Hammers on Bone (Persons Non Grata, #1)

by Cassandra Khaw

Her expression alters. She recognizes the description. There’s no mistaking it. Not in the flash in her big, brown eyes, or the way the muscles in her neck gather and tense, her jaw closing with an audible clack. When she finally speaks, it’s with intense suspicion. “Yeah. I know him.” “What can you tell me about him?” “Nothing. He’s bad business. That’s all you need to know.” “Does he come in here regularly? Does he have friends? A favorite order—” “I don’t want to talk about him.” She breathes out, and I catch it then: the ghost of its scent, winnowed down into something fleeting, barely there, but still unmistakable, camphor and burnt pine wood, leavened with dried gore. I make a leap. “Did he hurt you?” And land on the money. Sasha’s eyes grow round, glacial. “I think we’re done talking, monsieur.” “He did, didn’t he?” “I don’t—” I snake a hand out and trap her wrist. —a simian jaw, cheeks too wide and face too ugly, a lizard stare, heavy, hanging with sins. He won’t let her go, holds her elbow with a dog’s death grip on its favorite bone. “What are you doing?” Her blood thumps against my skin, hummingbird shivers. She pushes him. He slaps her. Her head ricochets backward. Impact. A crack of pain blurs her vision to red. She looks up as he wrenches her forward. Up into eyes—there are so many of them, like constellations, like unclean galaxies—and more eyes, a nightmare of sclera and blue.