“Boris, I asked you a question, and I’m only going to ask you once more, where the fuck is the book?”
Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breaths were rapid, shallow. His heart beat like a scared gazelle. She lifted her head and drew in the sweet scent of fear. The smell seeped down her nose into the empty pit of her stomach. She was hungry, ravenous actually. Maybe one little bite wouldn’t hurt.
He gulped and threw out his hands. Panic creased his brow, wrinkling his forehead. “What book? I don’t what you’re talking about!”
She cocked her head to the side.“What do you know about the waters in the hills?”
“What?” He looked confused. The realization didn’t rush to his face, instead it dawned slowly, now he looked perplexed and annoyed. “Jesus, lady, that’s just a bunch of made-up, bullshit rumors.”
Black Death raised her perfectly designed eyebrows. “Really? Then why didn’t you sign over your shares in the land?”
His hands gripped tight to arms of his chair, as if he’d use them to propel himself forward. “Because my father hated Jefferson, there was no way I was letting that scum make money off his land.”
“Where’s the book?” she repeated.
He sat back, lifted his chin. “There’s no book.”
“Really?” She watched him. His face had blanked. If he knew something he wasn’t going to tell her. “What about Jane—might she know?”
He sat forward, his face reddened, his jaw muscles twitched. “You leave her alone,” he grated, his eyes involuntarily moving to the image on the mantel piece.
The fool still loved the woman who’d left him years ago, she understood it, the feeling of your chest being crushed from the inside out, the swooping hollow in your stomach. She felt an uncharacteristic flare of sympathy. She supposed it was normal to feel empathy sometimes, it wasn’t like she was a psychopath.
She moved over and picked up Jane’s image, studying it. She ran a claw slowly down the glass pain. The sound of screeching filled the room. Boris shuddered.
“Lovely,” she said, like she wasn’t lovely at all, because she wasn’t. Boris tensed so tight his neck muscle bulged. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Do I need to have a chat to her too, Boris?” She sat the photograph in a leisurely movement on the bed.
He stared at her. Silent, brooding, calculating. Sweat trickling down the sides of his face. He looked at her sides, searching for the gun. Next he looked at her hands, as if her teeth weren’t enough of a weapon to deter him. He was calculating his chances of success if he attacked her. Stupid fool.
Finally he spoke, “Listen, she doesn’t know anything. My grandfather told me stories when I was a kid about waters in the mountains that were meant to heal or some shit. But it’sall made-up. It’s a fucking fairy tale. If it was true, he’d still be alive.”
“I’m sure it’s something you would have spoken to Jane about.”
His jaw clenched so tight she thought he might snap his yellowed teeth. “It’s not. Do you repeat your childhood fairy tales?”
She flexed her fingers, cracking them.
His shoulders twitched at the sound. He looked nervously at the door, like he was considering making an escape, or he was expecting someone to rush in and save him.
“Where’s the book?” she kept her voice measured and calm.
He blew out a short, bitter laugh and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “If there is a book, then I don’t know anything about it.”
She studied his face, she couldn’t read minds, but she’d learned how to read people’s reactions when they lied. He was angry, yet suitably afraid. He did not look away when he spoke or shift in his seat, no involuntary twitches, he was telling the truth. At least he’d saved her the search.
Still, he was rude. He would need to be taught a lesson.
Chapter 60
Pained
Igroaned. I sat on the bed, still damp from my shower, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor. It’d been a hell of a few weeks. This morning’s session with Dahlia had been particularly brutal. I lost count of how many times I’d hit the wall or floor. My whole body felt bruised. Karson’s fingers needled into my back. I grimaced as he dug into a lump in my shoulder blades, threading the fibres apart that had knitted into a golf ball-sized knot.
I’d been training all day, every day, since I found out what I was. With Ethan physically in the mornings, and Dahlia kinetically in the afternoons. Every night I’d collapse into bed exhausted. Ethan, seeing how tired I was, had called a halt to the physical sessions for a few days. Even Dahlia had ended the session earlier than usual today. It was a small mercy.
I didn’t expect it to be easy. I could never have guessed it’d be this hard.
