Leta held her arm out straight, rigid despite the sweat glistening green against her sallow skin. The snub-nosed barrel pointed directly at Ovidia’s forehead. Ovidia, however, was not looking at the gun. She was looking at the empty macaroon box on the small, scratched cedar table between them. “My macaroons,” Ovidia observed, a slow, mournful sigh escaping her lips. “The pink ones were my favorite.” Leta grimaced, clutching her stomach with her free hand. “Ovidia, you… you swapped them on me.” Her voice rasped like gravel. “It’s rude to bring tainted snacks to a friend’s house, Leta,” Ovidia countered mildly, leaning back against the worn cushions of the sofa. She stretched her legs out, a small, pained grunt escaping her. “And now my feet ache from that whole… fire business. This really isn’t helping.” Leta’s pupils dilated, her gaze darting from Ovidia’s placid face to the blued cylinder in her hand. The muzzle dipped an inch, swaying slightly. “Get up,” Leta demanded, her voice gaining a desperate edge, though it still sounded breathy. “We’re leaving. My car’s outside. The keys are…” She fumbled at her waist with her free hand, dropping a small metal ring onto the rug. The clatter seemed impossibly loud in the small cabin. Ovidia merely closed her eyes. “Absolutely not. My feet are throbbing. And it looks like it’s going to rain again. I just want to take a nap.” She shifted, pulling a crocheted blanket from the arm of the sofa, nestling deeper into the cushions. “A nap?” Leta shrieked, pitch breaking on a dry retch. The muzzle jerked toward Ovidia’s nose. “You’re at gunpoint, Ovidia Gable! Your life is in my hands! And you want to nap?!” “Well, yes. That’s generally what I do when I’m tired,” Ovidia mumbled, her voice muffled by the blanket. “And I’m very tired. This whole ‘being transmigrated’ thing is exhausting. And now you’ve dosed yourself with your own venom, which is just… so much drama. Can’t we just skip to the part where I get to sleep?” Leta stared, mouth hanging open. The theatrical menace she had prepared crumpled into absurd silence. Her villain monologue, years in the making, felt utterly hollow. Ovidia’s utter nonchalance was a heavier blow than any bullet. Her eyelids fluttered, nausea knotting her gut until her knees bowed. A cold sweat beaded on her brow. “You… you think this is a joke?” Leta rasped, a tear tracing a path through the grime and sweat on her cheek. “This isn’t a joke! This is my escape! My only way out of this miserable, soggy town! I spent years planning this, Ovidia! *Years!* Every ‘curse,’ every ‘supernatural’ happening… it was all me! The vanishing livestock from the Eldridge farm, the collapsing mine shaft at Cragpoint, the whispers of the Blackwood Hag… I needed everyone to be afraid! To sell cheap! To leave! This town was a cage! And your inheritance… your *stupid, undeserved* fortune was going to be my key!” She dragged a foot across the pine floorboards, the gun tracking Ovidia through a glassy, fevered stare. “Tarnstead has choked the life out of everyone who ever tried to leave. It’s always dark, always wet, always the same endless, miserable logging. My parents, their parents… trapped! But not me! Not anymore! I was going to use your money to buy a ticket to the other side of the world, somewhere sunny, somewhere I could finally breathe! And your death… it was just a loose end. A necessary sacrifice for my freedom!” Leta’s voice escalated, rising to a fever pitch, each word laced with a frantic desperation. “You were meant to be the next victim of the ‘Manor’s Curse’! It was perfect! Everyone already knew your family was ‘doomed’! No one would suspect a thing! You were so easy to manipulate, Ovidia! So lazy, so oblivious! You just wanted to nap, didn’t you? While I was out there, working, planning, doing everything! And now you’ve ruined it! You’ve ruined everything!” Spasms locked her shoulders. The gun dipped and rattled. Her face was a grotesque distortion of anger, pain, and utter defeat. She shook uncontrollably, the lethal dose taking hold of her nerves. “Get up, you insolent fool!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Get up and walk to the car, or I swear I’ll shoot you where you lay! I’ll drag your dead body out if I have to! You won’t stop me!” Ovidia, her eyes still closed, let out another long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But if my feet start cramping, I’m going to complain the whole way. And I’ll need a piggyback ride up that hill to your car. Your car, by the way, smells faintly of stale cigarettes and desperation. It really won’t do for a getaway.” Leta’s mouth opened, a soundless scream trapped in her throat. The sheer, infuriating placidity of Ovidia, her refusal to acknowledge the gravity of the situation, pushed Leta past the brink. Her entire meticulously crafted plan, her years of silent suffering and cunning manipulation, reduced to a petty squabble over foot pain and car odors. A surge of vertigo tilted the floor, sending her sideways against the sideboard. Her finger tightened on the trigger, the thin veil of rationality finally snapping. Just as the hammer drew back, a thunderous crack splintered the front wall. The solid oak door, reinforced with thick iron bolts, exploded inward, tearing from its hinges with a splintering groan. The plank struck the side wall with a hollow slap, swinging loose on its twisted hinges. Framed against the mist-shrouded, darkening afternoon, stood Mercer Hayes. His broad shoulders filled the opening from jamb to jamb, heavy wool coat soaked through with mist. Rain flattened dark hair against his temples, his stare fixing straight upon the silver pistol. Tendons corded his neck, and his flour-dusted knuckles were curled into white knots. The apron was gone, replaced by mud-spattered canvas and an icy, silent rage. Leta shrieked, a high-pitched, startled sound that was more animal than human. Her bloodshot gaze darted from the towering figure in the doorway to Ovidia, then back again. Her composure, already shredded by the poison, completely disintegrated. Her fingers spasmed on the trigger guard, and the gun kicked with a deafening flash. The shot ripped through the air with an ear-splitting report, striking the ceiling beam directly above Mercer. There was a sickening splinter of wood, a loud *crack*, and then, with a groaning screech, a massive, scarred support beam began to plummet down right toward Mercer’s head.

The Laziest Hostage