Vall steps to the side, slings the leaking sack to the front, and dumps its contents directly on the lush rug. Four severed heads plop down with sickening thuds, each one pale, locked in eternal visages of pain and misery. Gore splatters on the rugs to make things worse.
I yelp, leaping back while putting a hand over my nose to ward off the foul stench of the rotting heads.
“Fucking hells below, Vallan,” Skartovius groans, wrinkling his nose. “Who are they?”
“Sister Cy’s vampiric slaveowners, Master,” Garroway answers.
“We did our part to rid the scourge of flesh-trading,” Vallan adds. He seems oddly joyous about this disgusting moment, as if the psychopath can’t tell it’s grotesque and not making me happy.
I feel sick to my stomach at the sight of the withered, bleeding heads, yet his wordsdogive me some solace and gratification for Cy’s sake. “You did this for a vampiress you hardly even know?” I feel around in my tunic and realize for the first time tonight I don’t have Cy’s list of names on me. “Where’s my list?”
“I stole it,” Garroway says proudly, hands on his hips.
“Don’t look so glib about that, Garro.”
“It was so we could do what needed to be done, little honey badger. A just cause. Won’t you forgive me?” He adds the last bit in a faux tone.
I roll my eyes. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: You have the strangest way of showing affection. And you, Vall? I didn’t think you were the same way.”
Vallan looks insulted, head lurching. “For shame, silverblood. How many men have I cut in half for your sake?”
I wrinkle my nose. “. . . That’s true.”
Garroway points at Skar. “He’s the one who flayed a man’s flesh from his body and then turned him so he could do it over and over and over again. For you.”
Why do they act so affronted and called-out by this?
Skartovius flaps a hand at Garro for mentioning Dimmon Plank. “Yes, yes, we’re all fucked-up barbarians, graybird. She knows.”
“Truehearts know I do,” I mutter.
“Where did you find these piss-drinkers?” Skar asks. He nudges a head with his boot and makes a face.
“Faith Ward.” Vallan looks down. “Turns out Overlady Valenthia’s zealots bought the girl.”
Garroway’s eyes brighten with glee. “You should have seen the explosion Vallan caused, and all the screaming, fiery bodies, Master.” He makes an arcing motion with his hand, above hishead, and then dives it toward the ground and pantomimes an explosion. With a huge smile, he says, “It was—”
“Quite good, I’m sure.” Skar mutters something under his breath and turns to Vallan. “The Faith Ward? I don’t like the idea of starting a conflict with that mad bitch. We already have too much heat on us with Alacine and Barnabac.”
Strangely, Vallan winces at the name Barnabac Craxon. I wonder if it’s because the Blood Baron is his master, or if there’s something more going on there. The expression disappears quicker than a blink. Vallan shrugs. “They needed to die. Couldn’t find a better time to do it.”
Garro blows a raspberry. “That whole place should be firebombed and wiped out, you ask me. Start over fresh.” He shudders. “The Faith Ward hasmeshaking in my boots.”
“Not hard to do,” Skar fires back in a defeated voice. He turns away from the proud murderers I love and faces Palacia. “We should give the girl her rest and leave this room.”
“She looks like she’s turning,” Vallan says.
“Because she is, you oaf.”
“I’m not leaving her,” I say.
They all look at me like I’m mad.
I raise my chin defiantly. “Until I know she’s safe.”
“Then you’d best shackle her arms and legs, lass,” Garroway chuckles.
Cold fear ripples through me. “Why?”
