Assassin's Apprentice: Chapters 32-33

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Part Three

“what rough beast”

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

W.B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”

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32.

Pony lay naked on the bed, leaning against the headboard and staring wide-eyed at Harper.

“Pony,” Harper said quietly from the doorway, as if not to awaken a child. Then louder, in a hoarse, strained voice: “Oh Jesus, Pony. Jesus, please.” She tried to say more, but no discernible words came out, just ragged sounds, like a small animal drowning in a well.

She staggered forward a few steps. Then, for the first time in her life, she started to pass out. Thomas was suddenly by her side, a firm arm around her waist holding her up. She let him.

“Oh, Pony,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

Pony just stared at her. His eyes didn’t blink. His mouth hung open as if to speak, caught in mid-thought. There was blood. Lots of blood. The bed where they had just made love was soaked in it, the bedspread nothing more than a sopping bloody rag. She could smell it, thick and sour.

“What have they done, sweetheart,” she said. Not a question or accusation, but a heavy lament. “What have I done.”

Pony’s left hand was missing. Severed clean at the wrist. The bloody stump lay posed on a pillow, as if the killer had wanted it displayed like a crown. In Pony’s remaining hand was a black Bible, his finger stuck in the gilded pages like a bookmarker. A pyramid of three neat bullet holes punctured his hairless chest. How many times had she sledded her hand across his smooth chest and teased him about the lack of hair? “You’re like one of those weird dogs they breed, look like they’ve been boiled hairless.” To which he’d reply: “As humans have evolved to become smarter, we’ve shed unnecessary hair.” And she’d hit him with a pillow and grunt, “Sheena want man-child, now!” And they’d make love.