Truehearts flog me, I practicallytoyedwith Peltos before letting his victim—Helget, now a strong vampiress in her own right—clutch his heart out of his chest.
And then, of course, there’s Baylen Sallow. The boy I grew up with, idolized, and learned to hate. The boy I called brother once upon a time, before he crept down a dark path with Dimmon Plank and the Diplomats.
If there is any guilt I should feel for the people I’ve aided in dying, it should be Bay’s demise that rattles me most. I went out of my way to climb the outside walls of Manor Marquin and steal into his bedroom while he recovered from our bout at the shadowgala.
And then I fucked him and slit his throat. As simple as that, with no remorse plaguing me. I gave him everything he always wanted from me and everything he always deserved, all at the same time.
It is Baylen’s murder, I realize, that began my descent into darkness. I’ve allowed Garroway, Vallan, and Skartovius to corrupt me in ways I never thought possible as a young girl. I’ve watched Skar peel a man’s skin from his flesh, torture him, and turn him into a vampire to keep him alive so he would suffer for even longer. For eternity, if I hadn’t shoved a stake through his heart and ended his suffering.
Now I’m watching a familiar scenario play out in this dank brothel . . . and I don’t feel shame, guilt, or remorse.
If anything, it’s the opposite: I’m invigorated by the prospect of killing another man who deserves it. Pukren the flesh auctioneer sells innocent girls and boys—snatched up from almshouses, homeless, and shelters—to trade with other disgusting men.
Men like him are a plague on Nuhav. If I ever want to change my human home for the better, I can’t only rely on eradicating the vampires of Olhav. That is a crucial step, of course—aligning Skar to my motives of giving Nuhavians a better life, if and when he takes over the Five Ministries. But another integral part must beginhere, in Nuhav itself, by snuffing out the depraved men who help keep my city splashing in the gutter.
Being a sewerboy or guttergirl isn’t a crime. Trading people like commoditiesisa crime, which Pukren is guilty of. His two ugly friends at his table probably are, too.
I can’t just go killing everyone without proof though. I don’t know those men, so I can’t be judge, jury, and executioner for them until I know more about them. Pukren, however, Idoknow.
I take a sip of my third ale, pondering everything. It’s quite tasty, though I’ve never been a big drinker other than a short stint with the Grimsons when I imbibed to numb my wounds after matches with my peers. Antones and Lukain talked me out of sinking down a drunken path, saying it would water down my skills and mind. They were right. However, the numbness starting to course through me now doesn’t feel unpleasant as I think about my destructive habits.
Something rustling next to me gets my attention, and I jolt upright. I’m not sure how long I’ve been slumping, lost in my thoughts.
It’s Garroway, rising to his feet. I move to put another hand to his arm to stay him, but he nudges his chin over my shoulder. Slowly, I glance over and spy Pukren rising from his table on wobbly, knobby legs.
The auctioneer slaps the table once, says something to his accomplices, and heads for the door of the brothel. The tint outside the windows tells me we’re about two hours from dawn, which means he’s been here all night. He’s likely smashed.
Rather than following Pukren, Garroway heads for the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. I follow, furrowing my brow, and he says nothing as he ascends in the opposite direction as the auctioneer.
When we crest the landing, he takes us to the third room on the left—unlocked as the barkeep promised. Inside, he hurries to the window and slides open the wooden aperture. A brisk breeze filters in.
“What are you planning, Garro?” I whisper. I’m not sure why I’m whispering since we’re alone. Probably because I know what we’re doing is wrong.
“One thing I know about drunks,” he mutters. “They need to piss. Often.” Staring out the window and down, he clicks his tongue. “Right on time.”
I peer down onto the dark street. Below us, Pukren stands in a damp alley between the road and the brothel. He’s pissing on the wall, both hands working at his waist while he sways in place. He’s also humming to himself.
I start to have second thoughts about this. “Garro—”
He’s already through the window. Pukren is so noisily oblivious while his stream continues between his legs, he doesn’t even hear the soft thud of Garroway as he lands like a feather behind the man.
I blink, eyes widening.
“I hear you like to victimize young girls and boys,” Garro says. There’s no pithy comment to follow or sarcastic overture like I’m used to with the dhampir. His voice is dark, certain, seething.
Pukren spins around, cock in his hands. “What in—”
Garro’s hand snaps out, grabs Pukren by the front of his face. There’s a short, muffled cry from the auctioneer.
I blink again—
And open my eyes just in time to see Garroway smash the back of Pukren’s skull against the stone wall. A sickeningcrackrings out, blood blooming in a crescent on the wall behind Pukren.
Garroway slams his head three more times, until the back of the auctioneer’s skull is caved in. The man goes limp, groaning from a smashed brain. That doesn’t stop Garro from leaning in and biting into his neck.
I hear a ragged tear, loud slurping. When Garroway pulls his head back, a river of blood spills down his chin. He’s so forceful with his withdrawal his teeth rip out the ligaments and veins of Pukren’s throat.
He lets the body drop into the piss puddle. Then he raises his dead gaze at me, lavender-red eyes alight with a thrilling hue.
