TWENTY-SIX
"You...are...."
It came out like a whisper, but I saw my blood spatter upwards against Peter Black's pink cheek.
His eyes widened as the blast hit him in the stomach and threw him backwards. Confusion on his face.
He hit the wall opposite me, struggled to stand, and stared at the smoking Judge. Black made a feeble attempt to cover a wound in his stomach the size of a dinner plate.
"You are," I stated again—stronger—with a bit more self-assurance. I wiped blood off my face with the arm holding the gun, and wondered if Black would try anything. I was grateful that he didn't.
He stared at me; hate, confusion, fear and pain all playing across his face.
"Two thousand years," I said, repeating his words from earlier.
He stammered and struggled to speak, but couldn't find his v
