“Tell me about the children,” I say. “Where were they taken?”
His perfect brow furrows with confusion. “You’re looking for children?”
Goddess, even his voice is gorgeous—musical and lilting.
“The children you were keeping in the basement cells,” I grate. “The ones you sent your Nabbers for in Sturmfrost.”
He blinks. “‘Nabbers?’” His gaze flicks to Stark in bewilderment. “What is this idiot talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I growl, impatience thrumming in my veins. “You’ve been abducting children from Nocturna for years. You were keeping at least three of them at the temple. Nowtell me where they are.”
The Siphon shakes his head, smirking. “They told me all you northerners were wolf-brained lunatics, but I didn’t believe it until now.”
I pause, arms crossed over my chest, staring the Siphon down in silent calculation.
“He’s trying to distract you,” Stark says behind me. “Don’t fall for it.”
I ignore him.
“One more chance to answer me honestly,” I say softly, “then I start breaking bones.”
“Cute,” the Siphon drawls. “Is this what passes for pillow talk north of the border? If you want to know me carnally, darling, just say the word. Your personality is a little sour, but I bet you taste just fine.”
Jaw clenching, I turn and stride to the table, aware of Stark looking down at me as I select a pair of pliers from the tools there.
The Siphon makes no sound when I break his right index finger, but his perfect lips part around a sharp, shuddering breath.
“Where are the children?” I ask with an icy calm I don’t feel.
“Fuck you,” he replies, eyes ablaze.
Crack!His right middle finger gives easily in the metal clamp of the pliers. At the same moment, I look down and realize the first finger has already healed. As I watch, the second finger heals, too.
So I break it again.
The sensation fills me with horrifying delight, so thick and dark that I almost choke on it, shadows growing longer around the room. For a second the wave of feeling threatens to drown me, and Anassa is in my head, like a low growl, ready to rip this Siphon apart if I don’t do it first.
The connection with Anassa brings me back to a cold calm. My voice is almost gentle when I ask for the fourth time, “Where are the children?”
The Siphon curses, spits at me. “Thereareno children!”
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Three fingers at once. The Siphon finally cries out, jerking against his chains. But he doesn’t get any more helpful, just stares at me tauntingly, panting as his body heals itself.
I return to the table. Stark leans against the wall just behind it, arms crossed, watching with expressionless focus.
The shadows in the room dance, egging me on.
I pick up a dagger, its poisoned blade polished to a dull sheen.
The Siphon’s eyes light with something new when he sees it. Dread, I think. He knows it’s poisoned, that it will stop him from healing.
“Now, we cut,” I say in that same near-gentle tone.
I don’t ask about the children again—at least, not for quite a while. I just cut. First the buttons on the front of his dark uniform, then the pale skin of his chest beneath it.
The knife sizzles as it parts his flesh, little curls of smoke rising from the wounds. Sweat breaks out on the Siphon’s brow. All the color drains from his skin, leaving him gray and wan, gasping like a fish out of water.
