She looked up at them, blood painted across her face, across the wall vine behind her. A woman in a red dress, a sickle dripping in her hand. McCarthy would have dropped dead of a heart attack at the sight: his much-vaunted Red Menace in the flesh. Grace just felt a rush of weary, dulled shock. “Well,” she said, dropping the blade. It clattered loudly in the thickened silence. “Now you know.”
SLAY!
