“I can’t believe you walked all this way just for revenge,” I say. “It’s pathetic.”
“I didn’t come for revenge,” Jonah says. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
Another step. He’s going to rush me. I see it in the tightly knitted tendons of his arms and neck, I feel it burning at the back of his mind.
“This is our world, Kyle,” he says. “Yours and mine. Don’t you see? I can make you a king! Give you anything you want. We’re the only ones who really belong here.”
“Nobody belongs here,” I say.
“We do. We’re going to make an incredible team, Kyle. You and me.”
“Team?” I almost laugh. “You’re messed up.”
“You don’t understand what I’m offering you, Kyle. We’re on a mission from God.”
“I don’t want any mission.”
Jonah grits his teeth. He’s like an animal, all spit and anger and need. “I can see I’m not getting through to you.”
Another step. But it’s OK, I’ve got the measure of him this time. I don’t care how strong he is, or even if Ose is right and all the evil things he’s done have made him damn near invincible. I came pretty close to killing him once, I’m going to finish the job this time.
He springs forward.
I swing my golf club.
I time it perfectly.
I know, the minute my arm flexes and my shoulder comes around, that I’ve got him. The head of the club arcs towards him so fast he doesn’t see it coming.
He didn’t believe I’d do it.
It’s going to cave his bloody skull in, I think.
But it doesn’t.
Somehow, the long shaft of the golf club flexes and whiplashes and the heavy steel head pounds into his skull and … misses.
It’s not possible. I didn’t miss. It’s like he’s moved through the club, like he shrugged it off. He chose to ignore it, just like Ose said. And then he’s on me.
“Kyle!” Farah screams.
I’m propelled backwards, the golf club knocked aside. I’m lifted by my shirt until my back slams against the wall and all the air rushes out of me.
I feel the point of Jonah’s knife against my chest: a red-hot needle of pain pressing so hard that the skin gives way and the point settles against the slender blade of my sternum.
“It’s time to meet your Maker, Kyle,” he says. “I hope you’re ready.”
His weight shifts and I feel him tense as he presses back against my shoulder to brace himself.
He’s not going to change his mind this time. He’s going to kill me and that’s going to be the end of it. Then…
THWACK!
Farah clouts him across the back of his head with the golf club. She hits him so hard she damn near pushes the knife right through me. She has to hop a little to stay on her feet. Jonah falls sideways against the wall. He stares back at her with hatred. Almost falls.
Then he uncoils and lunges forward with his knife.
I catch the moment, a freeze-frame that sears itself into my memory: the knife lost in Farah’s stomach. Buried to the handle just under her ribs on the left side.
“No!” I shout.
It doesn’t look real. It looks like some kind of trick knife with a collapsible blade, a child’s toy. But I see Farah’s eyes wide open and terrified.
She steps back and sits heavily on the sofa, still watching me, her hand clutched to her stomach. Something black and gelatinous like oil is pushing its way out from between her fingers.
I lunge for Jonah. With all that strength and grief and anger, I could kill him.
But there’s no magic, not even in this world, and I’m no stronger than I was a moment ago. Jonah shrugs me off like I’m made of paper. He turns and slams me back against the wall.
Hi, I’m Kyle.
I’m weak.
He doesn’t pause this time, not for a second, not for any grand farewell speech. He’s done with all that. He brings the knife up to my chest and the point presses against my sternum and there’s an instant of pain and then…
A meaty thud, like a friendly punch. Playful.
It doesn’t even hurt.
