Page 81 of Taste of Blood

“We caught the guys, but I haven’t had a chance to question them yet. I got everyone tied up watching out for this Python asshole.”

“You want me to talk to them?”

“I want you to do what you do. I think that would be the best use of your time right now.”

I’m all for anything that gets me out of stakeout duty. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

I hang up and start pulling on my clothes.

“What was that about O’Hara’s?” Asher asks.

“Apparently the door we found in the tunnel is under the bar.” I finish dressing and look over at him. “A couple of the Python’s men shot up one of Dante’s dens last night, so he wants me to get some information out of them.”

“I see,” he says, not pushing for details. Instead, he slides off the bed and steps up to me, closing his hands around my wrists. “I’ll have Elaine broaden the search to include O’Hara’s.”

I hadn’t considered that. “Okay. That would be good.”

I turn to leave and Asher calls after me. “Cord. Be careful.”

“Always am,” I answer automatically.

♦ ♦ ♦

There are three guys chained to the wall in Dante’s basement. Two of them are conscious, and they don’t look like the same brand of gullible as the last ones I tortured. In fact, they act like this is all part of the plan, which immediately puts me on guard.

I’m guessing threatening them with starvation won’t have the same effect, so I take my time laying out my tools while I get myself in the right headspace to devise a way to make them talk. Hard to do when I just spent the last hour tied up with Asher’s cock buried in my ass.

I’m not normally a sadistic guy, but I do have a dark streak that’s been with me since birth, and I don’t mind tapping into it when the situation warrants.

That’s why Dante calls on me for stuff like this. When needed, I can turn off the human side of my brain, which is what’s required for any successful form of torture. Part of me even enjoys it, though I don’t think too much about that. Maybe it says more about my childhood than anything else. It was not full of sunshine and flowers.

Torturing vampires requires a bit of creativity because we’re notoriously immune to most wounds. That’s what happens when you can heal almost anything.

But healing doesn’t include replacement. We’re vamps, not salamanders. And some wounds can bleed more than others, meaning if you withhold the fuel to heal them, it can cause extreme suffering. Lucky for me, people–even vampires–will say and do remarkable things to alleviate suffering.

I strip off my jacket and toss it on the chair in the corner before picking up a large pair of bolt cutters and approaching the biggest captive.

Deep breath. Blow it out slowly to clear my head.

I love this moment, when the possibility of impending violence hangs in the air. The vamp’s breathing stutters, waiting, and I let the moment drag, my eyes holding his, my smile cold and flat.

There’s something to be said for the element of surprise. The vamp watches me, his defiance slowly turning to apprehension. Too bad he doesn’t comprehend the truth of his fate yet.

But he will.

I reach up with both hands and snatch his bound wrist between the jaws of the bolt cutters and, using all my force, snap them shut.

The crunching of bone echoes through the cell like a gunshot.

It’s not a clean wound. The blowback splatters in a wide arc, covering him and the wall behind him and landing on me, its meaty scent saturating the room. The hand is still dangling by some tissue and crushed bone, but it gives me the effect I was going for.

The vamp howls in shock as his lifeblood spurts from the wound, running down his arm and soaking his side before dripping into a puddle on a concrete floor that has seen its shareof bloodshed over the years. Unfortunately, cutting off his hand frees one arm from the restraints around his wrist, but I don’t think he’s all that invested in escape right now.

I wipe the overspray from my face and grin. “Now that I have your attention.”

“You sick fuck,” he croaks.

“Careful. You don’t want to piss me off.”