Blood of the Devil

Chapter 30 - Houdini Whodunit

When Letha's chair cracked, it was not met with nearly as much excitement as Mickey's.

"You have got to be frickin' kidding me!" she snapped as she stumbled away, free from the bottom of the chair, but unfortunately not the back of it.

Allowing the rest to clatter to the ground, Mickey ground out a few grated chuckles before falling forward to bump his head against the wall. "Great. Just great."

"Hey!" Letha spun to face him, eyes once again narrowed into a fierce glare. "Cut the melodrama. If anyone has the right to have a meltdown right now, it's the one who could still use a reverse IKEA manual."

He rocked his head to the side and cast her a flat look, barely even bothering to open his eyes. "I'm not being 'melodramatic'."

"You're right – the term 'mellow'-dramatic does imply a certain amount of calmness that is absent from your demeanour!"

"Well at least I'm finally 'right' about something," he shouted, slamming his open palm against the wall.

Curling her fingers so that she could sink her nails into the wood of the chair, Letha sneered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Mickey said, pushing off the wall with his head to stride over to her. He covered the distance in a fraction of a second and would have grabbed her by the shoulders if his hands hadn't been bound. He had no doubt that he would have also shaken her for all he was worth whilst she was still trapped by the zip ties. "It means that everything you have said to me over the last few days has been a critique or an insult or a thinly veiled attempt to... wind me up!"

"Oh don't flatter yourself – as if I'd waste the energy on you." She jerked away from him and put a few metres distance between them.

He snorted, but didn't follow her.

"I barely notice you or acknowledge you," Letha continued, "because you are not worth my time."

"Then why," Mickey asked quietly, his features schooled into a blank mask, "did you get into my car and come down here with me?"

She froze. Looking back over her shoulder, she aimed a ferocious glower at his face. "You mean why did I get into a moving death trap, allow myself to be driven to who knows where, and get kidnapped by two guns and a headscarf? I couldn't possibly postulate a reason for that kind of idiocy – except a brain tumour!"

"Have you noticed that whenever you get royally pissed, you start using really long words?" Mickey replied, raising a brow.

"It's far more likely," she snapped, roughly trying to jerk her hands free from what remained of the chair, "that you sense danger and your vocabulary reverts to that of a caveman."

"And we're back to the insults."

Neither looked at the other. Shaking his head, Mickey sunk to the ground, laying on his back. Pushing his hips off the cold concrete, he situated his bound hands as far in the direction of his feet as he could before lowering his butt between his arms. Sitting up, he leant as far forward as he could and stretched his hands, bending his knees at acute angles. He lifted the first foot and placed inside his arm circled. Then he lost his balance and toppled over.

Letha snickered.

"Shut up," he said, but he was hiding a smile. Laying down, it was actually easier to push the leg all the way through the gap and then manoeuvre the second into position. In only a moment, Mickey's hands were in front of him. He let out a squawk of satisfaction.

As Letha rolled her eyes and walked away, he stilled, letting his eyes trace her path.

"Look," he murmured, raising both arms to drag his hair out of his eyes, "I get it."