Page 312 of Primal

Wesley wrenches the gun away. Tucks it behind his back. “Heard you’ve been slaughtering players for real, you sick fuck.”

The scythe stays hooked at Derek’s throat as he rips the taser free and jams it into his cargo pocket.

A chuckle hisses through the modulator. “Careful. Those toys bite back.”

“Death doesn’t fear ghosts, asshole. We collect them.” Wesley scans the carnage—grimacing at the looped footage—then glances our way. “Jesus. How many did he drop? You guys okay?”

“No,” the girls fire back in unison.

Payton finishes untying Kristy and drops beside me. “How bad is it?”

“I’m fine.” I tear my mask off. Spit. Glare at Derek.

“Come on.” She slides under my arm, hoisting me like she’s done it a hundred times.

My shoulder screams. My body’s useless—twitching, numb, dead weight—and I hate it. Hate that the jackass I told to fuck off is suddenly the goddamn hero. Hate that I need Payton just to stay on my feet.

Blood or spit drips from my chin—I don’t even know which—and fuck if that doesn’t make it worse.

“Now what?” Wesley asks, holding his scythe to Derek’s neck. “We call the cops and wait for them to haul this psycho away?”

Derek cocks his head. “Wanna know the punchline, Death?”

Wesley nudges the scythe. “One more word and I’ll reap your soul.”

“The phones are dead,” Kristy mutters. “Can we please get the fuck out of here first?”

I roll my jaw, my body slowly catching up.

Wesley doesn’t lower the blade. “All right. How do we leave?”

“He’s got the access key,” Payton says.

“I do.” Derek’s mask turns toward her. “Right pocket. Care to fetch it, little fox?”

My fist would’ve been in his fucking face if I had more function than a scarecrow.

“You’re coming with us, asshole.” Wesley jerks his chin at the door. “Now, move.”

Wesley herds Derek toward the open door, scythe never wavering from his throat. The bastard walks too calmly, like this is just another scene in his goddamn show.

Payton’s arm stays locked around my waist, her shoulder digging into my ribs as she half-drags me forward. My boots scrape the floor—useless fucking limbs—but I force one foot in front of the other. Not dead yet.

Kristy sticks close behind.

At the threshold, Wesley half-turns—blade to Derek’s throat. “Once we’re out, we can round up the other players and—”

Snap-hiss.

Wesley’s back arches. Payton screams.

Ozone stink fills the room.

Taser. Not Derek’s.

The scythe slips—

—Derek’s gloved hand lashes out, snatching it.