Luck led Nathaniel Boulestin to catch the balustrade before she took a nasty tumble. Luck also landed Joanne Rowls’ ax blade in the banister instead of squarely in Nate’s spine, where Joanne probably aimed. The way the aforementioned heavy cleaver plunged through the wood with a gunshot-like crackle was not lucky at all.

“Joanne stop-!”

Nor was the way the damaged balustrade splintered and gave out below Nate, spilling her face first off the landing to the floor four levels below. 

Cheek whacking the tile, Nate tasted blood. Coarse, wracking agony exploded across her collarbone and squeezed her stomach. The world turned gray, dissolved to black, then pulsed back. 

A high chime rang in both ears. Her jaw felt stiff. A tooth came loose and fell out of her mouth. She heaved.

Dazed, trying not to puke, she struggled to untangle her bruising limbs from the hospital gown. The hustle of feet pattering stairs. The glint of a red fire ax in her peripherals. 

Somehow, she got up.