Cooking Up Murder

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What I’d mistaken for a black trash bag was really a black coat. Drago was sprawled on the pavement, one hand clutching at his chest, his face pale and contorted with pain.

“Drago?” I knelt on the pavement, afraid to get too close. With one finger, I gave him a little nudge. He groaned, and I figured it was a good sign.

“Drago, my name is Annie. My friend Eve went for her phone. We’re going to get somebody to help you.”

His eyes flickered open. His gaze wandered aimlessly, to the Très Bonne Cuisine building, then to the tree Eve and I had hidden behind to watch him and Beyla argue. Just thinking back to everything we heard and saw made a chill race up my spine. It turned to ice when Drago’s gaze fastened on me. He reached for my hand, and when he found it, he hung on like there was no tomorrow. For all I knew, for Drago, there wouldn’t be.

“Al… bas… tru.” His voice was no more than a breath, and it was even more heavily accented than Beyla’s.

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