Tears streamed down Foster’s face as the life seeped out of him. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “Please, I’m sorry. . . .”
Leo was unmoved. “Why shouldn’t he suffer?” he challenged, meeting August’s eyes as the man wailed. “These are bad people, little brother. They do bad things. They hurt and they murder and they taint this world with blood and darkness and evil.” He had to raise his voice over Foster’s screams. “Why should they go gently? Why shouldn’t they suffer for their sins?”
“I’m sorry . . .” Foster’s voice faded, along with the light beneath his skin. His eyes burned, collapsing inward.
“Our purpose is not to bring peace,” said Leo, letting the broken body fall to the floor. “It is to bestow penance.” August opened his mouth to protest, when Leo said, “Watch out.”
It happened too fast. A second man lunged at August from behind. He didn’t have a chance to think, to stop, to let go of the weapon and step out of the way. He turned just in time for his knife to bury itself in the attacker’s stomach. August looked down at the blade disappearing between the man’s ribs with a mixture of shock and horror as the man let out a strangled sound of pain. His life surged to the surface, and August gasped as the energy hit him like a bucket of ice water, sudden and bright and achingly cold. His fingers tightened on the knife, and the man went for his throat, but his hands faltered, landed on August’s collar, nails digging uselessly into his skin.
“They deserved it,” coughed the man, blood already staining his lips. His legs started to buckle but August held him up, his life coursing between them, sharp and electric. “They all deserved it. This messed up . . . world . . . we’re all . . . gonna . . .”
The man’s words fell apart as he slumped into death, and August stood there in the dark, shaking from the force of it, feeling as if he’d taken on the man’s evils as well as his life. This was the opposite of peace. He felt alive—so alive—but tarnished, his senses screaming and his head a tangle of dark thoughts and feelings and power, and he was drowning and shivering and burning alive. He had to close his eyes and force air into his lungs until the sensations dulled and his mind stopped spiraling, and he could drag it back into his head, back into his skin. When the room took shape around him again, the first thing he saw was the blood-covered knife. He felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Leo there beside him, looking proud.
Which only made August feel worse.
“It’ll get easier,” promised Leo, taking the blade.
But August looked down at the corpses, their shadows still, their bodies broken.
“Should it?”
Kate stared at the screen, where a man’s body lay twisted on the floor, a bloody, contorted corpse. It had taken him a long time to die. Or rather, Leo had taken a long time to kill him. He’d used only his hands, which meant they didn’t need music to steal a soul. What was the saying? More than one way to skin a cat.
She’d never really understood the phrase.
Now she did.
The only thing she didn’t get were the marks. Leo had them, too, short bands of crosses circling his wrists.
One for every day without a slip, that’s what Freddie had said. Which obviously wasn’t the whole truth, but it couldn’t be a lie, either. Monsters didn’t lie.
“Our Kate, always a dreamer.”
She jumped, and saw Sloan standing in the doorway, a wicked smile smeared across his sickly face. She didn’t know how long he’d been standing there—or how long she’d been sitting, for that matter, staring at the frozen image of Leo amid the wreckage and thinking about Freddie. She tapped out of the updrive, and set the tablet aside.
“What is it?” she asked.
He drew a pointed nail absently down the wooden door frame, eliciting a screech. Kate resisted the urge to touch the nick he’d made on her cheek. “Your father won’t be home tonight.”
Her grip tightened on the chair. “Oh?” The thought of being left alone with the Malchai gave her chills, but she knew better than to let it show. If Sloan knew how uncomfortable he made her, he would only torment her more. “Nothing too serious, I assume?”
“Nothing he can’t handle,” said Sloan.
She watched him go, hesitated, then grabbed her phone and surged after him.
“Hey,” she called, following the Malchai out into the penthouse. But he wasn’t there. “Sloan?” Nothing. Then a cold breath against her neck.
“Yes, Kate?” said a voice near her bad ear. She didn’t jump, but turned, stepping carefully back out of his reach. She focused on the branded H instead of his red eyes, reminding herself that he belonged to her father. To her.
“I want to ask you something.”
Sloan’s dead lips pursed in distaste. “I would rather you didn’t,” he said evenly.