Chapter 51: Prison City [Part 5]
"Alright — it's just the two of us in this," Evelyn said, adjusting her hat with one hand, the other resting on Bonnie's shoulder. "And since it's just the two of us, we're going to need our horses if we want to keep those coyotes from taking a bite out of us — or even catching up to us in the first place."
"Right. I was thinking the same thing — but I'm scared they'll hurt Capella. She's never been hurt before, and she might react aggressively if they bite her. I've already been trying to think of alternatives."
"Don't overthink it, just be careful. Remember — your horse is capable of being more than just a horse. All she needs is a rider with some backbone. Let's go!"
"What? Wait. My leg still hurts. And it's bleeding a lot!"
"You're the one who wanted to keep going, so don't back out now. I've got your back, sweetheart. Push through the pain and let's finish our business with this clown."
"Ow, ow. Don't walk so fast."
"No time to waste, Bonnie Bonnie," Evelyn sang with a laugh.
Bonnie looked up at her — Thieving Cat being just a little taller — and found herself once again caught by that pretty smile on that freckled face. Those scarlet eyes seemed to glow with delight. But soon enough, a sharp throb from somewhere deep in her calf muscle dragged Bonnie back to reality.
The coyote bite. She winced, clearly — but pushed along by Evelyn, who kept her going with an arm around her shoulder, she swallowed the pain that felt like it could make her cry at any moment and planted her feet firmly to stop limping at every step. Shoulders and back straight. Eyes determined. Time to work. But…
'It really hurts,' it was still brutal to push through. 'Evelyn, you have zero sensitivity about this kind of thing. But then — of course! I'm expecting sensitivity from a woman who can go days with four bullet holes in her body and not die. I don't even know why I keep applying logic when I'm around her.'
Through the mist, their shadows were swallowed by the white. Many a civilian eye watched the mystery from behind their windows while the coyotes churned through the alleyways. And there where the darkness consumed the unfortunate, Scaramuccia gripped his broken arm, sprinting desperately through the lanes — blood dripping from his torn clothes, the cold, heavy fog pressing against his body, his warm breath going cold with every ragged exhale. At his back, hungry and with blood-stained jaws, four coyotes gave relentless chase, their eyes reflecting the battered silhouette of the jester.
"Just… Leave me alone," he muttered through clenched teeth.
He pushed himself forward, one step at a time — behind him, quick steps and savage growls.
"Just leave me alone!" Scaramuccia shouted. His body was swallowed by the dark mist, vanishing from his predators' sight. But just a few meters ahead, the black mist wrapped around him again. He appeared dragging himself against the wall, then pushed off with his hand and kept running.
He scraped his shoes against the ground, his soul clinging to his body through sheer force of will. He was cornered. He couldn't run anymore. Once again, the Coward had nowhere left to go. The meaning of his Ballad. The weight of his own story. The end closing in at his heels. He cut through the alley and reached the other side of the street — but one of the coyotes leapt, sank its teeth into his leg, and dragged him back into the darkness.
He cried out in agony, kicking at the beast in a failed attempt to break free. The other three coyotes piled in and opened their jaws to bite. Scaramuccia looked into those glowing eyes before the fangs reached him, and for just one instant, he found the gazes of other jesters staring back — the deepest expression of his own memories.
That one memory awoke in him one last burst of failing strength. He screamed, grabbing two of the coyotes by the jaw, their sharp fangs driving into his hands. At the same time, his eyes blazed purple, the mist covering his body, and then — puff! Two clones appeared at his side, driving their knives into the creatures' throats.
The coyote that had him by the leg let go, choking on its own blood, along with the others, which whimpered and writhed.
Scaramuccia let his arms fall to the ground. Breathing hard, almost drowning in the effort, he looked into the eyes of one of the dying coyotes. His face hardened. He furrowed his brow, clenched his teeth tight, and then said:
"You're not going to catch me. You never will. No matter how exhausted I am. I'd sooner end my own life than let you get what you want from me."
From inside the church, Marcus smiled — amused. His expression, with those unsettling eyes, was so unnatural that Father Sunday, sitting beside him, felt profoundly intimidated — enough to shift awkwardly in the pew before getting up.
Rosa wore a brief flash of revulsion that she quickly buried beneath her worried expression, though that man only seemed to get worse the more people saw of him. With that sinister smile, his teeth turned slightly sharp, and the pupils of his eyes expanded like those of an animal.
"You see, clown — when I set my mind to something, I get it. Not because I'm a lazy man who just likes getting things done fast, but because I genuinely enjoy my work. The more you resist, the better this is for me."
On the other end, Scaramuccia dragged himself a few centimeters away from the creature which — even with its throat torn open — had spoken to him in that same man's voice from the other side. It didn't surprise him as much as it might have. He limped to his feet, his clones dissolving into the black mist.
"You're repulsive," he said — but his voice caught in his throat in the very next second. Rising from the depths of the alleyways and the mist-wrapped ends of every street, the eyes of dozens more coyotes stared straight at him.
Right then, the dead coyote's body whispered:
"I'll have you soon, clown. The Church has a great many questions for you."
The coyote dissolved along with its "brothers" in dim whitish flickers, scattered across the ground like boiling water cooling to nothing. Scaramuccia looked down at the ground, defeated, his breathing trembling.
"I have nothing left…" he said, his voice breaking.
He looked up at the sky — but he couldn't even see the stars through the fog. Meanwhile, from their windows, the townspeople watched a lone, blood-soaked jester standing in the middle of the darkened street. Some were preparing to go out and see what was happening, while the eyes of those who hungered for a story watched on with bitter curiosity.
"I never had anything…" he whispered.
He closed his eyes.
"It's over."
He couldn't run anymore. Trapped by his own story and the sins climbing up his back like a venomous spider, his body stopped trying to move and his mind stopped trying to find another way out. Precise and terrible, the coyotes no longer needed to run — because the prey had finally surrendered.
Footsteps. Soft growls. Scaramuccia opened his eyes. A light cut through from one of the nearby doors. Though he couldn't see it fully, he sensed it was one of the civilians who had finally brought themselves to step outside and find out what the hell was going on. The light of an oil lamp fell on the jester, who looked at the figure standing there.
It was an old woman, trembling with cold. She looked frightened — but also worried. She walked on her weak legs and stopped in front of Scaramuccia.
"Young man, we heard you screaming — what happened to you? Should we go find help?"
The sweet old woman, adorable in her poncho with its ironic coyote embroidery, pulled a smile out of Scaramuccia, who answered weakly:
"I'm fine. I just have to keep running."
"Running? Did you get yourself into trouble? What's going on? We've been hearing gunshots — the people here are frightened and don't want to leave their homes. Did you do this, young man?"
Scaramuccia looked at the ground and shook his head.
"No… Just a crazy girl with a revolver."
Pressing a hand to her mouth in alarm, the old woman said:
"Lord Almighty, we need to find help! Come on, come inside. My son can—"
"You're very kind. But I don't need it."
Ignoring the old woman, who kept speaking to him with concern, Scaramuccia walked down the center of the street. Eyes dim, shadow twisted in the light of the oil lamp. Obedient and merciless, the coyotes followed like old friends — but no one could see anything other than a sad "clown" who smiled before vanishing into the darkness of the night.
And where his fate waited, the gallop of a horse rang out. Across the rooftops ran that cat, guiding Bonnie through the thick mist — as she stretched her hand out toward the jester while riding straight at him. The coyotes growled, and on the other side Marcus's expression turned harder, more annoyed.
With a calm press of his hand, he squeezed the charm and gave the order:
"Kill her."
Capella sensed the danger and nearly pulled back — but Bonnie urged her forward hard, eyes resolute. Bonnie's hand reached the jester in an instant. Scaramuccia couldn't believe it — but his body reacted, grabbing Bonnie's hand. Then he was pulled through the thickness as the coyotes sprinted at full speed after the horse.