Chapter Text
“You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow.”
— Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West.
“And he wonders, deep in the self-isolated recesses of his mind whether he is killing himself with anger, whether he is destroying his system with fury.”
— Richard Matheson, Mad House.
Decades of industrialism had spoiled the river of Gotham. It hung over the docks in the early morning, drowning in moonlight— lifeless, besides the trawlers that scurried like mites across its back, scavenging for feed before the massive thing breathed its last. Watching over all of this, like a mourning mother, was the city.
So much punishment had been done to Gotham, yet still the debauchery bubbled from her lips, uncontrolled like spittle. Her pyrite buildings stretched towards the sky in open lament. There was something deeply evil nestled about the city’s core, a filter that disfigured every good thing and act that tried to shine through her wicked veil. You could see it in the soured meats sold by her butchers, the way her waterways were shot up with factory venom like an addict’s veins. To save Gotham was to bleed with her. It was a price that took people to the grave.
Jason Todd had paid it firsthand. Born in the cradle of the Bowery, he’d been more privy to the darker sights of the city than most who also fancied themselves her brood. So when the Bat had taken him in as a ward, at an age no older than thirteen, he’d viewed it as a chance to finally pierce through Gotham’s fog and shed some light onto the city. Nothing could convince her to penance otherwise.
But even Batman was powerless to stop Gotham from raking her nails into the boy who tried to rescue her. It had taken time for Jason to learn that particular lesson. Time, a crowbar, and a bomb.
And the thing with the city’s price was it was paid unwittingly, Jason thought, smelling rust in the air. The pound of flesh often fell to doctors and first responders and counselors to donate, while the criminals who reveled in Gotham’s darkness went scot-free. Such had been the case with the traffickers he’d fought last night. They’d made their money funneling heroin and coke through a local rehab shelter in Bludhaven.
He stepped out of the dock house. The helmet was decent at filtering out the night’s carnage, though the fresh wounds on his body left no qualms about what stench clung to him. That last bout had gotten sloppy. One of the traffickers had hidden a knife in their boot, and Jason, tired, had left his forearm open for a lucky swipe. Blood seeped through his sleeve like a dark omen.
He heard something land softly on the roof above him. Jason took the time to re-holster his guns before nodding up at the suited figure. “Nightwing.”
“Red Hood. Sightseeing in my city?”
“I was just about to leave.” Jason said dryly. “Any chance I can catch a boat home?”
Dick Grayson stared down at him over the nasal arch of his mask. For a vigilante after patrol, he looked like he spent most of the night untouched. The lack of scuffle was belied only by a small cut under his cheekbone. “Docks don’t open until five, unfortunately. In the meantime, you can tell me what you’ve really been up to.” He dismounted off the roof, landing neatly.
“Just the usual. Tracked a couple of drug dealers from Gotham over to here. Threw some punches until I got my answers.”
“I heard gunshots. You didn’t kill them, did you?”
“If you believe me.”
Nightwing eyed Jason’s stained attire, his mask wrinkled in disgust. “You know, I can’t say that I do.”
Jason looked down at himself. Dick’s combat gear was dark enough to hide his wounds, and it made him look like the night persisting. Jason’s clothes, on the other hand, were just his regular ones, a white shirt and cargo pants: not light absorbing, notably. As a result daybreak painted a vivid picture of the red that covered him. He looked like an idol, bathing in the dawn.
“Shame,” Jason said. “And after I did all that to ingratiate myself to you.”
“Answer the question, Hood.” Dick said grimly. “They were my next mark, so I’m having to decide if I need to thank you or beat you up in return.”
Jason hesitated, then tapped his holsters again. “Rubber bullets.”
He watched the tension leave Dick’s body in a single, deflating sigh. His expression seemed to shed a layer of frigidity that Jason could not, smile growing warmer. “Sorry, you know I had to check.”
“You and the rest of the Bats.”
“It’s what happens when you’re on our turf.” Dick admitted. It looked like all his prior apprehension was gone as he strolled to the edge of the harbor, intent on watching the sunrise. Jason, after a moment, followed him there with clipped steps. “Busy night?”
“Sure. Goons were rowdy.”
“So were mine. They’re restless. Think there’s a new guy who’s got them acting this way?
Jason shrugged. “Haven’t found anything unusual with the shipments.”
“I would keep an eye out, still.” Dick said. He stopped once he reached the dock posts, seeming to notice the distance between them. His smile wavered between itself and a troubled line. “It’s never a good sign when there’s a lull of activity among the rogues.”
“You know what they say…” Jason said, trailing off.
There was a beat of silence. Dick replied mirthfully, “Summer’s primin’ for some crimin’!”
It was an old Robin line, one that Dick first coined and that had stuck around by virtue of its quippish nature. It was incongruous to hear him say it in that chirrup-like tone again, the way glimpsing a colorful songbird felt impossible at night. And in many ways that was what Robin was, Jason thought. A canary fluttering around the walls of an ill-lit mine.
He scoffed. “I’ll never get over how Batman allowed us to say that.”
“I’m sure he thought it was some much needed levity,” Dick chuckled. His grin had returned to its wide crescent shape. “We can’t all be dark and dour.”
The sun was starting to rise. Inflamed streaks cut across the horizon, draining blood out of the river and into the sky like a silent operation. When Jason turned back, Dick was watching him carefully through the slits of his visor. The blue of his vest looked lilac in the light of day.
“You could rejoin us,” he said. “Not for Batman, but for Gotham. Aren’t we all on the same side here?”
“That’s a bold assumption.”
“I’m just trying to bridge the gap here.”
“Hard to imagine what you would get out of it.”
“It saves me from having to take the Red Hood the next time things go wrong.” Dick supplied. “That’s a fight none of us want.”
“I’m aware of what I want, Nightwing.”
Dick looked him up and down. He said, in a simple tone, “I don’t think you are.”
Irritation flooded through him, hot like vitriol. Jason clamped his jaw shut and refused it an exit. The feeling scalded the roof of his mouth and seeped through the gaps of his teeth. “Then you don’t know me that well.”
They’d gone down this route so many times— talk, reach out, fight. Jason felt he could navigate its troughs blindfolded. Dick was working his jaw; he too seemed aware of the danger and was looking for a way to divert courses.
“What happened to you?”
Jason laughed. The sound came out like sandpaper on a piece of wood. “Same thing that happens to everyone in Gotham. You'll have to be more specific, Nightwing.”
A small, confused furrow appeared over the bridge of Dick’s mask. He was perhaps reliving the last entry he’d read in Jason’s file; the one that accounted for his first return to Gotham. A chase across gilded rooftops. A bomb strapped behind the train station’s post clock, and another one in the fireplace of a dilapidated condo. The Joker, missing from his cell. Jason was sure the file had brought up many questions in Dick that were worth asking, but they were none that he wanted to answer right now.
Dick seemed to settle for a neutral offer this time. “Whatever it is, we can fix it together.”
“Just be glad I fared better than the other folks in Arkham.”
His face twisted. “Don’t say that. You’re nothing like them.”
“Tell that to Batman.”
“Batman is…” Dick looked hesitant, the askant lines in his face deepening. “His stance on things is complicated. You know that.”
Jason did. The same way he knew that Dick carried plenty of anger towards Bruce as well. It was hard not to, when Batman and Robin were the only two beacons in Gotham’s oppressive shadow. Dick seemed to favor ignoring his animosity when things were going well. But Jason could always see which spots between Batman and the first Robin were weak to the touch— which were fraying under pressure.
He withheld himself from prodding, instead averting his eyes over to the pier. Strips of fire continued to creep their way across the sky. Jason knew that this incursion would land him on the Gotham highway right during the morning rush. That was fine. He would need the extra mileage to clear his head of this encounter.
Jason turned to trudge back to the dock houses. He got past the door of one when Dick called out to him.
“You’re welcome here in Bludhaven, Hood. Regardless of what the others think.”
When Jason looked back at the harbor, Nightwing had already vanished, taking the last of the night with him. The morning sun washed over the Gotham river and cleansed its wounds for the start of another day.
Susie Moore was a resident of Crime Alley. Her address was 131 Park Row, Apartment 421, and she shared the unit with her husband, Ted Moore. They were married for eight years, all which were spent in a dingy studio floor plan familiar to Park Row. They had no children, though not for the lack of trying. Even back-alley abortions got expensive once you made it to attempt number six.
By all accounts, Susie seemed to be a good woman. Naive when she got herself hitched to Ted the first month they met, maybe, but she was a girl everyone described as sweet, who between her shifts at the bodega volunteered at the overdose center. The latter was where she’d met the Red Hood. He’d been dropping off addicts one night, and in a moment of confusion Susie had called him a hobo and offered him some soup. That had been enough to endear her to him. The Red Hood placed a couple of bugs in Susie’s home later that night. For safekeeping purposes.
Jason left the window open behind him as he entered the unit. The Moore couple had quite the vicious fight earlier, loud enough that it tipped off the neighbours and shorted the speaker for one of his receivers. If his hunch had been correct, things had escalated to violence. Ted Moore was known to be a hard-hitter.
He could hear something around the corner. Jason made his way slowly through the unscathed bedroom and into the kitchenette.
Susie’s back was to him. She was mumbling to herself. There was a pot of soup on the stove, its lid off to the side and a ladle laid back against the rim. Bowls waited to be filled nearby on the counter. Missing in attendance from the knife rack was the big one used for chopping vegetables, and the bread knife, which laid innocently on the table where dinner was set. Through the table legs he could see Ted on the floor. A dark pattern fanned out from the carpet underneath his body, rouge in color.
The floorboards creaked under his weighted boots. Susie spooked and spun around. Redness covered her entire front and apron, matching the floor.
Jason held his hands out placatingly. “It’s just me, Susie. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her eyes alternated between him and the floor. Their color was green like his own, but fearfully inflamed. Her elbows were tucked tight around her center core, thin hands clasping the kitchen knife in prayer. The tip of it quivered fervently.
He undid the clasp of his helmet, and tucked it under his arm. “Don’t look at the ground. Just tell me what happened.”
“I… I don’t know.” She was still transfixed by the ombre that the carpet was becoming. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Did he hit you?”
“What?”
Jason repeated the question. Susie looked up at him wildly. “N-no. H-he was yellin’ at me. Like usual. Think I might’ve been cookin’ too loud for him to do work.”
“Did he do anything else?”
“I—I can’t remember. Was all I could do to take what he was giving me.”
“Did you say anything?’
“No, I was just tryin’ to ignore him. But he wouldn’t stop. And halfway through I thought no, I shouldn’t take this. He’s got no reason at all yellin’ for something I didn’t even do. He always does this when I’m in the kitchen. I could just—” Susie jolted, eyes widening. “Oh no, not like that. I’ve thought about it before, I swear, but I would never actually do it…”
“You’re okay, Susie. I’m no cop. There’s no admission of guilt here.” Jason said. That seemed to unwind her slightly, her devotion to the knife wavering. He took the blade from her and set it down. “What can you remember?”
“Just… feelin’ like it was so unfair. All these years together. I hated him like nothing else at that moment. Hated him from the pit of my stomach. That’s all I could think about…
“Think I grabbed the knife. Or maybe I already had it. I… I don’t know anymore. When I opened my eyes, he was on the ground.” Her fingers curled around a second airy handle. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” The unit below had called in reports of commotion half an hour ago, which gave him around one more minute before the police arrived on scene. Jason dug into his pocket and brought out a small yellow card. “Take this and don’t say anything to anyone until you can call that number. Then tell the person on the line you’re calling from a referral, and he’ll handle it from there.”
She gazed dolefully at him, bound by her own inaction. Jason shoved the card hastily into her hand.
The building trembled from the tenor of approaching sirens.
“I didn’t think of you as the type to have a lawyer on call, Jason.”
“Oracle,” he greeted. He was atop the edge of a factory building in Newton, six blocks away from the ululating police cars. He’d had no time to look back at Susie before ducking out the window as blue and red lights had filled the alley. “Good to know you’re still sticking your nose into my business.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that I consider all of Gotham my business. Unless Crime Alley grew legs since the last time I checked on it.” Barbara Gordon had a way of sounding nonplussed, even as a computerized voice.
The first Batgirl was one relationship Jason didn’t regret rekindling on his return to Gotham. Her tenure as a vigilante had barely overlapped with his as Robin, and so there existed no antecedent between them to twist and deride. She functioned merely as a dispassionate informant to the Red Hood, providing intel to him on the areas of the city that Batman couldn’t reach. Oracle was too much of a professional to dawdle on silly feelings or prospects of rejoining the family.
“I caught the footage from the street below. I hate to say this, but I don’t think your card’s going to do her any good.” The clipped security film popped up on the inner monitor he had inside his helmet. It was from a street camera that looked up into the fourth floor of the apartment building. The foggy window glass cast a vaudeville-like curtain over the scene, with two figures gesticulating dramatically in the frame’s corner. Jason watched as one snatched up a knife. He closed the tab.
“Maybe not, but Moore’s history of beating his wife will count for something.”
“You’re suggesting premeditation?”
“Perhaps. They’ll probably plead to consider heat of passion. What is it?”
“Nothing.” Barbara said. “I’ve just got four other counts of aggravated domestic violence on the record for this week. Three dead and one in critical condition. The perpetrators were all women.” She sent the police reports over. Jason took one look and whistled out a breath. They were penned in red ink, reserved only for abnormal death notes. That was saying something for Gotham.
“What is this, ‘Cell Block Tango?’” One woman had mauled her husband with a hand mixer.
“If Murderesses’ Row had a penchant for cruel and unusual punishments, maybe. It’s as if all the oppressed women in Gotham put it on their calendars to get revenge on their abusers this week.”
Jason thought back to Susie’s state. It wasn’t uncommon for civilians to act dumb after committing first-degree murder, especially if it would help in testifying their innocence. Susie had looked like a specter, forced into the present only by his witnessing the crime.
People often overlooked the disbelief that followed after committing a homicide. It was like not realizing there was a speed bump until you were already over it. Jason himself went into his first lesson of killing knowing the instructor’s history as a pedophile and sex trafficker; Talia al Ghul would not accept any less than maximal commitment to his studies. He’d planned the man’s execution meticulously, but still the garrote left a simian line in his brain that refused to disappear even weeks later. Jason learned from then on to wear gloves for every operation.
Barbara seemed to be thinking the same thing as him. “The other women won’t talk. They’re practically catatonic.”
“So you want me to see if I can get something out of Susie Moore.”
“She’s Crime Alley after all; more likely to have seen some shit and come out of it unscathed. And chances are she’ll talk to the Red Hood over— the police.”
She tried to hide the small inflection beneath the transmission’s warbling frequencies. Jason’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. That meant only one thing. “Batman’s on the case.”
“... Him and Robin have been tracking the incidents.”
“I don’t work with Batman, Oracle.”
She said tiredly, “I’m aware, Hood. You’ve made yourself very clear in that regard, as well as your stake on Crime Alley. That’s why I’m letting you know about it now instead of later.”
Below, the police sirens took on a pack-like quality. From afar their calls sounded like warnings to all criminals, of a larger predator lurking nearby. Jason found himself checking the skies for signs of a hover plane. “What’s the working theory?”
“Nothing concrete. We’re still checking the backgrounds and schedules of the accused reaching a month back. But if you can get a statement from Moore, it’ll help both of us. We’ll corroborate our findings, and you’ll be left alone.”
Left alone. His trust in those words waned the more times they were said to him. “Only if I get to make the call with Susie.”
It became Barbara’s turn to sound accusatory. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do when it’s my turf you’re treading on, as you Bats seem to say. Otherwise you can find another way to get what you need.”
“I don’t see why you’re being so difficult. It’s just some help on a case.”
“I’m not a Bat, Oracle. You can’t abet favors from me like the others. ”
“I find that hard to believe.” She shot back. The static jittered impatiently over their line.
Jason brushed his hand over one of his handguns, more as a tether for himself than a threat. Still, the idle warning hovered between him and whatever hidden camera Barbara had on him. It seemed to say, don’t push harder than you can take.
He could feel her eyes on him as she weighed the situation. Over the line, frequencies built towering crests that crashed over like white noisy waves in the distance. There was nothing left to cut through the brewing storm. The police sirens had left the area a while ago.
Finally, Barbara sighed in remission. The sound crackled in his ears like thunder. “... Fine, Hood. I’ll leave things up to you.”
He found himself in the afternoon wiretapping police scanners. August in Gotham meant that summer was on its last legs; the heat weighed on the city like a compress left on for too long, damp and musty. Jason had had all summer to regret not installing air conditioning in his flat as the humidity stifled everything from his gadgets to his own thoughts. After so long away, he’d forgotten how unforgiving the city’s heat could be.
This month also signaled his one year anniversary of moving back to Gotham. His return had been unexpected, especially given how things turned out last time— many thought that the Red Hood had gone in that explosion in that condo. Jason too, thought he would’ve laid to rest all his dead the first time around.
Batman had said once that the best way to solve a crime was to start with a story. Jason figured if the converse held, a story was the best way to commit a crime too. He’d planned his first stint in Gotham out that way. Except Batman would realize that the Red Hood’s story was never going to be just another one of his detective cases. Oh no, it was much more heinous.
The hot air coaxed a drop of sweat down Jason's neck. He wiped at it, remembering the chilling touch of Batarang steel.
Jason’s story had never been about the Joker. It had never been about revenge. It wasn’t even about how he’d been brought back to life against his will and thrown into a Pit to serve some demon lady’s purposes.
His story was about a man and a kid from the streets and the father and son duo they became, even though neither had any notion of how a normal family behaved. It was about all that was said between them and the most important thing that wasn’t, not even when the kid was already halfway through the door and leaving. It was about the kid looking down the barrel of the gun and asking wordlessly, do you love me , and watching as Bruce could not bring himself to answer. And it was about how Jason, prepared for this, detonated the bomb he’d placed behind the fireplace hours before.
Afterwards, it was merely about following through with the final act he’d planned for himself. Recover, extract himself from the city and regroup elsewhere. Figure out what he wanted to do with his second chance at life. Start from the beginning, once again.
… Except there had been one other person he hadn’t accounted for. One other part of his play that went overlooked until the curtains were drawn. When Jason had laid down his first clue that night on the helicopter, he had not been expecting to see Dick Grayson looking back up at him.
Presently, the tap was fizzling out, a sign that the heat had weaseled its way into its circuit. Jason pulled out a screwdriver and went on to unscrew the back. The device shorted out with a cht-cht as he began to sort through its wires.
Dick had scarcely changed over the years. He was as tenacious and optimistic as Jason remembered, with lightness embedded into his very being evinced by his performance that night. Nightwing had been the perfect lieutenant to help Batman take down the rogue Red Hood: loyal, steadfast— unquestioning. That night had been a glance off Jason’s larger agenda, but still the memory festered.
In that moment of collision, Dick had been the one firing the grapnel at the helicopter, bringing Jason to the ground. And wasn’t that something for Jason to stew over in his time abroad.
In the end, there had been no place where the Red Hood could fit in outside of Gotham. Jason had returned, realizing that there was still more that he could do with his budding underworld status to make the place safer for the less-fortunate. He would mind his guns if it meant keeping Batman off his back, but he was adamant about being separate from the Batfamily from now on. That last explosion had aired out all his grievances.
Jason slid the hatch back into place and the device buzzed back on. It spat out coordinates and a code: seven-dash-eleven-dash-five. Requesting transportation for an arrest.
Tearful green eyes flashed across his mind. Jason began to pack. He knew where they were holding Susie Moore.
Most would be remiss to find the 62nd precinct of the Gotham Police. Located in the furthest district downtown, the building was like a dog left outside for too long. The skin of white paint had all but withered away from its plaster under-layer, and exposed brick burned in the sun.
The initial purpose of the department had been to establish a police presence closer to the river. Expanding jurisdiction, they called it. But when funding finally came along it went straight to the wealthier neighborhoods, as it always did, and 62nd was left to lap up whatever trickled down the pipeline. Nowadays, the department was reduced to sharing its appearance with the rest of the drug dens in the neighborhood. He’d seen addicts wander in for a hit only to get jumped by a bunch of blues.
Wealth wasn’t distributed equally in Gotham, not even among the ranks of the GCPD. Cops peacocked like prostitutes around the Diamond District, while their Bowery colleagues couldn’t even bother with washing out their shirt stains, much less leaving a guard on watch overnight.
Not that Jason was complaining. All that culpable negligence did was make it easier for him to slide through a ceiling vent and into Susie Moore’s holding cell.
The thump of his boots startled her awake. “Red Hood! What are you—”
He held a finger up for silence. “Call it my due diligence. Have they asked you anything?”
Susie shook her head. From the outset her mind and body seemed to both be in attendance, though there was still a slight waver to her frame. She had changed out of her apron and frock into a simple white jumpsuit. One of the department’s stocks. “Just some questions. I said I wouldn’t talk ‘till they got me my lawyer.” A little spark of defiance lit up in her eyes.
Crime Alley people always had a bone to pick with the police, regardless of what situation they were in. A bit of fondness bloomed in Jason’s chest. “Smart girl.”
“Thank you for your help back there, Mr. Hood. I wasn’t myself at all.” She smiled back, as if sensing his reaction under the helmet. Then, remembering the jail cell surrounding her, it faded. “… Why’d you help me?”
“To prove a point to myself, mostly. I’ve done bad things out of anger too.”
“Doubt you’ve ever gutted a man over it.”
That got a real laugh at him. “You’ve got no idea.”
Now that she wasn’t in shock, Susie carried herself with a near imperceptible hunch, a nod to the weight of living that all Crime Alley residents bore in silence. Her blonde curls bounced as she settled into a sitting position on her cot. “So are you here to interrogate me?”
“It’ll be off the record. Don’t worry about saying anything the cops might hear; I made sure they won’t.”
Her eyes darted between him and the cell bars; he could feel her considering the options. Eventually, desperation won out and she nodded.
He ran her through a barrage of questions and alibi-checking. When he finished, Susie was looking perplexed. “Is that all?”
“It’s for my own investigations. You can tell your marital history to the lawyer.” Jason said. “He’s a friend— someone who does pro bono work for people like you. If you sell the story straight, you’ll at least get out of serving for life.”
She seemed relieved. “I haven’t been able to call ‘im yet. The police took my phone when they arrested me.”
“Good thing I stopped by the inventory.” He tossed the device over to her.
Jason busied himself as she called. He was thinking back to the files Barbara sent him on the other women. The fact that Susie Moore had killed her husband was beyond doubt when he entered the apartment, but a significant amount of things set her apart. Socioeconomic status was one, as well as residence. The other four lived in luxury high rises within five miles of each other. Susie’s answers had confirmed it, but Jason couldn’t think of any way these merry murderesses could have crossed into each other’s lives. Not even their internet history had yielded anything.
The only thing that seemed to link them was their victims’ legal record. Ted Moore had gone to court accused of hitting his ex-wife. A mother had been charged with child neglect decades ago. The other three were registered sex offenders in different states. Everything leading up to their vindictive murders was in the books.
In the past, Jason had considered going after people like these once he was finished with the bigger criminals. Moore had certainly made a case for himself— his nightly rages proving that where the oaf really belonged was not Park Row, but at least seven circles below it. Jason had let him off twice in the past, and had once vowed that on the third he’d bring him home.
It was always better if the blood ended up in the hands of someone who could deal with it, rather than those who’d already suffered enough in life. But clearing society of every type of abuse was a different systematic action— a draconian descent. Even Jason knew his limits.
It took him a moment to realize that Susie was five rings in with no answer. She was bent over, shaking as sobs moved through her body. A pitiful moan bubbled past her lips.
Jason frowned, reaching out. “He’s probably just busy—”
She cocked her head to the side, then turned and lunged at him.
They hit the ground, the breath leaving his lungs on impact. Susie’s lips were flipped back into a snarl, fleshy pink undersides flecked with spit. She was at least 80 pounds lighter yet she stayed on top of Jason, thighs clamped hard enough to bruise around his hips, nails scrabbling at his clothes. She kept snapping her jaw in his face, eyes whited out like a deranged animal.
Jason managed to roll them over, and she fought him with strength alien to that small body. It was as if she’d been converted into a vessel for some greater force of nature, one with no will except mindless fury. It took his entire body weight to pin her down as she bucked and thrashed and banged her head against the floor.
She was screaming too— stunted syllables and half-formed words, all hashed together— savage sounds. Her tongue caught between the rows of her teeth and he watched as the tip came clean off, blood spewing everywhere.
He crammed his glove into her mouth, swearing as those same jaws bit through leather and down to the knuckle. Bubbles of blood and spit foamed out of her mouth, staining her chin black in the cell’s low light. Still she fought him with fervor, pushing her nails into the floor with so much force they were starting to lift from their beds, leaving dark scuff marks on the concrete. Jason shoved his hand into his pocket for a tranquilizer.
He proved too late. Susie Moore made a sick, gagging noise, convulsed once, and went limp underneath him.
Her eyes stayed open.