Kissing the cold asphalt, thoughts dissolved in booze and tears, ears assaulted with the shriek of furies—brakes—slaughtered innocents—Oliver feels Death barreling down on him and thinks,
with sudden sharp-edged clarity,
And then, a white light consumes him, and suddenly, he’s in full-out raging rebellion, digging in the heels he no longer has, planting himself against the whirlwind, crying out his defiance:
And then he’s lying in his coffin, looking up at Geoffrey’s haggard face, and Geoffrey’s eyes go wide with something far more complicated than simple fear.
And it’s entirely wrong that Geoffrey should have those crows-feet, the threads of silver in his hair, that lost, panicked look like he’s hanging onto himself by his fingernails. But it’s
and. . .
thinks Oliver, and relief settles around him like a warm bath.
He won’t be leaving, not entirely, not yet. He has a job to do. And for the first time in he can’t remember how long, he’s looking forward to it.
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