Racked with pain, Atticus rolled over. He grinned while licking blood from around his mouth—the Vampire blood healed him instantly.
Septimus blinked with panic when he realized that he had lost. His healing blood was all over Atticus’s face and on the floor.
Atticus sprang to his feet and gripped Septimus by the collar. He relished the moment and wanted to make this man suffer in ways untold, but an urgent feeling rinsed over him. He needed to be home with Joy—not here.
Before Septimus could strike, Atticus ripped out the other side of his neck, tearing off the tattoo. Blood gushed down the Vampire’s chest until his skin turned ashen.
Atticus glared into his black eyes, listening to the delicious sound of his heart growing weaker with every thump. “You deserve to be flayed and left in the sun, but I’ll leave the punishment to your maker.” Atticus shoved him to the ground and stalked over to the gasoline. He poured it all over Septimus, reveling in the screams when the accelerant touched the Vampire’s open wounds.
He finally looked up at Krys, who was now dressed. “Got a light?”
“It would be a damn shame if I didn’t.” Krys fished around in his back pocket and pulled out a pack of matches. “You never know when you might need one on a mission.” He tossed the pack, and Atticus caught it.
After striking a match, Atticus admired the flame and made peace with what he was about to do. How many innocents had suffered at the hands of this monster? How many had needlessly died? Only one truly mattered to him, and that was enough.
He remembered the dead bodies in the tavern and the way Matilda’s body had been carelessly tossed aside as if her life didn’t matter—as if her dreams didn’t matter. She was dust in the ground, whereas her killer had enjoyed the spoils of immortality. Then he thought about Joy’s wolves, who’d been caged and experimented on. Joy had survived, but she would never be the same.
Clutching his throat, Septimus gasped and gurgled, his black hair splayed, blood pooling beneath him. “I know a demon when I see one,” he rasped. “You’re no different than me. Love will never change what you are.”
Atticus lit the match. “Love changed everything I am. I would burn for her.” He flicked the tiny flame, and it ignited Septimus into a fireball. “And so will you.”
The Vampire writhed but was too weak to stand and put out the fire. Atticus muted the screams and the roar of the flames. He didn’t want to give Septimus the power of remembrance. After three thousand years, he finally walked away and left the past behind him.
Krys pulled his long hair behind his head and held it for a moment. “Should we grab the computers for Lucian?”
“For what? The documents in here could end our existence if they got out, and we can’t trust the higher authority. They have an informant.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Burn it.” He walked toward the canisters of gasoline. “Burn it all.”
Atticus and Krys meticulously opened every single drawer, box, and closet to douse them in gasoline. It was important that nothing remained, even if that took all night. Atticus crushed the laptops and computers. Any smaller electronic devices they found—including phones—they added to a pile in the center. After checking the back office, they began setting it ablaze.
Krys was skeptical the foam on the walls would catch fire, but it turned out that they weren’t flame retardant.
Toxic fumes and smoke quickly filled the large building. Atticus headed toward the exit, striking matches and lighting up the impaled Vampire. Fire licked at his heels as he walked out into fresh air.
Krys ran out and joined him. Suddenly a shrill scream sounded from inside.
“I thought you checked all the rooms?” Krys cocked his head, and when another scream rang out in a high octave, he charged into the burning building without hesitation.
Atticus had forgotten to check the last room where they kept the victims, assuming it was empty. As he ran after Krys, he cursed himself for not having been more thorough.
Krys emerged from a cloud of black smoke with a young person in his arms.
“Hurry!” Atticus guided him to the exit, where they dodged a falling piece of burning foam that peeled away from the ceiling.
Once outside, Krys coughed and gasped for air as he staggered and fell to his knees. In his arms was a petrified black-haired boy in a hospital gown. He looked around twelve, but it was anyone’s guess. When he caught sight of Atticus, his eyes widened in terror.
“I won’t hurt you, boy. Do you have family?”
The child scooted away from them. “No,” he squeaked.
Krys jerked his head at the kid. “Scrub him.”
“I don’t like using my gifts on children, and we can’t send him off alone. He’s too young to have gone through his first change, and a boy walking around in a hospital gown will attract attention.”
The gangly kid turned his attention to the fire inside the building and back to them. “I won’t tell anyone what you did.”
