Slate Gray

Chapter 6: Ace Slate

My fault. My fault. My fault.

The judgement fills my brain, echoing and expanding with every snowball's pass.

I'm the one who found this case. Who brought it to my family's attention. And now Perrin is injured because of my selfish desire to show off.

I study her in the rearview mirror, conked out and jaw ajar as she snores softly into Terry's shoulder. She's always been able to do that, fall asleep at the drop of a hat. It's an enviable skill.

Sleep makes her look younger, more vulnerable, twining the guilt deeper into my bones.

Linda was gunning for me. And I was braced for it. It would have been an appropriate punishment for running off and causing a scene. But, of course, Perrin stepped in front of me, just like she always does. My big, dumb, fearless sister.

Mollified for the moment by her adenoidal proof of life, my attention slides to Terry, our hostage turned accomplice, as he watches the world zoom past. Having only known him a few hours, his mood is difficult to crack, but given the context clues I suspect the dominant emotion to be wonder. Gobsmacked, world upending, lifechanging wonder. I'm taken aback by it.

In the last few hours, he's seen a dead body, had his workplace destroyed and bore witness to a literal creature from Hell. He should be losing his mind right now. Not lounging awestruck in our backseat. Hmm, maybe Terry is just as nuts as we are.

Some sixth sense must alert him to my ogling, because our eyes meet and one side of his mouth quirks up. Dimples and all. The sight sets my cheeks flaming and I lower my lashes. Sheesh. Get it together, Ace.

Dad nudges me. "Stop kicking yourself. It takes more than a Low-Level to break our girl."

I make an ambiguous noise and pick at the hands in my lap, scraped and covered in cornstarch. I'm struck by how small they are. And how very small I am.

Enfolding both of them in one large, calloused mitt, Dad says the last thing I expect. "You did good."

"Really?" I emphasize, the word doused in skepticism.

"Well, you're about to be grounded for a year, but yes. Really. Once things got going, you proved without a doubt you have what it takes." He squeezes my fingers before returning his to the steering wheel. "Congrats, honey. You're a demon slayer."

His praise eases some of the self-flagellation but I still feel like dog poop. No, lower than dog poop. Worm poop. And that worm poop also has tiny worms in it and then they poop me out.

Technically though, he's right. I'm the one who banished Linda. I am a demon slayer.

When Perrin shouted "Three!", I was thrown. Both mentally and physically cuz she hit me like a runaway freight train. Sprawled on the ground, helpless as a demon took my sister for a ride, my panicked brain hurtled into overdrive and latched onto that number.

Threes in all shapes, sizes and possibilities floated before my eyes until it clicked. Three points. Three shots. I knew precisely what to do.

Armed and dangerously pissed, I double checked the angles before climbing atop a stack of artfully arranged crates, Christmas paraphernalia tumbling to the ground. Then, foot braced against the topmost box, it took every ounce of self-control to let Perrin struggle, to wait for an opening that would minimize the risk to her.

My self-defense skills might need polishing but my aim is no joke. It's better than my sister's. A hairsbreadth better than Dad's. And when she shoved away the Low-Level, I steadied the revolver with both hands and squeezed its trigger three times. And it had felt good. Natural.