Chapter 8:
Spencer's POV
Some hours later...
I laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The initial euphoria of reclaiming my solitude had evaporated, replaced by a gnawing anxiety. The silence in the penthouse was no longer peaceful; it was oppressive.
What if another set of assassins locates me here? The thought was a cold worm in my mind. No, they wouldn't. No one knows about this remote location. I'm safe, I encouraged myself, clutching at the reasoning like a lifeline.
But as the minutes ticked by, I began to feel a profound loneliness. Wednesday's company had been creepy, infuriating, and chaotic... but it had also been a constant. It had been warm, in its own bizarre way. I had to make her leave, but somehow, in just these few hours, I found myself missing her. I missed her creepy smile, the way she yelled at me, the way she talked about ice cream with childish glee. I even missed her pretty, pale face.
I'm running insane, Spencer. Come on, you can't possibly be missing a ghost. She doesn't belong in this world, or in your life, I chastised myself.
I slowly began to force myself to relax, focusing on the comfort of the expensive mattress. Remembering her creepy smile actually made me smile. Shortly, exhaustion began to pull me toward sleep.
Crack.
The sound was faint, but it jerked me awake. It came from the door.
I remained perfectly still, my body tensing. Crack. It came again, the distinct sound of metal straining against metal.
Slowly, silently, the door began to swing open.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Wednesday must have returned! But wait a second... she's a ghost. Why would she need to pick the lock or use the door?
I opened my eyes and turned my head slowly on the pillow.
It wasn't Wednesday.
A hulking man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hall light. In his hand, he held a long, cruel-looking dagger. He took a silent step into the room, his eyes locking onto me in the bed.
WHAT THE HELL.
I rolled to the other side of the bed just as he lunged, the dagger sinking deep into the mattress where my heart had been a second before. He looked up at me, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, and I reacted on pure adrenaline. I kicked out with my good leg, my foot connecting with his face with a satisfying, hard thwack.
He grunted and fell backward, slamming his back against the wall. The dagger was still stuck fast in my king-sized bed.
I hurriedly scrambled for it, yanking it free and standing up on the wobbly mattress, holding the weapon firmly. But my hands were trembling violently. I'd seen fights in movies, but this was a raw, "fight for survival" and I was horrifically outmatched.
The man got up, shaking his head like a bull. He didn't reach for the dagger in my hand. Instead, he pulled out a gun from his waistband and pointed it directly at my chest.
My legs began to shake uncontrollably. I pointed the knife at him, a pathetic defense against a bullet.
He slowly took off his mask, revealing a face crisscrossed with scars. He smiled, a cold, predatory expression. "You must be Spencer Postlethwaite of the Postlethwaite Generals Corporation," he said, his voice a low rumble.
"Who sent you to kill me?" I asked, trying and failing to hide the tremor of fear in my voice.
"Is that a question relevant at this point?" he asked, amused.
"Yes! Tell me who the fuck sent you!" I yelled, the bravado doing little to mask my terror.
He busted into laughter, a harsh, grating sound. He started walking around the bed, closing the distance. "Even if I tell you, you are still going to die anyway. But it's fucking none of your school business. I'm not here for chit-chat. Let's play. You look tough, and killing you slowly will be one of the best kills I've ever made."
He grinned, putting his gun down on a nearby dresser. He drew another, identical dagger from a sheath in his boot. The message was clear: he wanted this to be personal. He wanted to enjoy it.
"I will make your death slow. At least you should be grateful for that," he said, coming closer.
"No, wait!" I said, throwing my dagger away. It clattered to the floor. "How about you fight me like a man to a man?" I fisted my hands, coming down from the bed at the end opposite him, raising my guard like I was in a boxing competition.
He grinned, a flash of yellowed teeth. "I love that," he said. "But I don't have time for fist fighting."
He readied his dagger and charged.
Oh geez!
I swiftly grabbed the heavy, modern stand lamp beside me, yanking its cord from the wall. As he struck with the dagger, I dodged to the side and swung the lamp like a club, smashing it across his head and shoulders. The glass shade shattered, and the dagger clattered from his hand as he staggered backwards.
Seizing the opening, I charged and landed a solid blow on his nose. I followed it with another punch to his jaw and moved back, panting.
He looked up at me, blood dripping from his nostrils and a fresh cut on his forehead from the lamp. He spat a glob of blood onto my expensive rug and cracked his neck, grunting.
I charged again, but this time, he was ready. He moved with shocking speed, landing a devastating blow right on my chin. I felt a tooth crack, the coppery taste of my own blood filling my mouth as I staggered back.
He didn't give me a chance to recover. He went straight for his other dagger. I immediately rushed him, lifting my leg for a kick. He caught my ankle effortlessly, lifted me up as if I weighed nothing, and swung me through the air.
I slammed into my wardrobe so hard the wood cracked, then fell to the ground, wincing in excruciating pain. The burning sensation in my abdomen flared, a white-hot reminder of my vulnerability.
"Fuck!" I mumbled, trying to push myself up.
He stormed over, lifted me by my shirt, and slammed my back against the broken wardrobe with brutal force.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait!" I gasped, the air driven from my lungs. "Before you continue, let me exhale and inhal—"
I wasn't done with my sentence when he, in a fit of pure rage, threw me across the room like a ragdoll.
I crashed through the bathroom door, shattering the glass, and landed in a heap among the shards. At this point, I couldn't stand up. The pain was overwhelming, the burning sensation clouding my mind. I was no match for him. Not even close.
Only one person could defeat this guy.
Wednesday.
"Wednesday!" I screamed, the name tearing from my throat, laced with pain and utter desperation.
Silence. She didn't appear.
My fear became a icy certainty. This man was definitely going to kill me today. He began storming towards the bathroom, anger and wrath written on his cold, scarred face. I was bleeding badly from a dozen new cuts, my pains increasing exceedingly.
"WEDNESDAY!" I screamed again, my voice breaking, a final, hopeless plea echoing in the shattered room. "PLEASE, COME TO MY AID!"
The assassin stepped through the broken doorframe, his dagger raised high, ready for the final, killing strike...
To be continued....