We make our way inside—after more biometrics for authentication—leaving the kitchen and sitting area on the left. Uriel goes straight for the hallway, which opens to a very large training room divided into sections by glass walls, lined up one next to the other.
The first on the right looks like a gym. There are heavy weights, pull-up bars, battle ropes, benches—and for some reason, some smashed coconuts on the ground. Raguel is pulling on a thick metal chain—like an anchor rope—coming out of the wall with Ollie hanging on his back like a koala, cheering him on. His biceps are popping and flexing, veins puffing, chest growing, face red.
“Did you finish up with the donor?” Uriel asks him. That’s how they call the people they kill, since they turn into unwillingdonors when Sariel and Michael use their blood, spinal fluid, and whatever else they can extract for their medical research. The all-recycling idea is smart, but I don’t really see the point of it.
“He’s decomposing as we speak,” Oliver answers for him after narrowing his eyes at me. “Need to buy more acid, though.”
I ignore his ridiculous veiled threat and keep walking, but I hear Uriel say, “Why didn’t you use the cremator? You insisted on having one.”
They even have a furnace to burn the bodies. Talk about aiming high.
In the next section, the wall is covered in knives. Gabriel is tossing them at Lori, who’s tied to a wooden board like a silhouette target. His low-rise gray paillette shorts and the green glitter under his eyes make him look like a circus performer.
“Silly sausage! Sometimes things don’t make sense, like…the armadillo,” Lori suddenly states, not in the least afraid of being hit. “I mean, what is that? A rock? An animal? Maybe he did it!”
I find that trust and stupidity go hand in hand most of the time.
“It was Wednesday! Who else could have made a hole in our mattress if not your unhinged hen?” Bezaliel replies—Gabriel’s other personality—as he skillfully throws three knives in a row at the wooden board. Two cut the ropes around Lori’s hands, and the third around his neck.
“You’re a numpty,” he counters with a snort.
“You asked to be my live target, Little Wasp, I think we all know who’s thenumptyhere.”
“Take. That. Back. I’m safer here than walking on the street, plus seeing my men holding a knife turns me the fuck on.” Lori winks, then his eyes fall on me. “Oh, hello, evil twin and eviler twin!”
Evil…that word again.
Neither Uriel nor I reciprocates the greeting. Lori still has a rope around his waist and legs; hopefully Gabriel will hit an organ instead.
“Robin Hood, are you here to tell us something big?” He quirks an eyebrow at me.
“I’m going to resist the easy joke there because I’m an adult,” Oliver interjects from the other side of the glass wall.
Raguel makes a derisive sound as his husband wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Since when, kitty?”
“I told you to make soundproofed rooms.” Gabriel stares at Raguel.
“They can still see us if we fuck. Smart-tinted glass is what we need.” Lori’s words urge my feet to move, but I can still hear them.
“These are level eight glass panels, the pinnacle of bullet-resistant technology. They offer unparalleled protection against the most lethal threats. And that is all that’s important.” Raguel’s rumbly voice reaches my ears.
That’s actually interesting since I bought a place and I want to make it as secure as possible.
“Are they resistant to a Lori threat?” I joke. That guy really is a threat; loose cannons always are.
“Aww. You get me, Hawkeye.” He sends me a flying kiss. It wasn’t a compliment.
The next section has different kinds of weapons scattered around—throwing axes, guns, nunchaku, and brass knuckles. But there’s nobody inside. Uriel looks around until his gaze halts on Michael and Raphael in what looks like an infirmary. Michael is sitting on a doctor’s bed with Raphael, who is kneeling down in front of him, sucking his husband’s thumb.
“Is that necessary?” Uriel asks in a bored tone, looking down at his phone—texting Sariel.
“I cut my-my finger when I broke a… a beaker,” Michael replies with an unsteady voice as he points at the huge lab surrounded by more glass walls at the opposite side of the room. His cheeks are red, eyes avoiding ours while Raphael doesn’t acknowledge us. His whole attention is on his husband’s small wound as he squeezes the skin and licks the blood coming out. Growling possessively.
I see.
Raphael is the other psychopath under this roof. We tend to disregard each other most of the time.
“Get a fucking room!” Uriel ughs, confirming my thought. He moves away as I keep staring at them.
