more comfortable.” He scoffs. “Ain’t nothing comfortable about dying with a needle in my arm and a pair of scrubs cleaning shit off my legs with a sponge.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” He laughs, coughing as he clenches his side. “Do you believe in karma, boss?”

“No.”

“Neither did I. But then they killed you.” He raises his head to look me in the eye. “I let them kill you... then, one week later, I started getting these headaches.”

“That’s not karma,” I say. “That’s just bad luck.”

“Luck ain’t been on my side much, either.” He swallows, taking another deep breath. “I’ve done some bad shit in my life.”

“We all have.”

“I feel like if I were a good man,” he continues slowly, “I’d have more regrets.”

“Regrets hold us back,” I say. “You told me that once.”

He laughs. “Sure sounds like some stupid shit I’d say.”

I offer him my hand. He shakes his head.

“I’ve got no business asking you for anything, Adrian. But I’m too chickenshit to do it myself.” He looks at me, ready to go, as he holds the switchblade out for me to take. “I deserve every bit of vengeance you seek, so... please. I’m ready.”

Consider that your salvation lies not in the vengeance you seek, but in the company you keep.

The witch’s words echo in the moment, an ominous warning that brings me pause.

A knock pounds on the door. “Mr. Miller!” someone shouts. “Are you in there?”

“Sorry, boss,” Miller says. “Ares came around here a few days ago, put up cameras and shit in the lobby, in the halls.” He looks at me, eyes tinged with regret he’s never shown before. “They know you’re here.”

I flex my jaw, my gut clenching as I rise to stand.

“Go,” he says. “Through the bedroom window, there’s a fire escape.”

More shouts of “Mr Miller!” through the door. They pound harder.

“What about you?” I ask him.

“I’ll buy you time.” He pushes himself off the floor. I let him rise on his own, happy to look up at his towering shape one last time. “Go.” He closes the switchblade and offers it again. “As long as I have air in my lungs, they won’t get through.”

I take it from him with a nod, ready to run, but not yet. “You say Ares came here,” I say. “Do you know if he’s watching elsewhere?”

“Some of your old haunts. Places he thought you might poke around now. The Tower. Ava. The boy.”

Candy.

“Zeus,” I say. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. I only met him once, but he wore a mask. Always does.”

“Mr. Miller?” they shout again. “We’ll break down the door!”

I touch his shoulder in appreciation. “You are a good man, Miller,” I say, meaning it.

“Eh.” He laughs. “I’m all right.”

I bolt toward the bedroom down the hall. As I open the bedroom window, I hear Miller shouting back through the door, telling Ares’ boys to hold their horses. Show some patience for a dying man. 

I don’t wait to hear the rest of it.

Rest in peace, old friend.