And, of course, the girl. The one mouthy, memorable girl, with her bronze-green eyes shooting sparks
and her guts and grit laid out there for him to see.
With a twist and yank, he wrenched the heart free.
As he withdrew his hand from the chest cavity, the
body dropped to the floor like a sack of garbage. A
chain slid free of Joe Marin’s open collar, followed by
a faint clink as metal hit concrete.
The pendant from the photo.
Dagan stared at the necklace.
Was she dead? He didn’t want her to be dead.
Without intent, he closed his fist tightly around the
heart he’d ripped free. Blood spurted from the stubs of
the torn blood vessels, emptying the ventricles. It
sprayed the walls and floor and the array of skulls on
the shelves, splattering dark crimson against Dagan’s
white T-shirt and the skin of his neck and cheek.
“It’s not like you to be so sloppy,” Alastor chided.
“You think?”
For an instant, Dagan’s emotions had been so powerful that he’d forgotten his brother was there. Forgotten everything but the kill. This one had been personal.
Fuck. It wasneverpersonal.
But the possible link to the girl made it so.
Which made no sense. He hadn’t seen her in eleven
years. Dreamed about her, yeah. Vivid, Technicolor
dreams that made him feel as if he could reach out and
touch her, talk to her, thread his fingers through her
EVE SILVER
99
silky, dark ringlets. Which also made no sense, because
reapers didn’t dream.
With conscious effort, he eased his grip on Joe
