Human Bait

Chapter 59: The Head Chef

Too late to run.

Too late to hide.

But never too late to spew inanities.

"How soon? Will you kill me fast or slow? I think medium-fast is usually best, don't you agree?"

Her head cocked and eyes clouded. "What?"

My voice broke and crackled. "Like, could you leave enough time for final regrets, but not enough time for really overthinking?"

Once-Zhina froze, face contorting into various expressions too rapidly, like a computer in overdrive after keyboard-mashing.

Time to push one more button.

"By the way, who's the Head Chef?"

She hunched her shoulders and zeroed in on me like a cat ready to pounce.

Fuck, wrong button.

Then she jerked... and crumpled.

Mazamu posed over the corpse, clutching a sharpened butter knife. Blood dripped from the blade, rippling the scarlet puddle below.

"You know," I mumbled without thinking, "I always thought of you like a grandma, Mazamu. Never doubted you for a second."

She squawked a disparaging laugh. "Get your ass off the floor." But as I scrambled to my feet, she frowned at me. "Where's your boyfriend?"

"He ran to the Northerner corridor to warn the rest."

She kissed her teeth — mostly gums, really. "Instead of keeping you safe? Don't believe it. It gives me gut rot just seeing how he looks at you."

Unease slipped under my skin. Could Mazamu be right? Was Rekkan planning something he hadn't told me?

I shrugged, hard, as if I could physically dispel the doubt. "He cares about other people now, too."

"I see," said Mazamu, sounding entirely unconvinced. Then she flipped the handle of her knife toward me. "Well, take this. You might need it."

"But what if you need it?"

A cackle and head-shake. "Child, you really think I would give you my only knife?"

"Oh."

I accepted the blade, and we took off toward the cafeteria.

When we burst through the door, everyone huddled in the middle. Green and brown eyes fixed on the two opposite entrances, and ochre and fawn skin intermingled. Fear of what lay beyond overshadowed fear of their neighbors.

Mekkar stumbled through the Northerner entrance and scurried toward the group. Moments later, Uzmed followed us through the Southie entrance and leaned back beside the door, one shoe pressed flat to the wall. Both prime suspects were present and accounted for... yet I could only focus on one jarring absence.

"Where's Rekkan?"

The words rang louder than I intended, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. A silence ensued, filled with visual reactions: shrugs, furrowed brows, swiveling heads, grim faces.

"Well? Where is he?" I demanded, rotating to blast each huddled refugee with a glare. Somehow the conviction I lacked while sorta-fighting sorta-Zhina now streamed through my veins in almost excessive quantities. A power surge.

When my eyes met Mekkar's for a split second, I hoped my message was clear: Even if you are not Head Chef, if you hurt Rekkan again, I will kill you.

His Adam's Apple bobbed, and his gaze averted.

My eyes caught on Uzmed next — and on his sharpened butter knife. With his shoulders against the wall and bony hips jutting forward, he looked a little like Ivogg.