The stairs are dark and slick. I tell myself it’s not blood I’m stepping in but I can’t ignore the coppery stench that hangs in the air, clouding my head and filling my veins with fear. I take the steps carefully. I don’t want to fall and land in the gore. I don’t want to feel it seep through my clothes and into my skin.
There’s nothing to hold onto as I make my way down. The banister is gone, snapped off in the fight. I see it lying across the counter below, shattered into toothpicks. The wall is smeared with more blood, handprints I don’t want to touch. So I watch my feet, watch the steps, watch the pattern that the soles of my shoes leave in the splashes of blood when I can’t avoid stepping in them. Don’t let this be Coby’s blood, I pray, making my way down the stairs. McBane’s, yes,
