Lukas was silent for a moment, leaning back slightly on his heels. “Of course not, Thomas. You do not have the temperament for the Gift.”
“It’s not bloody fair.” Wren’s lips skinned back, dark eyes now blazing. “You could have let me try.”
“My friend, I gave you all the life I could. Now you will die slowly, in agony, because you dared lay hands upon what is not yours to touch.” The scariest thing wasn’t what Lukas said, but how—level and emotionless, simply stating facts.
Oh, hell. Bea’s hands were fists. She could break for the door, hope to distract him, maybe? That might give Wren enough time to get away. Not that she liked the bastard; for God’s sake, he’d been holding a gun on her just a minute ago, and he was enough of a psychopath to want...what he wanted.
But looking at Hardison’s body was difficult enough, reminding her of Jared, of brutally detailed autopsy and crime-scene photos. She absolutely never wanted to see another corpse ever again.
“Lukas?” Her voice cracked, the thirst spreading. Now her entire throat was dry and scratchy, the craving intensifying since the source of what it wanted was right in the same room. “Please, don’t.”
He didn’t move, yet that invisible sense of his attention settling on her was undeniable. “No need for fear, kitten. You may simply look away.”
That’s not the point. She tested her legs, found out they would hold her, and took a step. Then another.
CHAPTER 38
Contemplating the ruin of a friend was always difficult. Under other circumstances, he might have simply unseamed a traitor from nave to chops; he certainly had before in the course of a long, long life. There could be no such quick mercy for one who had dared interfere with his leman. The difficulty would lay in holding the corpse to quivering agonized life while Lukas meted out a lesson any approximation of a soul would take screaming with it into the afterlife—and be deformed by ever after.
Tentative, near-staggering footsteps behind him, softly musical. He was still contemplating where to begin when the fragrance of his leman closed about him.
Her hand touched his shoulder. Warmth flooded from that slight contact, both the animal and the thrall snarling within him, restrained by the thinnest spidersilk leash.
“Please,” she repeated. “It’s almost dawn. I don’t feel good, I want to go somewhere else. I don’t want to see another dead body, Lukas, please.”
Wren’s gaze flickered between them. A ratlike, chewing little gleam of hope lingered in his pupils; he no longer struggled against the quietus.
“This dogsbody not only betrayed me but could have injured my leman,” Lukas pointed out. “It may do some good, for you to see the consequences.”
“I’ve seen enough.” So frail, her fingers, not even bearing a fledgling’s full strength. Still they held him chained, far more effectively than any iron mortals or the demimonde could ever manufacture. “Can’t you just let him go?”
Oh, my little leman. “You wish me to simply release him?”
“I want to get out of here. You said we could leave.” A soft sobbing breath, her grasp shifting slightly. “Prove I don’t have to be afraid of you, okay? Just...let him go.”
Lukas weighed the suggestion. Wren’s gasping continued; he was perilously close to mortal shock. Not only was his arm broken but at least four of his ribs, plus a possible femur fracture. He reeked of complete terror, and the dry, slightly oily fur-scent of dogsbody.
“I would like very much to flay you,” Lukas told him, finally. “Slowly, making certain you are conscious of every moment. Then to reduce every bone save your skull to splinters, and last take your eyes and hearing while I crush your head by slow inches. I can make it last, Thomas; I kept much from you, but you know enough of my abilities to understand this is but the bare minimum consequence for your crime.”
“Lukas—” His leman’s fingers tensed.
“One moment, my Beatrice.” His true teeth extended, and he showed them in the ancient snarl of dominance and battle, knowing the kill-light was again in his eyes.
Wren sought to scream, could only produce a papery whisper. His color was very bad indeed.
Regaining blunt camouflage teeth took an effort. His fingers flicked, releasing the quietus; Lukas straightened and turned.
His prize did not retreat. She simply gazed up at him, the visible pulse in her throat quick but not hammering. Wan and exhausted, no doubt feeling dawn’s soundless thunder grown very close, she still had the strength to plead, not merely with voice but with those beautiful gold-threaded eyes.
Prove I don’t have to be afraid of you.
She meant well, certainly; she could not know a castoff dogsbody faced expiry by inches as its Master’s mark slowly leached from tissues and bone. The doom was almost comparable to slow suffocating calcification.
Beatrice did not flinch when he cupped her face in his hands. He was sodden, soot-streaked, and blood-spattered; she was disheveled and slightly trembling. Lukas leaned close, allowed her scent to enfold him as he pressed his lips to her forehead. A bit too cold; she needed feeding and a safe place for daylight rest.
“Very well,” he murmured against her flawless skin. “But only because you ask it of me, sweet Beatrice.”
“Can we go now?” A pained, little-girl whisper.
