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 BLEEDING EDGE
BROTHERS OF CORRUPTION
BOOK 3
N. ANDREWS
 Copyright © 2023
by N. Andrews

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
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Now, let’s get on with the show…

For all the bad girls who whisper “harder”…
 TRIGGER WARNINGS

This is dark romance. There are bad people who do bad things and
not all of them are the villains. In this story, hero is a matter of
perspective. Be warned, this book contains (in no particular order):

Graphic scenes of torture and murder

Dubious consent
Suicidal ideation
Past trauma
References to self harm and sexual abuse
Spit sharing
Choking
Knife play
Blood play
Dismemberment
Stalking
Gangland violence
Arson
Police corruption
Terrorism
References to grooming
Exhibitionism
Injury details
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13

Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Epilogue 3
What’s Next
N.’s Other Books
Like what N. brings to the feast?
 CHAPTER ONE

Cas

T onight I am death .
I am what I was born to be. The bull. The beast at the center of
the labyrinth.
The monster ready to devour his unwilling sacrifice.
The house I’m watching could be on any street in any city in
America. Nothing but a two-story red brick end of terrace, with sash
windows and potted plants out front. There’s a light on in the living
room, another in a second floor bedroom. The curtains are drawn
against the night, the windows closed against the cool breeze rolling
down the street.
Nobody living nearby realizes it’s a safe house for the United
States Marshal Service.
Downstairs, when I break in, I will find US Marshal Gloria
Bertram. She has a partner, Harry Armstrong, sitting in a gray Ford
SUV three doors down, where they don’t think anyone will notice.
They hope no one will notice.
 I notice everything.
They’ll both die tonight, but they aren’t my targets. I looked into
their pasts, of course, I always do, and while I wish I didn’t have to
kill Gloria I won’t lose any sleep over Harry.
Even so, both their ends will be quick. A mercy my true victims
don’t get.
My prey is upstairs, unaware that this is his last night among the
living. His end will be slow. And painful.
That’s how this has to go. How it was ordered.
He’s the latest sacrifice sent to me by the Kalon Brotherhood, the
Greek mafia I was born into. My father ran it until my brothers and I
killed him. If I think about his death, I can faintly smell the burning
flesh and kerosene.
I was the one that lit that fire. At the tender age of thirteen.
Vengeance against those who murdered my mother.
The monster within me still hums with satisfaction.
Now, my oldest brothers, Darius and Quinn, are in charge, and
they call me their “executioner”. They pay me well to kill for them.
It’s something their associates understand and the way they sell my
continued existence to others in their organization.
Otherwise, I’m sure someone would have tried to end me by
now. I’m surprised someone hasn’t tried. Maybe they aren’t all as
stupid as I believe them to be.
I call the Brotherhood their organization, because the truth is I
don’t give a fuck about them, their assignments or their money.
They need to keep me sated with regular victims, it’s that simple. It’s
the only way to be sure my violence doesn’t spread out of control,
streets running red with the blood of thousands. The Minotaur within
me, the monster I share a body with, flexes and sighs at the idea of
such indiscriminate carnage.
 Since my brothers would never sanction that, this is how it has to
work.
I’ve scoped out the house. I know the response time for local
cops to get here. I have my tools, I have my escape route planned.
All that’s left is to start my ritual.
I can almost feel the relief. The satisfaction of it.
The cloak I bring with me for these moments is enormous, made
from pure black cashmere wool, like wearing a soft outer skin of
darkness wherever I go. It’s long enough to cover the ends of the
stilts I wear to make my impressive height more imposing. Pure
theatrics, but it helps bring out the monster. The stilts give me an
extra foot. Any more and it would be impossible to get through
doorways without becoming a falling hazard.
As I reach for the bull’s skull I wear as a mask, my phone begins
to buzz.
It kills the mood. Even though the number is unrecognized, I
know it’s business. Which means I’m obligated to answer. I don’t like
that word. I shouldn’t be obligated to do anything. I’m a monster, a
killer. Obligations sound more like chains than freedom.
“What?”
Silence on the other end for a moment. I don’t need him to talk
to know who it is. Fucking Gillam, playing power games he’ll regret
one day. “Castor,” he growls. “Got a job for you.”
“It’s Cas, and I have a job. I’m trying to do it right now.”
He ignores me. “Girl from a year and a half ago, she’s back.”
Girl from a year and a half ago.
He has no idea what he’s saying to me.
It’s not often that I get to kill women, and this girl… You could
say she deserved me more than most.
 I was given one blurry photo, and told it was of an arsonist who
murders children. My imagination went wild. I wanted to burn her
alive. Slowly. Inch by agonizing inch. To hear her screams and see
her writhe against the flames.
But what flames.
That blurry photograph is etched in my mind in a way I still don’t
understand. Flame red hair falling around her young shoulders. Lithe
and beautiful in a way I never considered any human being to be
before.
And as twisted as me.
I’ve never been affected by women. Never. And yet… That one
photo, where I couldn’t even see her eyes properly, was enough.
What I would have done to follow through on that case, to get her
on my table, to strip her, to see the fear in her eyes when I showed
her the lighter.
Or…
“You wanted to strip her.” I jump at the whisper from beside me,
where no human being could possibly be standing. A man’s voice,
possibly my dead father’s. “But not for that.”
A low chuckle, and he’s gone.
But whoever he is, whoever my mind is conjuring, he’s not
wrong.
I wanted to get her on my table, that’s true, and strip her naked.
And do whatever it is normal human beings do when they find
someone that completes them.
But I never got the chance. Because there was one problem…
I frown. “You know who she is this time, Gillam? I’m not doing
your job for you.”
“Hey, I’m a fucking made man and you’re an errand boy. I tell
you to do something, you say how high.”
 “It’s, ‘I tell you to jump, you say how high’. Otherwise it doesn’t
make any sense.” Obnoxious asshole.
“Are you calling me a fucking moron?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Gillam, sir. Do you have a
fucking name or not?”
I’m not going to get into an argument with him. I don’t mind
poking the bear though as I have no doubt that one day he’ll end up
on my table. And when he does, we’ll discuss all of this.
Including his use of an outdated ableist slur.
Sometimes I feel like I’m the one with morals around here.
“Fucking disrespectful piece of shit. If your brothers weren’t the
bosses, I’d fucking—”
“I’m trembling. Call me back when you have a name.” I go to end
the call, but before I can I hear it.
“Octavia Rossi.”
I bring the phone back to my ear. “Details.”
Her name rings oddly in my head, my heart skipping a beat.
Octavia. Latin, obviously. Something to do with the number eight.
It’s a beautiful name, not what I was expecting for a woman who
likes to murder children.
But somehow it suits her. Or almost does. Like it needs just a
slight adjustment.
The vision in my head, the girl strapped naked to a table, cries
out and thrashes.
“Listen, you fuck—”
“Details, Gillam, or I’m ending the call.”
There’s muffled cursing, but he knows he can’t touch me. I wish
he’d try, because then I’d have my fun, but he won’t. Too bad.
“We’ve got a tip she’s on her way back to Tacoma,” he says with
a snarl. “She’ll be here by Tuesday.”
 “Why?”
“I don’t fucking know. She’s an arsonist. There’s a lot of buildings
she can set light to. Maybe she liked the weather. I don’t fucking
know.”
Seems he doesn’t know much of anything. What my brother’s
need him for is beyond me.
“Fine. Where will I find her?”
“She’s got a room booked at the Sunrise Motel.”
“You want me to abduct a girl from a motel like some redneck?”
I’m offended. My skills are better put to use elsewhere. I’m
inclined to ignore this obligation. It’s beneath me to do such things.
I’m not an errand boy. I’m the dark thing that goes bump in the
night. I’m the fear that ripples off the people that think they are
untouchable.
Child killer or not, Octavia Rossi does not deserve me.
“Did I say that? I said that’s where she’ll be.” He sniffs, making
me cringe at the popping sound of some booger going down his
throat. Uncivilized fuck. My fingers itch, my neck stiff with the need
to kill Gillam instead. “We’ll let you know when to take her.”
“When are you going to learn, Gillam? I work to my schedule, not
yours.”
“Just do your fucking job, you psycho freak.” The line goes dead.
I toss the phone onto the backseat and grab my mask, irritation
making me grunt and weigh up whether to call off tonight’s
activities. But the weight of the skull mask brings me back to the job
at hand.
Sacrifice.
The beast within begins a drumbeat in my mind, anticipating
what’s to come. And while Castor Leos the man might be able to
walk away, Castor Leos the monster can do no such thing.
 Octavia Rossi won’t be in Tacoma for four days. Plenty of time to
finish this job and take my time enjoying it.
A few seconds later, I’m crossing the road, sticking to the
shadows between streetlights. I don’t have my mask on yet,
because it’s not there to hide my identity. It’s there to bring it out.
And US Marshal Harry Armstrong isn’t going to meet the real me.
This will be quick.
As I approach the dark gray Explorer, I can see he’s in the middle
of a burrito. Red spicy sauce is dribbling down his chin, smoke from
the half-finished cigarette in the ashtray drifting through the open
driver’s window.
He seems content, relaxed, even if he is on the clock.
I wonder how long after they learn of his death before his wife
and children will start celebrating. Not long, I’m sure. His fourteen
year old daughter might even stop self harming once she’s no longer
the object of her father’s unwanted attention.
I’ll send them some money to rebuild their lives. Anonymously of
course. Something good to come out of all this.
He doesn’t see the bullet coming. Doesn’t even flinch at the soft
pop of the silencer. It goes in one side of his head and exits the
other, spraying the windscreen and dash with blood and brains and a
mouthful of burrito. Hard to tell what’s blood and what’s spicy sauce.
There must be some poetry in that, I suppose, but it will be for
other minds to figure out.
I hate guns. They’re uncivilized and unsporting. But they’re quick
and, the way I do it, painless. More than Harry Armstrong deserves.
I keep the pistol drawn as I stroll down the sidewalk toward the
house. If anyone looked out of their window, all they’d see is a tall
man in a cloak, out for a stroll, something unnerving in his unnatural
gait. They’d cross themselves and pray to whatever god they believe
in to keep them safe.
And they’d get their wish, because I don’t kill bystanders.
Rounding the side of the house, I step up between the potted
plants and move swiftly around to the back. I’m used to the stilts
now. I hardly realize I’m wearing them. A few quick strides and I’m
at the back door.
I have a key. That’s all part of my planning. I can pick locks well
enough, but a key is quicker. I slip it into the lock as quietly as I can,
and turn the handle.
“Stop the fuck there, asshole.”
I wonder if the voice is real or inside my head, because
sometimes the things I hear and see aren’t real. Or maybe they’re
real and only I can hear and see them, which amounts to the same
thing.
Tilting my head, I analyze what I heard.
Still unsure, I push the door the rest of the way and see the gun
aimed at my chest. Gloria Bertram’s hands are trembling.
Understandable.
“I’ll make you a deal, Gloria.” I see the surprise in her eyes at the
sound of her name, but the gun doesn’t move from her target, even
as it quakes in her hands. “You walk out right now. Call for backup,
whatever you have to do. Nobody will blame you.”
“I can’t do that.” Her voice trembles. “You know I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Your partner is dead. You don’t have to join him.”
I’ll let her walk away. I’ll need her to toss her weapon on the
ground on her way out, but that’s easier to do once she’s decided to
comply.
“I… I saw you kill Harry. You fucking bastard, he has a family.”
 I don’t have time to explain what family meant to her partner.
“Will it bring him back if you die as well? Obviously not. But you can
go home to your family, Gloria. You can live.”
“Put down your weapon and step back,” she says, trying to
remember her training, trying to keep her weapon aimed at me.
Mine is by my side. Which is presumably why she hasn’t shot
already.
I really don’t want to kill Gloria Bertram. She didn’t choose this
shitty assignment.
“Gloria, listen to me. Right now, adrenaline is coursing through
your veins. You’re young, inexperienced. Harry was in charge of this
operation, not you. If you shoot right now, there’s a fifty percent
chance the bullet will go wide, even at this range, even with all your
training. And if you get lucky, before you can fire a second shot,
you’ll be dead.”
Her lips form a single, straight line, but she says nothing. She’s
listening. Good.
“The man upstairs is lowlife scum, you and I both know that. You
had to know there was a chance someone would come for him.
That’s why he’s here. Even if I fail, someone else will be sent in my
place. Do you want to die to give that motherfucker an extra few
days of life?”
She’s staring at me, her breath coming hard and fast. If I’m not
careful, she’ll start hyperventilating.
Does the killer stop to comfort the panicking marshal in this
story?
How would that look in her report?
“Gloria?” I prompt.
“I’ve seen your face,” she whispers. I almost breathe a sigh of
relief.
 We’ll work this out after all.
“That’s fine. Whatever you think you’ve seen, you can report that
to your superiors. I’m not trying to get you fired or charged with a
felony here. You escape with your life, I do my job, we both go our
separate ways.”
“Why did you have to kill Harry? He was a good man.”
I grit my teeth and say nothing. It’s not my place to tell her the
truth about her former partner and I don’t have time for arguments.
There’s only so long I can keep the human side of me in charge,
knowing I’m a few steps away from my prey. The monster urges me
to remove her, licking its lips. “What’s it going to be, Gloria?”
She glances around behind her, looking toward the stairs. I could
shoot her and be done with it. She’d never know, but I offered a
deal and it’s still on the table.
“I need an answer.”
“How do I explain it?” she asks genuinely as she turns back to
me.
The emotions racing across her face tell me she’s chosen to live,
but it doesn’t come without guilt and shame. For betraying her job.
Not saving her partner.
Survivor’s guilt.
“You say whatever you want to say. Tell them I disarmed you and
you went for backup. Tell them it all happened so fast you don’t
remember. I can shoot you in the arm to make it easier, if that’s
what you want.”
She closes her eyes and starts to sob as she nods. “Yes.”
I can see that she doesn’t fully believe I’ll let her live, but I don’t
kill her.
The bullet is clean, but she cries out from the pain as it rips
through her shoulder. Her gun drops to the floor, her hand and arm
now useless.
I step over, kicking it out of the way. “Get out of here, Gloria,” I
tell her, then raise my mask as I head for the stairs.
I don’t look back. The monster is in control now, and he is
supremely confident.
The mask is a genuine bull’s skull. I purchased it on the internet
fifteen years ago, and it’s served me well. The strap that goes over
my head holds it in place so that the horns look like they’re coming
from my own forehead, and I can look out through the eye holes.
As soon as it’s in place, I feel that part of me grow in strength.
The Minotaur taking over.
I hear his low chuckle as he chides me for letting Marshal Gloria
Bertram walk away with her life. He reminds me that if he’d been in
charge, she would be a bloody pulp on the kitchen tiles right now.
Two sides of the same coin.
The stairs creak in turn as I ascend. I know where I’ll find Carlo
Esposito. Not in the room that had the light on. He’s too smart for
that. The former head of the Kalon Brotherhood in Seattle will be
ready for me.
For us.
At the top of the stairs, instead of turning left, I turn right, into
the darkened room.
“Shit.” I hear the hiss of his voice before the crack of gunfire
rings out along with a muzzle flash.
He’s good. Even in the dark, the bullet scrapes my shoulder. But
he’s not good enough.
The smell of spent gunpowder stings my nose as I roar, rushing
toward him, the pain fueling me. I drop my head into a charge,
hearing his scream as my horn skewers into soft flesh.
 The Minotaur laughs. I hear it muffled behind the lower part of
the skull, enjoying the sound of his prey in pain.
Trying to bring the gun to bear in such close quarters is useless
and Carlo knows it, but I feel him draw back, ready to whip me with
the grip.
The only reason it works is because I don’t want to throw him
out the window.
I have other plans.
The pistol slams into the same shoulder that’s already grazed
from his bullet, and pain shoots through me. I grit my teeth,
chuckling as I grasp his face in my right hand. With all the force I
can muster, I slam his head back into the wall, hard enough to put a
dent in his skull, and feel him go limp.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter as I wince against the pain.
The Minotaur merely laughs as Carlo slumps to the ground. He
doesn’t care about the throbbing in my shoulder. Only that he’s
unleashed. The sacrifice here at our feet.
I take hold of his ankle, and drag him down the stairs, passing
the empty spot where Gloria Bertram used to be, and out into the
street. I don’t remove my mask as I trudge across the road to my
car, opening the trunk and shoving him inside.
Then I climb in, start her up, and pull away as I hear the sound
of sirens low in the distance.

Carlo’s eyes flicker and open.

“Where am I?” he mumbles.
“That’s your question?” I raise an eyebrow, though he can’t see
it. The mask is still in place. “You’re in a hut about an hour outside
Albuquerque. Don’t worry, nobody will find you here. Not until I
leave them some clues.”
He watches me, but unlike most of my victims he knows who I
am. He’s used my services half a dozen times himself.
Right now, the monster is quietly watching. He knows I get to
talk to them first. Because if he had his way, there would be no
talking.
“I didn’t want to flip,” Carlo murmurs. “You gotta believe that,
man. The feds… The stuff they had on me, I—” His words trail off as
he takes a breath, mouth opening and closing. “You don’t care, do
you?”
“Not even a little. I just like to kill people.”
He’s strapped in place, so he can’t move his arms or legs, but his
head is free. He’s resigned to his fate, not fighting his restraints even
though he knows what’s coming.
“Can you answer me something?” I ask on a whim. He’s a literal
captive audience, why not pick his brains?
He shrugs. “I can give you a minute.”
I chuckle. I like when my victims have a sense of humor. “Why
would someone burn children to death? What’s that about?”
Even the Minotaur snorts in disgust. Even his lack of morality
wouldn’t allow that.
Children are off limits.
With the exception of me when I was younger, children are
incapable of the evils I excise from this world.
“You know someone who sets fire to children?”
I nod. “Next client after you. She sets light to buildings with
children inside and watches them burn. Sticks around to listen to
their screams. I’m a bad guy, I know that, but I wouldn’t do that.
Not to children.”
 Carlo mulls that over, and I let him.
“What I’ve learned about people, they have four basic
motivations,” he says. “Greed. Sex. Fear. Boredom. If you can
eliminate three of those possibilities, chances are she’s after the
fourth.”
“I don’t have those motivations,” I point out.
“Yeah but you’re not…” He trails off.
“Human? Makes sense.”
“I never said you weren’t human, man. You’re different. Look,
with me, my motivation was either greed or fear. I was getting paid
to do what I did, or I was getting rid of someone who could put me
where I am now. My men, it’s fear. They know if they don’t follow
orders, they’ll get one in the back of the head. Your father, from
what I knew of him, it was greed. Greed’s a common one. This chick
getting paid to set kids alight?”
I shake my head. “Not as far as I know.”
“You can cross that one off the list. That leaves sex, boredom or
fear. Either she’s getting her rocks off watching that fire, or she
doesn’t know what she’d do without it, or someone’s holding
something over her. Unless, well…” He meets my eyes.
“She’s like me?” I suggest.
Something in my belly stirs, something that isn’t the monster.
Is it the thought of someone being my equal walking around? A
female, no less. And if so, do I like that, or do I want to remove any
and all rivals?
I dismiss the new feeling. I don’t have time to ponder its arrival.
Carlo doesn’t respond. Which means I’m right. “That helps. Too
bad we can’t take a little longer to discuss it.”
“You mind answering a question for me, before you…you know?
Did your brother give you the order to take me out?”
 I shake my head. “I don’t speak to my brothers often. Not
directly. I don’t think they like me all that much. This side of me
anyway. Axel and I get along, kind of. But not Darius and Quinn.
They’re a lot older, you know?”
“I get it. An age gap can be difficult. They don’t understand the
world you grew up in. That’s not all your brothers though. What
about the other one?”
“Leander?
“Yeah, Leander. He doesn’t work for us, does he?”
Us.
He means The Kalon Brotherhood, but we both know he doesn’t
work for them any longer. And I’m more of a bystander myself.
Only pulled in when necessary.
“No. He does his own thing. He doesn’t like the Brotherhood.
Neither do I. I—”
“Like to kill people. Yeah. Got that. You don’t care about
anyone?”
I shrug. “Not really. I loved my mom until she died. Cliché, right?
The psycho who loves his mom.”
He shakes his head, his eyebrows drawing together in a genuine
frown. “No, man, that’s good. Trust me. I wish I coulda known my
mom, but I grew up on the streets. Only family I ever had was the
Brotherhood.”
“Must suck to have them throw you to me.”
“Yeah, it does. But I did what I did, and you’re gonna do what
you’re gonna do. I was loyal for a long time but when someone’s
dangling the death penalty over your head you make dumb
decisions.”
“Washington doesn’t have the death penalty,” I point out.
 “Yeah, not all my crimes happened in Seattle, man. I’ve done
some bad shit in some shitty places. I knew in the back of my mind
something like this was likely to happen but what could I do? Would
you act differently?”
I draw a deep breath, staring at him, trying to figure out whether
he’s telling the truth or trying to get inside my head. I don’t
understand people well. That’s why I like killing bad people the
most, because they always reveal something to me.
They plead, or they get angry, or they try to bargain. I can
always make them tell me why they enjoy doing what they do. My
brother gave me a guy a while ago, a man called Byers, and he told
me all about why he liked to beat up his wife and son. Why his wife
ended up dead. I learned a lot from him about the way humans
think.
But Carlo?
He’s a scumbag of the highest order. He’s killed, and in worse
ways than he’s about to die himself. He’s bought and sold innocent
lives. He’s had men beaten up for refusing to pay protection money.
He’s forced women into prostitution. He’s sold drugs to minors.
But that’s the job. He said himself, he’s worked for the
Brotherhood since he was a child. He doesn’t know any different.
That doesn’t make him a bad person. Or a good person. All it makes
him is human. A concept I struggle to understand on most days, but
I get his drive to make the Brotherhood thrive with his actions.
Leander would say I should have left him to testify, that it might
have brought down the organization and saved a lot of innocents.
Lee cares about innocents.
“Would I sell out the Brotherhood to save myself from the electric
chair? You assume I care about my own life,” I tell him as I stand.
I’m wearing the stilts again. It’s part of the ritual, even if it’s a
hindrance. “That’s a big assumption to make.”
“Don’t you?”
I grab the needle and thread, and the dead rat from the table
beside me. “No. I have nothing in my life I’d miss.”
“Then why go on living?”
I shrug as I turn, and he flinches at the sight of what I’m
holding. “Habit,” I tell him. “Sorry about this.”
“Can you kill me first? Please, man, give me that.”
I shake my head. “This is what the Brotherhood wants, and if I
want to keep on doing what I do, I have to occasionally give them
something in return. I killed the rat for you. Axel said you helped
him once, so he cleared it. Best we could do.”
He nods. “Thank him for me.”
“I will. Are you going to open your mouth, or do I have to use a
clamp?”
“Fuck…” He cringes back, and I can’t blame him. He knows
what’s coming. Even so, he opens his mouth as wide as he can. I
respect that.
“I’ll make it as quick as I can,” I tell him.
And then I let the monster free.
 CHAPTER TWO

Ava

“W hat ’ s your name , beautiful ?” Three hundred pounds of bad breath

and B.O. drops onto the bar stool next to me, hunching forward as
dirty light reflects from his greasy pate and yellow-brown teeth.
He’s not drunk. He’s entitled. Like he has a right to my personal
space.
I hate this. I hate meeting Rob in a bar and that it’s in such a
shitty part of town. I understand that it’s safer for us to arrive
separately to two different destinations but our cover business is
moderately successful, he could have at least booked a hotel.
Then we could have met in the hotel bar. Guys in hotel bars give
me a wide berth on account of my piercings, tattoos, dark makeup,
ripped jeans and resting bitch face.
But here? I’m prime steak.
“Not interested,” I mutter, going for my glass of whiskey.
It’s the only way I sleep at night. The only thing that stops the
nightmares. The burn in my throat, the heat that curls in my belly,
lulling me into a haze.
I’m not an alcoholic.
His hand finds mine before I can reach my drink, clasping my
fingers in his, nearly crushing them.
Real Rico Suave, right here.
I recognize the tats on the back of his hand as being from a local
biker gang. Twice in prison, but no murders. If I’m reading that
right. We do due diligence before we head out on a job, so we don’t
get tripped up when we’re here. But how the fuck am I supposed to
predict being mauled in a dive bar opposite the skeevy motel?
“I’m interested in you, sweetheart. What do you say?”
“I gave you my answer, dude. Try someone else.”
He frowns. “No need to be like that, gorgeous. I want to show
you a good time.”
Beautiful. Sweetheart. Gorgeous.
I’ve found a charmer.
I roll my eyes then glance at the bartender, but he’s studiously
avoiding me as he wipes down glasses and busies himself at the
other end of the bar. Leaving me alone, to fend for myself. Figures.
I’m not supposed to be remembered. Only got that partially right so
far and that sets my teeth on edge. I don’t do sloppy.
Fuck.
As sarcastic as I might be, I don’t have the size or strength to
back my mouth up. My skills lie in other areas. Even if Rob turns up,
which he won’t because he’s half an hour away, I can forget being
saved. He might be my dad, at least on paper, but this guy would
flatten him like a steamroller.
“Look, I’ve had a really long day and all I want is to finish my
drink.” I make the words as ego-stoking as I can, meeting his eyes
with what I hope is a normal cool girl expression, something I’m not
too good at. My acting skills aren’t Oscar worthy, but I hope they will
be enough. Let him walk away thinking he charmed me, but I’m
tired. “Maybe some other time?”
“Oh, I have just the thing for tired eyes, baby girl. You should
have said you need a pick-me-up. Free, too, if your blowjob game’s
as good as I’m betting it is.”
I shake my head, my fury and embarrassment rising. “I don’t
need a pick-me-up.”
The way I’m gritting my teeth might snap my jaw.
“Don’t fight it, baby. One little blowjob and I can get you
anything you need.”
Don’t do it. Just get up and walk away.
But I know that won’t work. The sexual suggestion irritates and
embarrasses me, the way any talk of sex always does. I know at
twenty-five it shouldn’t, but I don’t have time for a therapist to crack
open that can of worms.
The very idea of anyone’s penis makes me gag. And yeah, I use
the word penis because all the other nicknames that are supposed
to be sexy and provocative make my skin crawl.
I start chewing on the inside of my cheek, forcing my shoulders
not to hunch. The old perv needs to take a hint.
For a while I wondered if I was asexual, but it’s not that. It’s that
the idea of naked bodies makes me think of my own naked body.
While I have no problem with it, I’ll never forget the looks of disgust
on other girls’ faces in the foster home and the gym changing room.
They never called me names about it. They just avoided me like
they might catch something.
“All I need,” I snarl, glaring as I meet his eyes, “is for you to take
your fucking hand off mine and get the hell out of my space. Take a
fucking hint, dude. Hell, I’m not even hinting anymore. Leave me
alone.”
He grins, chuckling as he grips my hand tighter. “Oh, I like that.
Feisty fucking redhead, ain’t ya? You want a man to take control and
show you who’s boss.”
Jesus fucking Christ, what do I have to do to get rid of this guy?
I open my mouth to hurl more insults, but before I can, my new
friend turns his attention away from me to something over my
shoulder.
And glares.
“Help you?” He asks, his lip curling like whatever or whoever is
behind me is a waste of his time.
“The lady asked you to take your hand off hers.” A voice like pure
silk washes against my ear, and I get a sudden hit of a dark scent,
like moonlight on the crests of waves and danger lurking in the
shadows. “I suggest you do as she asked.”
“Oh you suggest, do you? And I suggest you mind your own
fucking business before I pull out my knife and pin your skinny ass
to this bar top.” The biker rolls his shoulders like he’s limbering up
for a wrestling match. “Now fuck off before I throw you through that
fucking window.”
“Which is it?” The voice sounds amused. Not afraid.
I crane my head to see him but all I get is an impression of
height. So he might have a better reach, but the biker has about a
gazillion pounds on him.
“You going to pin me to the bar top or throw me through the
window? Choose wisely, because your words will haunt you later,
Tiny.”
Tiny?
 I almost laugh at that. If this was an insult contest, he just won
round one.
“Motherfucker. Get the fuck out of here, while you’re still walking.
Call me Tiny again, I’ll cut your fingers off and feed them to you.”
“Honestly, I would like to see that. But first take your fingers off
hers.” He grabs a stool and sets it down close to the biker’s.
Uncomfortably close, getting inside his space.
And now I can see all of him.
This guy is about as out of place here in this dive as I am in a
hotel bar. Longish brown-blonde hair, a stylish short beard, piercing
hazel irises that fade to black at the edge. He’d look like a surfer if
not for the dark slacks and shirt.
An actual white shirt on his lean frame.
Not with a tie, but not a t-shirt. The first few buttons are hanging
open, and I notice a deep scar running from his collarbone along his
neckline, along with a smattering of chest hair. Not too much, but
enough to make me want to…
Jesus, where did that thought come from?
I feel my face heat at the idea of cuddling into him, feeling his
hands cup my head as he strokes my hair, my cheek against his bare
chest.
Why do I want to trace that scar with my tongue? See where it
goes? See if he has enough feeling in his scar that he can tell the
path I’m taking?
Ava, what the hell is wrong with you?
“I’m going to count to thirty,” the newcomer says. “Take your
hand off hers and get out.”
My skin crawls at the reminder of the biker’s hand squeezing
mine. Even with his attention trained elsewhere, he hasn’t released
me.
 Tiny laughs. “Or what?”
“Three. Four. Clock’s ticking. Right now, you get to walk away
and never see me again. It’s a good deal. Seven. Eight.”
“Am I supposed to be scared?”
“Twelve. Thirteen.”
I watch the two men stare each other down, caught up in the
middle. The biker dude is glaring, and looks ready to attack, and the
other one? He doesn’t look bothered. He looks confident, like he’ll
have some response. What the hell could that possibly be?
I appreciate the assist, but what is he going to do when he gets
to thirty?
OK he’s tall. He probably has six or eight inches on “Tiny”.
The best I can imagine him doing is calling the police, and I
could’ve have called them myself. The last thing I need is the cops
asking questions I don’t have good answers to. May as well call off
the whole thing right now.
“Sixteen.”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “Thanks for your help but I’m good. I can
handle—”
He levels his eyes on mine and I feel a little shiver traverse my
spine, silencing me. “Nineteen.”
Tiny grins, glancing around, but I can feel the tension rising. The
clock is ticking and as tough as he might be, he has to be wondering
what this guy has up his sleeve.
I am too.
Nobody meets his gaze as he looks around. Whatever happens,
he’s going to be on his own.
Maybe that’s the plan? Pure intimidation? But it won’t work. Guys
like Tiny don’t get intimidated easily, and certainly not by athletic
looking guys in suits.
 “Twenty-three. Twenty-four.”
Tiny growls. “Stop fucking counting! Come on, let’s see what you
got, bitch. I’m ready to go!”
“Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-nine. Thirty.” Tiny grins, gripping my hand tighter until I
start to squirm away. “Ready or not, here I—”
His face bounces off the bar with a crunch. Blood spurts from his
nose and I hear a scream of panic, not realizing for a second it’s my
own. I’m on my feet, backing away as the attractive guy grips his
fingers around Tiny’s ear, uses it to pull his head back, then smashes
it again into the bar top.
Tiny’s eyes roll in their sockets, unfocused, as his hands scrabble
ineffectively at his attacker’s wrist.
Everyone else is ignoring what’s going on. Is this a normal
Saturday in this place?
Tiny wobbles as he’s set free, his mouth moving with muttered
words as he tries to figure out what the fuck just happened.
And I know I should be getting out of here right now. I know
that this just got way too serious for me, and that the surfer dude is
a literal psycho. But I’m rooted to the spot, looking him up and down
with a dry mouth as my ovaries light up with sudden interest.
Who is this hero, come to wake us from our slumber of a
thousand years?
Command us, master. Tell us your desire.
Tiny suddenly finds his voice, howling with rage and spitting
blood as he lifts himself from the bar, but as he starts to get to his
feet, surfer dude kicks the stool out from under him and he goes
down hard on his back.
Before he can get up, a dress shoe so shiny I can see my face in
it is on his throat.
 “What the hell are you doing?” I scream, glancing at the
bartender, expecting he’ll kick them both out.
He’s concentrating on ignoring what’s going on. Still.
“I told him to leave you alone.”
“Yeah, and I told you I didn’t need your help! Jesus Christ, I’m
just trying to have a quiet drink!” I want to stamp my foot in protest
at the way he’s making me feel. “Keyword there is quiet.”
My savior turns and he looks… genuinely confused. Hurt, even.
As if he doesn’t understand what he did wrong.
Asshole.
Gorgeous asshole.
“He wasn’t going to leave you in peace,” he says. “You wouldn’t
have got your quiet drink. Do you want me to crush his windpipe?”
“Jesus Christ!” I shake my head, trying not to get lost in those
pale hazel eyes. “Is this supposed to impress me? Some me Tarzan,
you Jane shit? I’m here for a fucking drink, dude, I don’t want any
company. Not his and certainly not yours.”
“Got it. Thank you for clarifying that. But the question still
stands, do you want me to crush his windpipe?”
I glance down at Tiny.
He’s laboring for every breath, hands scrabbling at the foot
pinning him to the floor. It’s pathetic. His face has gone an ugly
magenta hue as blood streams from his nose.
And I do want him to do it. I want to see that arrogant asshole’s
windpipe crushed. The thought of it makes pleasure centers in my
brain spark with desire.
But I’m ignoring that inner monster. I have to ignore it. Don’t
show that here. Not to him.
I fold my arms over my chest, because I’m annoyed and because
I need to hide what being in this guy’s presence is doing to my
nipples. “Let him go.”
“You’re sure?”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
He shrugs and lifts his foot off Tiny’s throat. “Get out.”
Tiny backs away across the floor, struggling to his feet once he’s
out of reach. His hands are balled into fists, but he isn’t going to do
anything. Even the weak-ass bartender knows it, making his way
back to our end of the bar.
“This… ain’t over,” Tiny chokes, spittle and blood flying from his
mouth. “You don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with… You…
Motherfucker…”
With that, he’s gone. And it’s like there’s a little more air in the
musty bar. Murmurs of conversation start up from the other patrons
and normal life is resumed.
“Thank you,” I mutter. “But I didn’t need your help.”
“Get the lady another drink,” the surfer dude tells the bartender.
I stand there gaping. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Are you for real?” I shriek, almost throwing my arms up in
frustration before I remember they’re where they are to hide the
nipple thing that’s going on.
He turns to look at me, a little amused smirk playing on his lips.
It’s infuriating, not least of all because it makes me blush as a
little flutter starts in my belly.
“Jesus Christ, what part of I’m not interested don’t you
understand? You’re no better than him. I’m not opening my legs for
you, dude. So keep your drink, sit your ass back down over there
and leave me the fuck alone.”
He raises one eyebrow.
Without a word, he reaches across the bar, rotating my glass so
that I can see the red stain dribbling down the side.
 “This one has blood on it,” he states simply, then lifts the glass,
keeping the stain away from his mouth as he takes a sip, and carries
it with him, past me to his booth.
I turn to watch him. I can’t help it. I can’t help the way my eyes
settle on his backside as he saunters away or the way I have to
squeeze my thighs together. Or the heat building in my core. An
uncomfortable heat that’s a foreign concept for me.
Shake it off, Ava.
“Miss.”
“What?” I snap, whipping back around to find the bartender
pouring a shot of whiskey over ice in a fresh glass. I feel the heat
rising to my face. “Thank you,” I mumble as I perch on the edge of
my stool, bringing the glass to my lips.
Sitting on the stool, I’m too aware of the parts of my body that
are suddenly awake and at full attention.
I don’t take a sip. My shoulders are too stiff, my stomach too
clenched. I can’t feel that guy’s eyes on me and that’s annoying as
hell.
He gets inside my head and then, what? Goes back to his life?
How dare he not give me another thought when all I can think about
is those eyes?
Nope. I’m not having it.
With an irritated grunt I stand from my stool, turn and head to
his booth.
He has the gall to look at me as if I’m the one intruding when I
take a seat opposite him.
“Sorry,” I state sourly. “Thank you for your help. But I had it
under control.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t keep away, huh?” That flares my
annoyance, more so than the lack of his attention because now it’s
because he’s not wrong.
I stare at him, my teeth grinding. “You think I—”
“I think you shouldn’t have been put in that situation. I think that
guy deserves to have his fingers cut off and choked with them. And
I think you’re not used to having anyone help you out unless they
want something in return.” He pulls his lips to the side. “I get that
last one, trust me. People only speak to me when they want
something.”
“Yeah, well…”
I don’t know what to say. He’s right, I shouldn’t have been in
that position, and the thought of Tiny being choked with his own
fingers is amusing. It shouldn’t be, but I long ago accepted I’m a
morbid, disturbing freak.
And apart from Rob, nobody’s ever done anything for me without
expectation.
Yet he works with me because he feels guilty, so I don’t think
that counts.
“Like I said, thanks,” I tell him, trying to ignore the overload of
feelings this guy is bringing out in me.
“Don’t mention it.”
“God, this is like talking to a stone. Are you at least going to tell
me your name?”
“Do you want me to, or will you take that as an attempt to get
inside your pants?” He raises an eyebrow again.
And I find myself laughing. It’s more of a bark of surprised
laughter, but laughter, nonetheless.
I don’t remember the last time that happened. I have to put my
drink down on the table and cover my mouth as I shake with
amusement, and he laughs too. Not because he’s trying to be
charming but because it’s funny. It’s like the two of us are the only
people in the world, sharing a private joke that nobody else would
understand.
It feels nice.
Normal. Well, somewhat normal. He handled Tiny as if he was
nothing, came up with morbid ideas of torture and we’re both
laughing like I didn’t just see him turn psycho killer on some guy.
But then, what do I know of normal? My thoughts would scare an
exorcist.
The thing is, it feels as if we’re friends, and I can forget for one
moment that I’m in this town to burn people alive.
“Well. I’m Ava,” I tell him. I don’t feel the need to touch hands or
make a deal of it.
“Castor,” he says. “But call me Cas. Cas Leos. Is Ava short for
anything?”
“Octavia,” I say without hesitation. It’s the first time I’ve said the
name in years. “Octavia Rossi. But don’t ever call me that.”
“Ever? That implies you plan on seeing me again. Do you?”
“Not if you call me Octavia.”
“Why not?”
I frown, resisting the urge to touch the birthmark on my belly.
“You gonna tell me it’s beautiful and I should use it?”
He shakes his head. “It is, but I wouldn’t tell you what to do.
You’d probably set me on fire.”
My heart misses a beat.
I’m staring at him as he lifts the glass with the bloodstain down
the side and takes a sip. I’m ready to challenge him, to ask him
what he meant by that, but I can’t find the words.
His eyes don’t leave mine and I fight the urge to shift under the
pressure of it.
 “Or break that glass and stab me with it. Or, I don’t know, cut my
balls off with a rusty spoon or something. You’re pretty scary, you
know that?”
He grins but I feel light-headed. Why the pause?
“Sorry…” I murmur, picking up my glass. The smell of the whiskey
settles me. “I tend to be defensive. I… haven’t always had the best
experience.”
“With men?”
“With people.” I meet his eyes, but I can’t see anything in them
except genuine interest.
Not interest in the woman sitting in front of him, but interest in
me.
Ava.
A human being, not a vagina and a pair of breasts. Although I
find those parts of me at full attention, ready to be whatever he
wants them to be.
“Octavia is what I was called when I was little. I’m not a little girl
anymore.”
“I see that.”
“What gave it away?”
“The cynicism.”
I snort at that.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, relaxing into my seat. “This
does not seem like the kind of place a guy like you would be
comfortable. Apart from the fact you can obviously handle yourself,
you seem more like you’d be, I don’t know, into cocktail parties and
art exhibitions.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“Really? You see a lot of women that look like me at cocktail
parties?”
 “Maybe. I don’t go to cocktail parties. But I do like art, and you
look arty.”
Arty? I’ve been described as a lot of things, but that one is new.
“I do?”
He nods. “Aren’t you?”
I hesitate. It’s not as easy a question as he seems to think it is.
It’s been so long since I had any time for fun or relaxation. My entire
world is consumed by what I do, by taking revenge, by feeding my
need. I’m not an alcoholic, despite what Rob might say, but I am an
addict, I do have urges.
But once…
Things were different. I was a happy little girl with a mom and
dad. I felt safe.
And once, I did enjoy art. I used to draw fairies and princesses,
and dragons. I used to draw cliffs and woods and mountains.
I wonder, if I had a pencil and a sheet of paper right now, how
disturbing my drawings would be.
“Can I make a proposal?” Cas asks, and he leans forward.
I forget momentarily how to breathe.
The way his shirt molds to his torso, all the sharp angles and
expansive slabs. Muscle. I was right and Tiny misjudged him. He
isn’t skinny, he’s tall and athletic, like some Greek god of lust and
murder.
And like those gods, if he wanted me, he wouldn’t have to ask.
“It’s a bit premature,” I mutter, finding my voice again. And my
sarcasm. “But what the hell, sure, I’ll marry you.”
He doesn’t laugh.
Fuck. He isn’t laughing. He’s staring at me. Intently. In a way I
imagine a cat would a mouse.
 Suddenly my joke seems all too serious. Part of me wants to take
it back but another part…
Why does another part want it? I can’t get the thought of
wedding bells out of my head.
“Sorry… What… What were you going to say?” I stumble over the
words, rising up off my seat as surreptitiously as I can because I
need to force my legs together.
I’ve never had this reaction before.
“Marriage can wait. For now. But if you’re in town for the next
few days, how about I take you to a gallery?” he says without
missing a beat. Like my whole world isn’t changing around me.
“There’s an exhibition opening for a friend of mine tomorrow night. I
can get us tickets.”
I’m nodding my head as Rob walks in through the door. He sees
me right away, and of course he notices that I’m talking to some
stranger. I feel the blush because I like Cas. I actually do.
And sure, he’s probably a cage fighter or something but he’s
nice. He’s being nice. To me.
Why shouldn’t I have a nice time with a nice man who treats me
well?
“Yes,” I say, slightly desperately. “Uh huh. That sounds good. I’m
staying in the motel across… You know the one? It’s … I don’t have
a mobile phone. I do, but I don’t give out the number and…”
“That’s fine,” Cas says. “I’ll pick you up at five and we can have a
meal first.”
I nod. “I… I have to go. I’m meeting someone and he just
walked in. Not another man… I mean, he is, but he’s my dad. That’s
all.”
Why did I just feel the need to explain myself? Not once, but
twice?
 He shrugs, grinning. “See you tomorrow, Ava Rossi.”
I nod again, and when I can’t think of any words I tap the table
with my fingers. Then I slide out of the booth fast, hoping there isn’t
a wet patch on the crotch of my jeans but not daring to look down
and check.
Should I have hugged him? Is that what people do? Or is that
what boyfriends and girlfriends do?
I don’t know because I’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend. Not
that I think I am now. One date doesn’t make me his girlfriend, does
it? And this might not even be a date. I mean, we never said it was
a date. I don’t know what a date is.
“Who’s that?” Rob asks, and I realize I’ve walked right across the
room to where he’s taken a seat.
He looks concerned. And why wouldn’t he be? I don’t talk to
strange men except to tell them to fuck off.
“Cas,” I tell him. “He… There was a guy hassling me and he got
rid of him.”
“You need to be more careful. We don’t need to draw attention
to ourselves, Ava. It’s better if nobody remembers we were here.
You didn’t tell him your name, I hope.”
I shake my head. “No, of course not,” I lie. “I’ll get you a drink.
So we blend in better.”
For a moment, Rob stares at me. Then he nods. “Good idea. But
I’ll get them. And you’re having orange juice.”
 CHAPTER THREE

Cas

T his isn ’ t what I do.

I don’t stalk my victims. I grab them and kill them.
I wasn’t planning to follow her into that bar. And when I couldn’t
resist, I certainly wasn’t planning on defending her from some
asshole.
I wasn’t planning on having a conversation, on finding out her
likes and dislikes.
And that she has a father. Who’s here with her. Seems someone
forgot to tell me about that.
Even more surprising is finding I enjoy her company, so much so
that I want to see her again.
But the kicker? Asking her out on a date.
After all, I still have to kill her.
Ava Rossi is next on my list, whether I find her enthralling or not.
The Kalon Brotherhood has sent her to me, hoping to keep the beast
at bay. Just like King Aegeus in ancient Athens sending maidens to
be devoured by the Minotaur, they expect this delectable little
sacrifice to quell the monster. To keep them safe from my wrath.
And if I refuse? Then they might reasonably expect that I’ll come
after them next.
“Shhh, little firestarter,” I whisper as I draw in a deep breath.
Her flame-red hair smells of strawberries, because she has
strawberry shampoo. I checked her bathroom. I saw it. I held her
damp towel against my face, knowing that it had been against her
naked flesh. I then checked the cabinet and found it empty. It’s a
motel room, after all, and she’s not planning to stay long.
But the fact that it’s empty means there’s no birth control. No
condoms or little pills. Which must mean she doesn’t have a
boyfriend. Has she ever had one?
Something tells me no, that she’s too much like me. That
interaction we had was far from human, and I noticed the way she
hesitated before telling me not to crush Tiny’s windpipe. The gleam
in her eyes when I suggested cutting his fingers off.
Ava Rossi enjoys killing. Whatever her motivation is, whether she
fits Carlo’s four tests or not, she likes seeing people die. Just like me.
And just like me, she has no interest in all that disgusting fleshy,
sweaty coupling that normal people seem to want so much.
She stirs in her sleep and I imagine choking her right now.
Watching her eyes go wide.
Trusting.
I shake my head. That doesn’t fit. Not trusting. She should be
terrified, begging for her life, and that’s what I should want from her.
Not devotion in those golden amber eyes.
She doesn’t wake up when I gently stroke her cheek with my
thumb, or when I get close enough that I could kiss her pouting lips.
I lift the skull mask and feel her soft breath on my mouth, and count
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 — Komea pari.

— Ovat varmaankin salakihloissa.

Kyllikin kuulee sen ja punastuu.

He aloittavat, ja toiset parit väistyvät syrjään. Tyttö painautuu

häneen, ja he lentävät melkein, kaiken katkeran unohtaen, eronkin.

Kun he lopettavat, juoksee Kylli ulos, jonnekin aittaansa tahi

kamariin, kun ei jaksa olla siinä… jokaisen katseltavana.

Bertil jää.

Ukot alkavat lökertää. Anttikin toikkaroi hutikassa ja sanoo tulevan

julman ikävän… tätä Pertteliä… kun herroista ihan mukavin…
vaikkei enää maistakaan, mutta muuten olossaan eläväinen ja… piru
vie, häntä ihan itkettää.

— Mitä sinä Käkkä… annahan kun minä…

Hiertiäinen työntää Antin syrjään.

— Se on niin, että ensi kesänä, jos eletään… niin reistataan, piru,

luodolla ja muualla… haukia ja kuhia semmoisia kuin sikoja…
paistetaan.

Tänne jouluksi… jos passaisi. Laitettaisiin oikeat oluet, jos ei enää

näistä viinoista… kynttilät ja kuuset, perr-setti!

— Niin, jouluksi! Tulkaa jouluja tänne viettämään, pyytää jokainen.

Bertil saa riemastuttavan ajatuksen. Hänpä tuleekin talvella tänne

korpeen. Jouluksi todellakin, syömään maalaisten jouluruokia,
maalaamaan.

— Ne joulusaunat… ja muut… maalataan … kähnitään…

— Minä tulen, lupaa Bertil.

— Ihanko varmasti?

— No ihan varmasti… tuohon käteen.

Paiskataan kättä ja remutaan.

Bertil lähtee etsimään Kylliä, sanoakseen hänelle päätöksestään.

Kylli on mennyt aittaansa ja pielukseen nojaten siellä nyyhkyttää.

— Pyytävät tulemaan tänne jouluksi. Lupaan tulla, jos sinäkin

pyydät.

Tyttö kavahtaa hänen kaulaansa, suutelee, loppumattomiin.

Bertilin yhtäkkiä leimahtanut ilo sammuu, omaansa ja tytön

haikeaan ikävään.

Niin, nehän olivat vain lupauksia, mutta tämä, nykyhetki oli

todellisuutta. Tuolla nurkissa oli vielä juhannusyön kukkia,
keskikesän henkeä, pitkä, kiihkeä satu ja kuitenkin lyhyt kuin kesäyö.

Ulkona jo vaikenee. Tuvan räystäällä visertelee pääsky.

Bertil avaa aitan oven. Molemmin jäävät siihen vielä hetkiseksi,

aamun sarastukseen.
 — Kuule, Bertil, yhden asian minä lupaan sinulle, vaikka et
tahdokaan.
Tämän jälkeen ei… saa enää kukaan toinen koskea minuun.

Bertil on kuullut jo ennenkin tällaisia vakuutuksia, mutta ei ole

uskonut. Tätä hän ei saata epäillä, siksi hän jo tuntee tytön.

— Kylli, sinun on tultava iloiseksi jälleen. Tule saattamaan minua.

Onhan meillä vapaus, minullakin, tulla tänne milloin haluan, ja tulen
ehkä piankin.

Bertilin tavarat ovat jo rattailla, ja Salomo odottaa pihaportilla.

Läksiäisväki hajoaa kyläteille, ja Perttelille toivotellaan onnea
matkalle ja kärtetään pian tulemaan.

Aatami seisoo hajasäärin tuvan kuistilla ja räpyttelee silmiään.

Ovat kosteat, mistä lienevät. Bertilin kapea käsi ihan hukkuu hänen
isoon kouraansa.

— Tule vain pian tänne… pidän kuin omaa poikaa, parempanakin.

Ostetaan talo, jäät asumaan. On rahaa ja tavaraa, olla miten vain.

— Tottahan tuota edes kirjeen laittanet, sanoo emäntäkin.

Kylli on ottanut ylleen raitaisen pukunsa, joka hänellä oli

juhannusyönä ensikerran. Sanoo lähtevänsä laivarantaan, ehkä
siitäkin edelleen.

— Vie tytön matkassaan, hii… tämä Perttuli, nauraa Hiertiäinen.

— Eipä tiedä, jos jäänkin tälle tielleni, naurahtaa Kylli jo

vapautuneena.
 — Eikö hiisilöissä, toimittaa Käkkä-Antti, joka uskollisena vieraalle
on jäänyt lähtöä katsomaan. — Pitäähän toki… vaikka kihlajaiset
täällä… ja muut kemut… Kyllä vuotellaan.

Bertil nostaa tyttönsä rattaille, istuu viereen ja viittoo vielä kerran

niille heikkouksistaan huolimatta hyville ihmisille, joiden veroisia ei
ole ennen löytänyt.

Huiskutetaan ja viitotaan. Hiertiäinen huitoo naulan painavalla

piipullaan ja kohottelee housujaan.

Kyllin nauru kuuluu iloisena rattailta.

KOLMASTOISTA LUKU.

Hameniemen saunasta tuprahtelee sankka savu kuulakasta elokuun

iltataivasta vasten. Turakka heittää sylyksen vielä halkoja uuniin ja
puuskuttaen tutkii kiukaan kuumuutta. Tänään on rämekorpelaisilla
uutisen juhla, ja ukot aikovat sitä viettää Hiertiäisen saunassa,
erillään muista, viinoineen ja viisauksineen.

Hiertiäinen istuu alassuin käännetyllä pytyllä ja syljeksii Tanulan

Antin paljaille varpaille. Aatami on sijoittanut ruhonsa vanhaan
korvoon tukkimilleen heinille ja nousuhumalassa laulahtelee: »…
tuolla puolen Jordanin». Patrakka, mustaparta, vilauttelee silmää
Asarille, vatsallaan loikoen tuoksuvassa saunakukkarykelmässä,
käden ulottuvilla puteli, josta maistaa ja tarjoaa toisille.

Turistaan kaikesta joutavasta. Hiertiäinen katselee metsän takaa

nousevaa kuuta ja viisastelee:

— On se tuokin… toisen kerran kutistuu ja sitten taas kasvaa…

ihan kuin… heh, heh, mikä lie pahulaisen pallo… kiekuttaja siellä
taivaalla … kun se Pertteli kerran valehteli olevan sillä satumaisella
näitäpä kiekuttajia kokonaista kaksitoista… hii… soma poika…
 — Jumalan luoma se on kuukin, sanoo Aatami ja nikottelee
Patrakan vahvasta uutisviinasta. — Mutta se on vale, että niitä
muuta on kuin tuo yksi.

— Joo… hiton pitkä vale se on, että… hii… tämäkin maa on

ymmyrkäinen, pannukakku, pallo tahi muu semmoinen piru. Kyllä
Hiertiäinen tietää sen asian.

Turakka istuu synkkänä ja kuuntelee ukkojen jaarituksia. Syysilta

painaa käsittämättömästi häntä, korven huuhkainta, jota lain koura
haparoi, saamatta kynsiinsä, turmanlintua, paikasta paikkaan
lentävää.

Patrakka kynii partaansa eikä sure tämän matoisen maailman

kierouksia eikä kehnouksia. Juo silloin kun janottaa ja on taas pitkät
ajat maistamatta. Keittää vain isännille ja käärii rahaa liiviinsä. Jättää
kohta koko puuhan ja ottaa sen tytön sieltä eräästä kylästä ja laittaa
mökin. Suonien kiivas sykintä on alkanut jo asettua, ja kulkurielämä
ei enää viehätä. No, se onkin sen tytön, pellavahiuksisen ja
punaposkisen ansio.

Saunasta on lakannut savu tuprahtelemasta, ja valtava hiilos

hehkuu ja lämmittää avonaisesta ovesta nurmella istuvia miehiä,
jotka siinä jaarittelevat ihmeitään, viinan punerrus naamassa.

— … minultakin kerran käytyä siellä Helsingissä, helevetissä, —

valehtelee Hiertiäinen silmät kiiluen, — ja sielläkös vasta… hii
herratkin kuin harakoita, pyrstönutuissa ja muissa hepenissä. Heh,
ryötöillä niin rento kaula, että semmoisten valkoisten lastojen
varassa. Ja akat niinkuin riikinkukot… hyvältä haisevia, piiatkin,
pyntätyitä ja rasvatulta… hii… minä heitä tunnustelemaan tällä
suonisella kouralla, että ovatko lihavia, niin suututaan ja säkätetään.
Minä en kuin nauran niille ja sanon, että on tässä ennenkin jo
akkojen kanssa lupsuteltu… osataan tanssittaakin… hii… poliisi
hätyyttelemään, häikäle, ja komentamaan… minä ryypyt sille tästä
litteästä matista, tätä ryytiviinaa, niin paikalla kuin lammas… neuvoo
ja viittilöi… ei muka keskikatua kävellä, kun ne sähköt ja
säkyttimet… heh… herroja ja hempukoita siellä niinkuin itikoita,
pythyi! Parempi täällä omassa saunassa, enkä tätä heijän
helesinkilöihinsä vaihtaisi.

Sauna alkaa joutua. Maistetaan. Nostetaan kokonainen

viinatynnyri saunan eteen ja istutaan vielä ympärille. Kerkiääpä sinne
saunaan vielä. On elokuista iltaa, kun kerran kuukin paistaa.
Puhutaan näistä maaliman asioista, viisaillaan.

Hiertiäinen suu mareessa miettii. Sanoo:

— On nekin rautatiet… sätkyttimet…juoksutettu seernoja kuin

vasikan suolia pitkin teitä, ja sitten nämä herrat ajaa… suurilla
rahoillaan… heh… ja sitten kaupuntloita laitetaan, pesiä .. hii.. jossa
hempukoihen kanssa heiskataan… eipäs ollut ryötöillä ryytiviinaa…
kuuluvat nekin lakiherrat pulituuria juovan… ii… Annahhan, Antti, se
puteli tänne, kun lekkeristä lirutetaan.

Aatamikin nikottelee:

— Ne sähköt ja vaunut… hik… niitä viimeisen lopun merkkejä…

tämän maaliman ruhtinas… hik… perkele… niitä laitattaa ja
ajattaa… lapsillaan, luoduilla ja lunastetuilla. Mutta kun näitä…
hurskaita… niin säästetään … jos tekisivät parannuksen… armon
ajassa.
 Aatami on nauttinut jumalanviljaa niin, että silmät alkavat painua
kiinni ja ääni marittaa ja naukuu kuin keväisen kissan. Hiertiäinen,
korven piru, ei tietääkseenkään. Nauraa Kenkkulaiselle, joka aina
sitä uskoaan ja vanhurskauttaan, näinkin uutisviinojen juhlassa.
Törisee Aatamille, toisten jo saunaan riisuutuessa:

— Elä sinä Aatu aina sitä samaa… armosta ja muusta… tuntuu

pahalta… ii… kun kerran meillä kummallakin näissä piioissa ja
puteliloissa ne armot ja muut… hii… yhtä hupsu kuin herratkin…
sinä Aatami… puhut paskia.

— Saunaan siitä!

Turakka karjasee, niin että Antti lysähtää takasilleen ja konttaa

nelijalkaisena saunaan.

Joutuvat siitä jo toisetkin, ja Patrakka valelee viinaa kiukaalle.

— Annetaan saunan haltialle uhrinsa ja nostakaa te muut se

viinalekkeri tuohon keskelle lattiaa, kun nyt kerran uutisen juhla, ja
juokaa, juokaa niin, että huomisen päivän vielä mehiläisiä
kuuntelette, ja sittenpä sinäkin Aatami osaat oikein sitä
vanhurskauttasi taas, kun on päästy uutiseen ja saatu tätä rukiisen
nestettä suoniin, ja sinä Antti anna sille reumatille ja kintun kiskojalle
niin, että tulet yhtä nuoreksi kuin viinan jumala, ja sinä Hiertiäinen,
korven punanaamainen piru, ota niin, että suonesi pullottaa kuin
lehmän suolet ja että jaksat vielä sata vuotta lekertää Tiinasi ja
piikojesi kanssa, ja sinä Turakka, uskon veli ja ystävä, vedä henkeesi
yrttiviinan lemua ja lennä taas kuin kulo pitkin kyliä, kunnes oikaiset
sääresi korpikuusen juurelle ja kuuntelet sitä iankaikkista itikkain
laulua. Ja jos nyt sitten laulettaisiin.
 Patrakka aloittaa jätkien junttalaulun:

»Iitin Tiltu kun kahvia keitti, niin kasakka kantoi vettä vaan,
hei jei jekkakkaa, kasakka kantoi vettä vaan.»

Muut kaikki, paitsi Aatami, yhtyvät lauluun, ja saunan seiniä

tärisyttää neljän miehen voimalla:

»On sitä oltuna saunassa sekä saunan takana, hei jei

jekkakkaa, sekä saunan takana.»

Hiertiäisellä on piru mielessä. Hän kähnii lavoilta alas, kaataa

lekkeristä viinaa kippoon ja heittää sen kiukaalle, kaataa toisen ja
tyhjentää senkin pihiseville ja paukkaville kiville.

— Elä perkuloita!

— Nyt tuli helvetti!

— Polttaa kuin tuli… ää… vettä…

Saunassa kiertää viinan väkevä, tukahduttava löyly, ja Hiertiäinen

hekottaa alhaalla. Miehet köntistyvät ja putoilevat alas, ensin Aatami
ja sitten Antti, muutaman kerran kolmikulmaisia silmäkolojaan
lupsauttaen ja vetäen viimeisen henkäisyn, Aatami puuskuttaen kuin
uupunut eläin ja viinakuninkaat tajuttomina, lavojen alla rähmällään.

Hiertiäinen hätääntyy, hoippuu ulos ja kantaa kylmää vettä

sangollisen rannasta, syytää sitä vuorotellen jokaisen päähän ja
punoittavalle ruumiille. Viinakuninkaat näyttävät virkoavan, mutta
Aatamin ja Antin vaellus on lopussa.

*****
 Hörödii on saanut taaskin nimismiehen lähtemään korpeen, ja
nytpä heillä on varma saalis saunassa, josta viinakuninkaat eivät
jaksa eivätkä arvaa lähteä pakoon.

Hörödii on hyvillään, ja kun kipeäjalkaisen, korpiteillä äkäilevän

nimismiehen kanssa ovat päässeet Asarin saunalle, sanoo hän:

— Jopahan viimeinkin veti kuin naulan päähän. Pitää varoa,

etteivät pääse karkaamaan.

Hörödii jää ase kourassa saunan ovelle, ja nimismies työntyy

ovirenkkanasta sisään.

— Ää… onpa täällä hajua…

Hiertiäinen huomaa ruununmiehet, ottaa vaatteensa ja mitään

puhumatta kähnii ulos. Hörödii estelee, mutta Asari teristyy:

— Mitä sinä… tässä… selvää miestä…

Asari katoaa pihaan, sieltä heinäluuvaan ja tirkistelee katon

kolosta saunalle. On hyvillään, että on päässyt karkuun, no, piru,
selvä mies kuin… minkä ne hänelle…

Nimismies kantaa ensiksi saunasta viinalekkerin varmaan talteen

ja antaa poliisin tehtäväksi kovistella miehiä mukaansa,
viinakuninkaita, joita ei enää käyne laskeminen vapaalle jalalle.

— Ei niissä taida olla enää henkeä jälellä, sanoo Hörödii

nimismiehelle.

— No minkä minä sille… kuuntele korvasta … tai mistä tahansa…

— Tulkaa auttamaan, että saadaan vaatteet päälle.

 — Vai minä heissä käsiäni pilaamaan. Miehinen mies… apua
tuommoisessa.

Nimismies käy maistamassa salaa uutisviinaa ja tulee paremmalle

tuulelle.

— Hohooi näitä reisuja… pitää hommata toinen hevonen, että

saadaan nämä Turakat ja Piirakat mukaan. Aatamiko ja Antti
hengetönnä? No, jääkööt sinne, piru heistä huolen pitäköön.

Hörödii lähtee hankkimaan hevosta, ja nimismies jää saunaa

vartioimaan.

Turakka on jo äsken selvinnyt, mutta ollut viisas ja sanoo nyt hiljaa

Patrakalle:

— Pysy nyt piru vetelänä. Kun päästään maantielle, niin

karataan… hevosella… toisiin pitäjiin.

Nimismies löytää Hiertiäisen putelin, liruttaa siihen lekkeristä

viinaa ja solauttaa poveensa. Lekkerinkin aikoo hän viedä kotiaan
lääkkeeksi ja muuten maistiaisiksi kirkonkylän herroille, suntiolle,
kauppiaalle ja papille. Vähän kammottaa ne viinaan kuolleet siellä
saunassa, mutta talosta ei uskalla tulla kukaan rantaan, kun on
nähty sinne poliisien menevän. Kuu vielä paistaa niin ilkeästi ja
näyttää nauravan hänelle, nimismiehelle, joka tässä maistelee
rämekorpelaisten viinoja ja alkaa olla aika viuhkassa. Tulisi vain
Höröläinen, että saisi näyttää voimiaan… ää… mitä perkuloita se
siellä viipyy…

Nimismies pönkittää saunan oven auki. Mutisee:

 — Vai jo nämä tarttuivat… Höröläisen ja monen muun
juoksettajat…

Ja seinää vasten nojaavan Turakan korvan juuressa:

— … äää… korpipiru… nyt sinä tartut… näihin kouriin…

Nimismies heltyy samassa ja istuu rahille Turakan viereen.

— Ei vainkaan, eihän tässä mitä… ilmanhan minä… aikojani…

kyllä minä ymmärrän, mutta kun tämä virka saatana… en olisi
nytkään lähtenyt, mutta Hörökiltä ei saanut rauhaa.

Kuun valossa välähtävät Turakan silmät, ja rintaa paisuttaa

pidättyvä hengitys. Olisipa hän nyt yksin, niin tuohon jäisivät
ruununmiehet. Hän itse pakenisi Lappiin, pois koko mailta, läänistä,
jossa on tullut niin paljon rehjanneeksi ja jossa oikeat ihmiset häntä
kiroavat… Hörökki tuo hevosen… maantiellä karataan Patrakan
kanssa, sysätään poliisi maantienojaan… nimismies nukkuu
rattailleen… mennään yhdessä Karjalaan… lopetetaan koko
puuha…

Hörödii tuo hevosen, apurimiestä ei ole saanut, vaikka mitä olisi

luvannut.

Nimismies suuttuu.

— Vai et saanut. Jo häntä on vasikka! Poliisi sitten muka… huusin

alle omansa!

— No, ei haukuta, otetaan nämä miehet rattaille, tulkaahan

auttamaan.
 Retuutetaan Turakkata rattaille. Turakan povuksia nauru viiltelee,
mutta hän on hiljaa ja lupsauttelee silmiään. Nimismies on jo siksi
hiprakassa, ettei kykene kunnolla auttamaan. Ähelletään ja
pusataan.

— Hae akkoja nostamaan… en minä jaksa… saatana… hirttää

pitäisi tuommoinen poliisi.

Vallesmanni istuu mättäälle ja maistaa varaamastaan putelista.

Laulahtaa:

»E-elä sinä he-eilani mii-inua sure,

vaikka o-onkin tuukki-jätkä.»

— Taas se on juonut… niihen viinoja, alkaa Hörödii torailla.

— Mitä sinä… räkätät… korodii… annan turpaasi, ellet tuki sitä.

— Sattuisi maaherra tietämään.

— Vaikka mahaherra. Hae se toinen rattaille, niin tähtään… Tässä

koko yötä…

*****

Päästään vihdoinkin lähtemään, ja nimismies ajaa edellä,

viinalekkeri polvien välissä. Jonkun matkan päässä alkavat
viinakuninkaat kuorsata, ja Hörödii jättää hevosen yksin kävelemään
ja menee nimismiehen rattaille.

— Ota sinäkin ryyppy. Kyllä se kannattaa… harjakaisiksi…

kehoittelee nimismies.
 Mutta lekkeri onkin kääntynyt alassuin ja liemi valunut kärryjen
koriin, maantielle. Nimismies huomaa vahingon ja alkaa syyttää
poliisia.

— Konipoliisi… kaataa viinat… harjakaiset. Nyt sinä tarttisit jo

klaniisi.

— Itse olette kaatanut. Näkyi viina tippuvan tielle, kun tulin. Se

olikin paraiksi.

— Haista sinä nyt jo hapan ja ala painella siitä… omaan

hevoseesi.. hengenhaistaja… harakka.

Turakka on kääntänyt hevosen maantiellä, ja poliisi ei sitä huomaa

nimismiehen kanssa riidellessään. Turakka lyö hevosta selkään ja on
kohta toisessa pitäjässä, aamun valjetessa kai kolmannessakin.

Aikansa hasattuaan nimismiehen kanssa katsoo Hörödii jälelleen

ja kiroaa:

— … kele, nyt ne karkasivat!

Vallesmannikin seisauttaa koninsa.

— No siinä on poliisi… päästää karkuun monivuotiset

haalattavansa.
Nyt sinulta toki menee virka… lemmon hörökki.

Nimismies lähtee ajelemaan ja Hörödii juoksemaan vastaiseen

suuntaan, jos saisi muka kiinni vielä viinakuninkaat, jotka olivat
ovelina kuorsanneet kärryjen pohjalla.
NELJÄSTOISTA LUKU.

Bertil Hög, helsinkiläisherra, loikoo riippumatossa ja katselee, miten

hänen kotiaan rakennetaan. Elokuinen aurinko helottaa lehvien
lomasta ja väreilee järven pinnalla, joka alempaa kuvastelee puitten
välistä ja kutsuu rannoilleen.

Bertil Hög on matkannut kaupunkiin, ja Kylli ei ole malttanut erota

laivalaiturilla, vaan on lähtenyt hänkin mukaan. Bertilistä on tuntunut
kesäinen pääkaupunki entistä kuivemmalta ja kuolettavan
väsyttävältä. Hänen rinnallaan sipsutteleva yksinkertainen Kylli on
ollut kuin välittäjänä siihen maailmaan, jonka hän on taaksensa
jättänyt aikoessaan jatkaa humisevan kaupungin hermosairasta
elämää.

»Mitähän kaupunkituttavani sanovat tytöstä?» on Bertil miettinyt ja

hieman pelännytkin, osaako maalaistytti olla hänen mielikseen
oudossa paikassa. »Mikä tuo sievä tyttö on sinun matkassasi?» on
häneltä kysytty. »Sepä on oikea herkkupala, varmaankin maalta
löytämäsi», ovat toverit sanoneet. »Etköhän antaisi meille, kun itse
kyllästyt», ovat jatkaneet. »Pidän itse», on hän heille sanonut ja
tytölle:
 — Mitäs sanot, jos mentäisiin ostamaan kihloja?

Kyllin silmissä on välähtänyt hetkellinen ilo, mutta sitten on tyttö

alakuloisesti sanonut:

— Mitä varten sinun tarvitseisi maalaisystävääsi pitää narrinasi.

Minähän olen antanut sinulle kaikki.

Seuraavana päivänä Bertil on sanonut tytölle:

— Kyllä se nyt on kuitenkin niin, että meidän pitää ostaa ne kihlat.

Minä palaankin sinun kanssasi korpeen ja me rakennamme sen
mökin sinne rannalle. Minä en jaksa enää hengittää tätä valheellista
ilmaa täällä.

Kultapuodissa on Kylli ollut hämillään. Bertil on saanut paljon

rahaa kuvasillaan, ja hän tahtoo valikoida kaikista kauneimman
sormuksen tytölleen. »Oikeastaan tarpeeton kapine, mutta soma
tuollaisen tyttösen sormessa», miettii Bertil ja tuntee olevansa
onnellinen. Kirjoitetaan Rämekorpeen ja lähetetään aviisi, jossa
Kyllin ja Bertilin nimet koreilevat, ja sitten jatkuu satutunnelma,
jonkalaista Bertil ei viime talvena ole osannut enää odottaakaan,
luullen kaiken sellaisen kuuluvan nuoruusvuosien menneisyyteen.

Rämekorpeen tultua on tavattu ensiksi Hiertiäinen, ja tämä on ollut

kuin voita ja vehnästä.

Naulan painava piippu on pudonnut hampaista, ja housujaan

kohotellen on
Asari lökertänyt:

— Sanoinhan minä, että se vie sen tytön, piru, ja ottaa ihan

oikeaksi eukokseen. Et usko, Pertteli, miten tuntui mukavalta, kun
luettiin se kirjeesi, kehveli. No, piru, lupsutellaan sitten täällä
korvessa ja kähnitään, härnätään ahvenia ja mietitään mukavia.

Pojat ovat lähteneet katsomaan rakennuksen paikkaa ja

lahjoittaneet kokonaisen maakappaleen Bertilille, kun oli niin
mukava, että tuli takaisin korpeen ja otti sen tytön.

Emäntä Karulienakin liikkuu ripeämmin kuin ennen ja tomuttelee

talon lukuisia ryijyjä, joita Bertil on ihaillut ja nyt nuoret yhdessä
sanoneet vievänsä niitä uuteen kotiinsa. Oli tämä herra mukava, kun
nai tämän Kyllin, talon tyttären, eikä niitä kaupuntlaisia.

Rakennusmiehiä on hankittu ja pantu miehiä kaatamaan hirsiä ja

ajamaan niitä rakennuspaikalle. Salomo on lähetetty hakemaan
rahaa kirkonkylän pankista, ja eräänä aamuna tulee Nuutti Bertilin
kamariin rahatukku pivosessaan ja laskee sen pöydänkulmalle.

— … tässä tätä rahaa aluksi… otetaan lisää, jos tarvitaan. Pitänee

se muurari hakea kaupunnista, että tulee kunnollista?

Bertil sanoo olevan sitä rahan puolta itselläänkin. Jos tarvitsee,

niin pyytää.

*****

Bertil katselee rakennuksen nurkkia ja sopukoita. Kylli näkyy

soutavan salmen poikki, kaipa tuomaan päiväkahvia. Kirveet
kalkkavat, sahat surisevat. Vesikattoa maalataan, ja se hohtaa
järvelle kauniin punaiselta lehvien lomasta. Kun pesä valmistuu, niin
hauskapa siellä niitä kuvasia… ja muuten oleilla, rauhassa
maailmalta.
 Helsinkiläisherra tahtoo olla maamiehenäkin, ja pari ukon jurria
puskee ojaa syvemmällä metsässä, jossa on ollut sileä niitty, pelloksi
sopiva.

— Hyvä pelto tästä herralle tuloo. Mutaa on kuin läskiä sian

selässä.

Se, mikä Aatami-ukkelin viinakuolemalla on menetetty, on nuorten

naimapuuhalla saatu monin kerroin takaisin.

Niin, olihan se sekin ukko, uskostaan jaarittava, maisteleva ja

repijäistä voiteleva, mutta nyt on nämä nuoret, ja ne saavat kaikkien
ajatukset.

*****

Päivä paistaa, ja korkean taivaan alla, pelloillaan ja niityillään ja

metsissään liikkuvat onnelliset ihmiset. Kuhilaita korjataan riiheen,
huudetaan ja hoilataan. Kylli seisoo rannalla ja varjostaa kädellään
silmiään. Bertil piirtää häntä siinä ja tuntee ruumiissaan voimaa, jota
on saanut täällä korvessa, tuolta tytöltä tuossa, ilmasta ja tuosta
väreilevästä vedestä.

*****

Talossa on jo asetuttu levolle, ja pihamaalla on hiljainen hämärä.

Kylli nukkuu aitassaan, juhannusöiset pihlajankukat pieluksen alla, ja
odottaa Bertiliä, joka viipyy vielä hetken siellä hämärällä pihalla.
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