Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 150546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 753(@200wpm)___ 602(@250wpm)___ 502(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 753(@200wpm)___ 602(@250wpm)___ 502(@300wpm)
“Who the fuck sent you here?” He’s young. Has to be younger than us, which would otherwise make me think he’s a Lost Boy, had we not known all thirty-five of them.
When he doesn’t answer, the barrel of my gun slides between his lips as I force it to the back of his throat. “Who the fuck are you here for? If you don’t talk, I’ll be happy to make you…”
His green eyes harden on mine.
“Okay then.” Using the strands of his hair, I drag him back to the office desk in the middle of the room and toss him into the chair.
The brief moment that I glance up at Katsia, I catch her naked body disappearing into the steam of her Luxor bath. I don’t question her need to bathe right now or why she has to do it right now, because I already know.
It’s already started.
“I think they’ve all left, War. Or are dead. He’s the last one here. Their mission failed,” she singsongs smoothly.
“Good.”
The doors of her room open and two Lost Boys stammer inside, bloodstained suits and gashes on their faces. The boy sees this as a way to leave, but I grab him by the back of the collar to force him down onto the chair without taking my eyes away from the Lost Boys.
Their bodies bend when they bow to Katsia, as she releases the clip that’s keeping her long, copper hair tied. With a trail down her slender back, the ends skim the water, following the waves her body creates as she moves to the other side.
She lifts her attention up to the boys.
“What is our current body count?” Her tongue’s flawless when it wraps around the dead language.
They both nod, but nervously so.
The first one is the bravest. “Four. We found one other floating near the docks, and a second one not far from him.”
She ponders for a moment, before curling her finger at the boys. “Come here.” I take that as my cue to continue.
I squeeze his cheek by the grip around his chin. “Talk. Now.”
His lips tighten closed.
“Or not.” I aim my gun and squeeze the trigger. Pop! The ripple of his screams tear through the sound of the bullet, as his hand squeezes the wound on his thigh.
I kneel to his eye level. “Just between us girls, I could do this all night. I know one hundred fifty-seven ways to kill a man without actually killing a man. So…” Standing to my full height, I grab the poker stick near the fireplace and go back to Mr. Chatty.
Ignoring the rage of memories that come with it, I flip open my Zippo and let the flame heat the end. “We’re going to play a game. It’s called, how many times can you be shot, healed, and then re-shot, before your limbs sever off?” A wide smirk stretches over my face when he looks between me and the stick.
As soon as the point glows hot, I slowly place it over his wound with a resounding crackle of skin melting together. His screams are loud enough to draw blood, only agitating my annoyance. I didn’t want to be here. I was supposed to be fucking the stupid out of a certain pet.
“FYI, if this part here isn’t hot enough…” I flick it with my finger. “It makes it worse.”
My fingers unclip the holster, finding the handle of the knife. “I need a name. An organization…” Silver catches the bright light that hangs from the center of the room.
He spits to the ground, glaring up at me with a snarl. It’s obvious he’s not going to help.
The sharp point of my knife finds the top of his shirt, as I cut a perfect line down the middle until his chest is bare.
Inkless. That’s different. I don’t think I know one person who doesn’t have a single tattoo, but then in our world, sometimes they’re a bad thing. If he had a black tie displayed as a knife, it would be the Gentlemen. Then there are things like their clothing. If it were any pastel colors of blue and pink, they’d be Bakers. The fuckers who have been antagonizing us since we came back to Riverside and drove them out. But Bakers are brainless. A rogue operation run by young twits who are too drugged out to make good choices. They come, we take, and repeat. They never learn their lesson. If they have any style of thorns tattooed on them, whether it be a single vine, or one that covers your whole back, well… it's probably too late for you.
I rest the knife against his manubrium, right where it dips between his collarbones. “Number four on my list of how to kill someone without killing them…” My head tilts. “Ever heard of jacketing?” The more he doesn’t answer, the faster my heart beats.