//CLARA//
"H—how? You—you're dead."
My voice was a hollow croak.
The matted head stayed tilted back, filmed-over eyes staring through the lantern beam.
The grin on his face didn't falter. Just stretched wider, cracking the scab until fresh blood ran down his chin.
"Do I… look dead to you?"
Every syllable sounded like he was dragging a rusted nail across a chalkboard.
"I saw the blood."
My mind was spinning backward, digging through the fog, the deafening roar of Casimir's pistol, the heavy thud of a body hitting the deck of the carriage.
"You were shot."
Silas let out a sound that might have been a laugh, but it degenerated instantly into a wet, violent coughing fit. He spat a thick glob of crimson onto the straw at his feet, panting heavily as his head sagged forward.
"The great Casimir Guggenheim… never misses. He put the ball… exactly where he wanted it. Right through the meat of my shoulder. Clean. Avoided the artery."
I shook my head.
