“Except,” Dmitri continued, interrupting her thoughts about how a man came back from being gutted by his own mother, “whatever happened here, it wasn’t simply about execution, was it?”
She looked at the scene again, consciously putting aside her impression of Jiana as a loving mother pushed to the brink, and focused only on the facts. One of which was that this had taken time. A lot of time. Because the organs . . . they’d been removed with neat precision, sat in a tidy pile.
Heart chilling at the realization, she was about to turn toward Dmitri when she glimpsed the torn and bloody piece of cloth flung a couple of feet away. “He was gagged.” And from the near-black quality of the blood caught in the wrinkles the rain hadn’t penetrated, he’d bitten through his tongue, likely shredded his lips. The ground where he’d been pinned was drenched in so much of that same blood it appeared wetter than the surrounding area, pale pink dew gleaming on some of the chrysanthemums hanging from broken stems.
The conclusion wasn’t an easy one, but it had to be said. “She enjoyed this.”
“There is every indication.” Turning, Dmitri walked to Jiana, a sleek shadow in the black jeans, boots, and black T-shirt he’d pulled on during a quick stop at the Tower.
Honor forced herself to follow, though it tormented her to think of a mother taking pleasure in the murder of her child, no matter the evil done by that child. It was something she simply had trouble comprehending, the maternal instinct within her a staggering force . . . though she had no children of her own.
Shaking her head to clear it, she came to a standstill beside Dmitri as he looked down at Jiana’s apparently tormented form. “You were too clever, Jiana,” he said in a purr of a voice that wrapped ice around Honor’s throat.
Jiana continued to rock back and forth, her tattered nightgown clinging to her slender body, the bruises on her face having turned a sickly yellow-green at the edges as she healed. She gripped a serrated blade in one hand, the entire thing encrusted with dried blood that resisted the rain.
In a whiplash-fast move Honor didn’t see coming, Dmitri slid out a razor-sharp hunting knife from his boot and went as if to slice off Jiana’s head. The female vampire was flowing up and striking a defensive pose in the blink of an eye, her own knife slashing out toward Dmitri. He knocked it to the ground with inhuman speed, and, gripping Jiana’s wrist, held her in place as he put the edge of his deadly blade to her throat. “Now,” he said, “you will talk.”
Jiana’s gaze skittered to Honor. “Help me.” Such torment in her eyes, such a black depth of sorrow . . . and behind it, a prowling viciousness Honor would’ve missed if Dmitri hadn’t pushed the blade a fraction deeper, startling Jiana into dropping her mask of emotional pain for a single split second.
“You created him,” Honor said, sickened. “Whatever his madness, you took advantage of it to twist him even further.”
Jiana’s face morphed, the frail beauty of her transforming into something contemptuous and sneering. “He is my son.” No remorse. “Mine to do with as I choose.”
At that instant, Honor understood the depth of both Jiana’s malevolence and her intelligence. She’d had the foresight to play them from the start, her “penance” with the blood junkies a smokescreen set up just in case anyone came looking. Even if that hadn’t happened till months or years in the future, Jiana would’ve always been able to point back to her apparent distress at the time to lend credence to her protestations of being guilty of nothing except loving her child too much—a child she’d clearly always been ready to sacrifice.
And yet, Honor was certain the love Jiana had professed for Amos wasn’t all a lie. Something had tipped the balance—perhaps the fact that Amos had not only slipped the leash and begun to act on his own, rather than as Jiana’s creature, but that he’d started to attract the wrong kind of attention. “He’d become a liability,” she murmured, “might’ve betrayed you if he was taken.” Surrounded by the carnage Jiana had done—had enjoyed doing—Honor was convinced the female vampire’s hands were stained with far more evil than anyone other than Amos realized. “He learned everything he knew from you.”
A flash of vicious rage in those onyx-dark eyes that turned Honor’s guess into truth even before Jiana said, “I would’ve forgiven his taking of you—it was an intriguing amusement after all.” Words designed to stab and cut. “But the stupid boy planned to take two more hunters after I warned him to stay quiet and out of sight.”
So Jiana had set out to torture, then execute him. If she had succeeded, Amos’s death would’ve been far more painful than anything Honor could’ve ever devised . . . for he would’ve died looking into the pitiless face of the one woman who was meant to love him without corruption or condition.