And then, wouldn’t you know it? Fucker’s singing a song of sixpence about Hunter’s private adoption out west, followed by the move out east. How the Forsythes kept him under lock and key his entire childhood, hiring private mage tutors and trainers, along with various witch nannies and security guards, all from the shadow magic society. Turns out Randall here’s one of Hunter’s lifelong personal guards.
“Few… few months after Hunter turned nineteen,” Randall pants, still holding on like a trooper, “they started letting him out more. Had me taking him to the hospital every week for some… some kinda thing. Hey, could I get some water or—”
“No.Whatkind of thing?”
“I don’t know. Just… just a thing. I thought maybe he was sick or something. Once a week for three or four hours, every week like clockwork. Never missed one.” He turns his head and spits out a mouthful of blood.
“And Hunter never told you about them?”
“We never talked. Wasn’t allowed—only for security related business.” Randall coughs, more blood splattering his chin. His breathing is getting shallower, his skin pale. Not much time left, poor bloke.
“When was the last treatment?” I ask.
“About a month ago.”
“That recent?”
“Yeah. Then he just stopped.”
“And you’re sure you don’t know what the treatments were for?”
He shakes his head, fresh stalactites of blood and spit wagging from his lips.
“Care to speculate?”
No response.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Randy. You’re holding a severed thumb. You’ve got no eyes, dozens of broken bones, and you’re bleeding so much I’m surprised the vampires aren’t circling. Death is breathing down your neck, and in your final moments, you don’t even have the balls to make a few lousy guesses? I can’t believe the—oh, right. That was insensitive of me, mentioning your balls. Sorry—I’m a bit out of practice. Bedside manner isn’t what it used to be. I’m—”
“Jude? Are you down here?”
Westlyn. Her voice is heavenly, her sweet scent cutting through the coppery bite of the blood.
“It seems we have a spy in our midst, Randall,” I whisper, then turn around and catch her descending the stairs. She stops on the bottom step, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp.
“Help me,” Randall pants. “He’s… he’s fucking insane. Help… me….”
“Randall! She’s a lady, for fuck’s sake. You don’t use that kind of language in front of a lady.” With a heavy sigh, I grab the closest blade and slash it across his throat, putting usallout of his misery once and for all.
He was done singing for me, anyway.
At the sink, I scrub the evidence from my hands and arms, then hang up my apron on the hook I installed for just that purpose. Without turning around, I say, “You shouldn’t be here, little scarecrow. My workshop is no place for nice girls.”
She doesn’t reply, but curiosity gets the better of her, footsteps echoing on the cold cement as she walks a few paces into my den of sin.
“I… I was looking for you,” she says. “I missed you.”
Fuck, her words have me going soft inside. I turn around and look her over. Her eyes are on me, barely even noticing the fresh corpse hanging from the ceiling. She’s got her hair twisted up in her usual black-and-silver bun, her favorite blue hoodie zipped up tight, those hot little eggplant shorts peeking out the bottom.
“Come here,” I command.
She obeys at once, and I fold her into my arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
She’s trembling.
“Are you afraid of death, darling?”
She shakes her head.
