Butch closed his eyes briefly and cursed. “I’m so sorry. But I have to ask you. Is this your—”
“Yes, this is my daughter,” the female said hoarsely. “She is . . . ours.”
When Butch went to re-cover the face, the female shook her head. “No. Not yet.”
She leaned down, and as her hair swung free, she had to tuck the loose part behind her ear. With a shaking hand, she reached out and touched the short, dyed black hair at the temple. Then she stroked the cold, gray cheek.
Tears fell from her eyes, landing on the sheet at the arm. The first two slid off the dry cotton. The others that followed were absorbed.
“What happened to her?” The female looked up in desperation. “Who did this to my Mai?”
* * *
On the other side of the Hudson River, deep in the field of conflict in downtown, Syn stalked through an alley in search of the enemy, his instincts way out in front of him, then to the side, now to the back . . . and again trained on what was before him. It was another cold, clear night, no wind to ruffle the loose flakes of snow that had fallen during the day, nothing to disturb the dense, dry, deep freeze that had stalled over Caldwell.
“—down at that club. Vishous got the body over to Havers’s and now they’re trying to figure out who she is and who killed—”
Ordinarily, Syn didn’t mind being paired with Balthazar. The Bastard was a vicious killer and rarely said much, two of the highest compliments Syn could pay any living thing.
Unfortunately, that blessed silent streak was being cut short tonight. Apparently, all it took to end Balthazar’s winning-personality batting average was a dead female down at that human club.
Although, to be fair, it wasn’t just the chatter that was doing Syn’s nut in.
Beneath his skin, his talhman was surging, prowling . . . triggered by the conversation about the female who had been found, strung up on the lower level of Pyre, naked.
Unbidden, one of his hands went to the steel daggers that were mounted, handles down, on his chest. Was it possible, he wondered, that those cuts to that female’s throat, the slices to her wrists, the other damage to her body . . . had been made by his knives? His hands? He had a distinct memory of going down those damp, cold stairs with a female’s legs wrapped around his hips. And he could remember vividly the pair of them up against one of those doors down there, hasty, rough sex taking them into a storage area. Had he shut them in together after its lock had sprung open?
Had he done other things to her besides penetrate her core?
He couldn’t recall. And for the first time in a long time, warnings prickled up the back of his neck.
In fact, he could not remember when the sex had ended. He knew he hadn’t orgasmed, of course. And he was sure she had, a number of times. But other than that? The next thing he’d been aware of was departing the club. Alone.
Syn glanced down at his hands and tried to force his brain to recall if they’d had blood on them when he’d taken his leave of Pyre. The fact that he pulled yet another blank made him curse under his breath. Where had he been headed after he’d left? Home, he thought. To the Brotherhood mansion, where he and the Band of Bastards now lived—
No, that wasn’t right. Just as he’d been about to dematerialize, he’d scented a lesser. Following the sweet stench, he’d tracked his prey a couple of blocks away from the club.
So, yes, when he had finally gotten back to the Brotherhood mansion, he’d been covered with the black, oily mess that had flowed through that slayer’s veins: His hands and forearms. His clothes. His shitkickers. And he could remember checking in at the vestibule’s security camera, one of the doggen letting him in. He hadn’t paid much attention to which it had been. Had anyone else seen him come in?
Even with the stench of the enemy all over him, surely someone would have commented on the fact that he’d had a female’s blood on him, too. Right?
“—surprised you weren’t at the meeting.”
Syn glanced over. “What?”
“The meeting Wrath called tonight. About the dead female at that club.”
“I was busy.”
Balthazar stopped in the middle of the alley. “Doing what?”