Dog with a Bone (12 page)

“No,” he sounded tired. “I saved myself.”

“You only thought you did.” Gritting my teeth, I let go. My face hit the ground, dirt went up my nose. Wire carved into the delicate skin of my throat, a line of fire that burned clear to my spine. Pain cut so deep, I forgot how to breathe. I wasn’t sure I could, that my head wasn’t ready to pop off my neck. Somehow I swung my torso left. That arm shot out, and my palm gripped his kneecap.

“What are you—?” His scream as I fed magic into him silenced the urges in my head.

Twisting onto my right side, I kept hold of his knee while shoving him off me. Keeping a tight leash on my powers caused my hands to tremble with strain. “What type of fae are you?”

“Half-bloods like you...have it all.” His face contorted. “Fae power without...strings attached.”

The man was insane. My life was a tangle of fae politics and obligations. Being a half-blood just meant I got sneered at whether I fulfilled my obligations or not. Full-bloods outclassed me. Oh yeah, and I had a twenty-five/seventy-five chance of being mortal. So yay! I might also get to die one day.

“You’re spewing crazy.” I upped the pulse of magic. “Tell me what I want to hear or this ends.”

“I can’t—” Blood coated his bared teeth. “It hurts too much.”

Telling him I couldn’t stop what I started would be counterproductive, but I did throttle back as much as I could.

“Answer me,” I said, keeping my voice level, “and the pain stops.”

A wild gleam lit his eyes as blood dribbled down his chin. “We ate them.”

I blinked away my surprise at his abrupt change in topic. “What exactly did you eat?”

“All of them,” he sneered. “We savored each one.”

While my mind scrambled for traction, I hit on a possibility that made bile rise up my throat. “We found human blood at your wife’s apartment.” My hands felt dirty where they touched him. “Did you kill someone there?”

“A human? What would be the point? They are nothing. Less than nothing.” His laughter sprayed his shirtfront—and me—with crimson spittle. “Though I wouldn’t put it past that damned boggart. He never was quite right.”

“Says the man confessing to eating mystery meat,” I muttered.

“Fae, you stupid bitch,” he snarled. “We eat fae.”

Consumption of living fae tissue by humans to absorb residual fae powers... “You’re
ghouls
?”

Ghouls got a half-page description in the academy handbook and a brief mention in class. No wonder the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

“We are
not
ghouls.” He recoiled. “After we feast, we’re as fae as you are.”

“Not so much. I’m half fae regardless of my stomach contents.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Wait.” One last tidbit niggled at me. “If you were eating the fae, where does the taxidermy come in?”

“The acquisition of rare fae is an expensive habit.” He stuck out his chin. “The art pieces subsidized that.”

Art pieces. Art. Pieces.

I had no words.

None.

“You realize you can’t eat fae until you become one any more than you can rub one on your skin to—? Never mind.” In case this capture blew up in our faces, I didn’t want to give him any ideas. “You’re born fae or half fae or plain vanilla human.” Fury glinted in his gaze, but the truth was the truth. “If you eat fae, their magic seeps into your blood. As it breaks down, it becomes toxic. Any effects—” such as sprouting freakish grasshopper legs, “—are short term. Human bodies aren’t made to withstand the wear and tear. You can’t sustain whatever powers you’ve stolen. You’ve been doing this for what—five years?” He stuck out his chin. “Your hourglass has to be running low on sand.”

“The thing about sand...” he clamped a hand on my wrist, prying my grip from his knee, “...is there are more beaches where those grains came from. Yours, for example, is downright pristine.”

Twisting my wrist, I formed an awkward handshake with him. “How is this possible?”

“Incubus.” His gaze tagged Shaw. “It’s what’s for dinner.”

Freaking monkeys
. My control wasn’t getting better. Richardson’s resistance was. The effort wasn’t draining me—he was.

“They were right, you know.” He flipped me facedown into the dirt. “You are what you eat.”

Cold fear solidified into an icy ball in my gut. Fighting him was like squaring off against Shaw. The more I fed him, the more powerful he became. Incubi digested the energy they consumed. I did too, sort of, but at a much slower rate. My rebound was days in coming. His was a few minutes, tops.

How to fight someone who could throw my best right back at me? I had to take him down like I would topple Shaw. But first I had to flip the power switch. I couldn’t risk him getting any stronger.

Richardson gloated over me, twisting my arm parallel with my spine. The burst of pain amped up my magic, and he sipped it down on a sigh.
Not helping
.

I had to get myself under control. No more excuses, no more try. I had to do it.

I threw out my lifeline and lassoed memories of my mother. That crinkly thing her eyes did and the small twitch in her lips before she caved into guffawing laughter. The expression on her face the night I...
No
. Not that one. The strength of her arms wrapped around me as we waited for a conclave representative to arrive. Her promise to stand by me, to love me, no matter what happened.

And she did. I was all she had. If she lost me, then she had lost everything...for nothing.

Between one breath and the next, the white-hot burn of my power extinguished to a spark. Close enough. Flat on my face with an arm pinned behind my back, I had no leverage. I was stuck. Not my best plan. I had juiced him up, and now he was straddling my calves. At least he had ditched the garrote.

Bracing my right palm on the ground, I pushed up a few inches and allowed the weight of the barbed wire to yank itself free. Gulping unrestricted air, I shoved upward and threw all my strength into a reverse headbutt, smashing the back of my skull into his face. A satisfying crunch greeted me. His fingers vanished, giving me back the use of my left hand and allowing me to cock my right arm and throw it backward. My elbow connected with his ribs, and he wheezed over my shoulder.

Twisting hard to the right, I rolled us into the grass. I was digging my nails into the dirt when Richardson sprung at me. Lurching out of his reach, I got my feet under me and bolted toward Shaw.

“Thierry.” His voice ripped from a throat gone raw.

For one terrible moment, my gaze locked with his. Blood dripped into his eyes from a gash across his forehead, but his fear was for me. Even as he deflected blows from his opponent, I was his main concern. My heart stopped, and I knew I couldn’t lose him like this. Not to them.

The open door to the shelter gaped in the ground ahead. Unsure of the extent of the Richardsons’ magical immunity, I ran down the stairs, inside their lair in search of an effective weapon to use against them. The smell hit me first, cold and bloody, like a freezer full of freshly butchered meat. A short hall gave me three options. I shot through the door on my right, where the cloying scent of death was weakest.

Footsteps thumped behind me. Richardson was on the stairs.

Inside a sterile white room, I flipped the door lock then ransacked the area, searching for a way to combat him.

“There are scalpels,” a frail voice said, “under the counter.”

“Who said...?” My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh my God.”

“Yes,” he chortled. “Pray to yours. Mine abandoned me long ago.”

Behind a white curtain, strapped to a gurney, a slender male fought for his life. His skin was the color of a ripe avocado. His knees bent at odd angles beneath the sheets. He was nude except for the thin white sheet draped over his waist, covering him from the hips down.

Bile rose up the back of my throat when I saw his chest, sliced open, flaps of skin pinned to his sides, revealing organs pulsing as silver contraptions cradled them. Behind him, on the walls, were shelves filled with bespelled jars. In them, lungs expanded, hearts pulsated. All major organs were accounted for, and most were in pairs.

Fists pounded on the door. “Open this door.”

“The scalpels,” the male urged.

“Right.” I headed for the counter and rifled through the bins underneath the first shelf. “Better than nothing.”

“You’re with the conclave?”

“I am.” His voice brought my head up, and I forced what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Marshal Thackeray at your service.”

“Good.” He relaxed against his paper-thin pillow. “Good.”

The door rattled in its frame. Richardson was ramming it. Had to be. With a fistful of scalpels, I placed myself between the wounded fae and the monster about to barrel into the room pissed off and ready to brawl. Picking one blade from the others, I gripped it until my fingers went numb.

“May I?” the male asked.

I darted a glance back at him. He jerked his chin toward my handful of blades. “Uh, sure.”

After so long being a victim, if a scalpel in his hand bolstered his courage, I owed him that.

He flexed the fingers of his nearest hand. “Cut the tether first, please.”

I sawed through the thick nylon strap as the door burst open. After wrapping his hand around the stem of a blade, I turned to face Richardson. He braced in the doorway, face purple from strain. A faint musky odor perfumed the room, slithering over me, leaving chills in its wake. I shivered away the sensation.

Sweat droplets blossomed on his forehead. Maybe he had absorbed too much magic. Maybe his body was melting down and all I had to do was give him a firm shove toward No-Going-Backsville.

“His lure.” The injured fae coughed. “He’s using his lure.”

I blinked at that. Either Richardson sucked at playing the seduction card, or hanging around Shaw had given me a degree of immunity from other incubus lures. Honestly, it was probably a little of both. Richardson wasn’t attacking me, because he
thought
he already was. With his lure. Okay. This might work.

I let my shoulders slump. My arms fell limp at my sides, my grip on the scalpels sure. I widened my eyes the way I had seen Shaw’s victims do dozens of times and shuffled toward Richardson. His face shone with perspiration. His victorious grin made me want to stab him there first, but I had other plans.

A sudden, keening cry bounced off the walls.

I hesitated, trying to get a reading off Richardson. Was his backup on the way? Did that mean Shaw was...? No. He couldn’t be. While watching Richardson for a reaction, I continued playing the role of the lust-ridden zombie.

Wind rustled past my ear. My hand lifted on reflex at the same time Richardson let out a startled grunt. Blood coated my fingers. The tip of my ear was nicked, but a shiny silver handle stood out of his forehead. I whirled around, but the fae’s head lolled. His unbound hand hung off the stretcher, his long fingers brushing the floor. A shrill beeping split my ears as his alarm cried for help and his monitor flatlined.

My vision blurred as I turned to face Richardson. He slumped on the ground, feeling around the wound, working up his nerve to grasp the handle and yank out the blade. He wasn’t dead yet, and that told me he would heal from his injury. Probably thanks to me. Unless I put him out of commission first.

Before his fingers touched the warm metal, I grabbed the handle and yanked it out of his skull. I palmed his forehead, putting his skin into contact with as many of my runes as possible, and I let the trickle of power still lit from our earlier encounter flare to life with the heat of my anger.

Power left me in a rush. This time I didn’t try to hold back, I didn’t give him time to absorb the magic. No. This time I ruthlessly lit him up from the inside, until pale green light shone from his pores and his body seized.

Shaw was alone out there, and God only knew what other horrors awaited us down here.

Stoking the fires of my powers, I unleashed it all, burning through his veins as my magic sought out the spark of creation itself and clamped its jaws around Richardson’s pathetic excuse for a soul.

Torn free with a squelching tug, a piece of rancid fruit plucked from a rotten tree, I devoured it.

Energy coated every inch of his skin. He was still twitching when I peeled away his flesh.

Kicking aside the husk of humanity left after Richardson’s death, I jogged up the stairs. Too full of fear and magic to tap into common sense, I stepped onto the field without first checking for Shaw or the remaining Richardson. When fingers dug into the fleshy part of my shoulder, I clamped a hand around the thick wrist and, stepping into the body pressed flush to mine, sank my right elbow into...

“Oof
.” Shaw hit the ground like a ton of bricks.

I fell to my knees at his side. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

“Jake?” he mumbled.

“Dead.” I took his hand. “Bethany?”

“Dead.”

I hovered over him, afraid to touch him. One eye was reduced to a red, puffy slit. His bottom lip was split. The bottom third of his nose bent left. I traced the high edge of his cheekbone, the only part of his face not ruined. Being shirtless meant I got an eyeful of the carnage below his collarbone.

He winced when I touched the purple splotch blossoming under his eye.

I pulled my hand back despite his protests. “Do you want some help with this?”

“I’m good.” He wet his lips. “I’ll just—
Fuck
.”

My palm ignited. Energy arced between us, and instinct clocked Shaw’s noble intentions upside the head. Poor guy had no choice, really. His hunger played moth to my flame, latching on and jolting me to the core. Tugging healing gulps of magic, Shaw drained the feeding buzz I was happy to relinquish.

I gave more than I should have, enough to erase Richardson’s imprint, enough that when this case closed and I saw my bed again, I might get to sleep without his oily essence roiling in my belly.

“Thierry,” Shaw groaned.

“Shh.” I brushed damp hairs from his forehead. “I’ve got you.”

I
was sprawled on my bed at the dorm, ready to sleep for days, when my phone rang. Tempted as I was not to answer it, Shaw and I would be tangled up in paperwork and interviews for days, which meant not taking a call wasn’t an option. I flicked the green icon and yawned. “Marshal Thackeray.”