Page 98 of The Blood we Crave

The weight of the blade sits balanced on my palm. “Who hired you?”

A whiny moan comes from his throat. “Shit. Shit, I can’t tell you. I can take you to Colin, but I can’t tell you that. They’ll kill me. Rip me to pieces, man. I can’t.”

I almost laugh that he thinks what they have in store for him is worse than my plans. Another black dart whizzes through the air, silent as a bird’s feather landing through the middle of Michael’s pelvis. Slicing through flesh, tearing into his skin.

Based on the gut-wrenching howl, it’s safe to say I hit my intended target.

“Impressive aim, considering how small it is.” Alistair speaks from his seat, taking another puff of his cigarette.

The blade is pinned between his thighs, pierced straight through what I’m hoping is his dick and balls. Tears stream down his face, his whole body shaking. The handle wobbles with every ragged breath he takes.

It’ll be a slow, painful way to die.

Unless those knives are removed, it will prevent him from bleeding out. They will plunge the holes and keep him breathing until I am finished. He has no option but to hang there in suffering.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know this, because you don’t know me, Michael,” I say, scooping up another knife without looking. “But I don’t believe I’m like God, either.”

I flip it in my hand before rearing my arm behind my head and throwing it forward. I move smoothly, barely a sound coming from my movements as it slips from my grip and pegs the center of Michael’s left hand.

Briefly I can hear bone crunching, before another slew of curse words leaves his mouth. I take my time, walking closer to the circular board and the man dangling from it.

Each footstep lethal and sure.

My gloved hand clutches Michael’s jaw, my voice deadly still. Calm as liquid night.

“I am worse than any god, you know. There is no mercy granted here or miracles given. I am the patron saint of your death. You die when I want you to.”

Michael sobs, big heaving cries from a man that had earlier threatened to take Lyra’s life. The power he’d thought he had over her shifts. He is now a tiny, inconvenient bug beneath my shoe.

“Who hired you?” I ask again, feeling the wave of euphoria crashing over me as his cries, snot dripping from his nose, and face flushed from screaming. “It’s in your best interest to tell me, Michael. I can make this last all night.”

I’ve broken him. Shattered every piece of masculinity he has ever had. Tour down his barricades, until all that is left is a sad man desperate for his life.

“Stephen Sinclair.” He cries through gritted teeth. “Stephen Sinclair hired us!”

There is no surprise on my face. We all knew the dean of Hollow Heights was woven into the Halo somehow. Known he was a snake long before Rosemary turned up dead.

“Why.” I demand.

“I don’t know. All he talked to us about was the job. Grab her and throw her around a little.” He coughs. “When I asked why, all he said was, ‘So when she goes crawling back to her degenerate friends, they will know what is at risk. What I’m capable of taking from them.’”

My hand grabs the handle of the knife lodged between his legs, jerking it harshly to the left. Inciting another cry for help from his mouth.

“What else do you know?”

Michael tilts his head towards the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut. Trying to picture a different reality, desperately hoping to wake up from this nightmare.

“It wasn’t supposed to be Lyra.” He croaks. “We were told to grab Sage Donahue, but we—I—”

“But you?” I apply more pressure to the knife, cutting the words from his throat.

“Some blond kid came in and told him no. Had a nasty scar on his face, demanded Stephen to pick Lyra Abbott instead. Said she was the weakest of the group and would break easier.”

I can feel Rook’s rage towards Easton Sinclair mingling with my own. Knowing earlier I’d been seconds from snapping his neck and should have, according to this information.

“Are you sure there wasn’t anything else?”

“I’m sure!” He screams. “That’s it! That’s all I know, swear to fucking God.”