I stand, grab him by the hair, yank his head back, and slit his throat in one smooth slice. Blood spurts up and paints the glass behind him.
He jerks. Twitches. Then stops.
The second guy starts muttering prayers. Caleb’s eyes light up.
“Oh, this one’s mine,” he says, dragging him by the collar toward the back wall. Already pulling out his lighter, already whispering to the flame.
The last one?
I want to feel him die. I drag him forward and force him to his knees in front of me. He’s sobbing, and I cup his face with a gloved hand, leaning in close.
“Do you know what she did to Henry Lane?” I whisper.
“I—” He chokes on a sob. “I don’t know who that is!”
“She cut his balls off and sewed them into his eye sockets.”
His mouth falls open.
“I think you deserve something special too.”
I punch him once, right across the face, his head snaps to the side. I punch him again and again, until his lip splits, his nose breaks, and he’s moaning through blood and spit.
I kneel beside him, and make it slow, cutting through his tendon first, letting him scream. The sound is violent, loud, and it drags me right back to the cabin. Tamsin muttering curses when her blade caught bone, adjusting her grip, learning how to do it. I see the sweat on her neck, the pink flush in her cheeks.
Every cry is a symphony that reminds me of her and by the time I open his throat, I’m smiling.
We step out, bloodied gloves, soaked boots, the air thick with the scent of copper and gasoline.
“I’m gonna torch the fuck out of this place,” he says, practically bouncing.
“Try not to burn yourself again,” Beau mutters.
Caleb just cackles and tosses the match. The club erupts into flames.
It screams as it burns.
They died like dogs, and all I could see was her—eyes wild, fingers slick with blood, and a grin I want to break and worship at the same time.
I watch the fire consume the club, and her name is burned in my mind.
Tamsin.
Chapter Five
Ican’t stop pacing.
Eidolon. Is it a name? A code? A group?
How the fuck did they get inside my apartment without leaving a single trace?
Shit.
I drop into my chair and yank the laptop open, keys clacking loud in the silence.
Search: “Eidolon.”
Google spits out its trash:
