Did recon to ensure that the story as represented to him was true. Infiltrated what turned out to be a castle to get a feel of his victim’s environs.
And then it was time to kill the male. His talhman had looked forward to the moment of blade to flesh, but Syn had waited for the spring festival to commence so there would be chaos and distraction and drunkenness inside those thick walls. Lurking within the castle and seeking the perfect moment to strike, he had followed the master of the estate back to his private rooms. Imagine Syn’s surprise when he had attacked and discovered that under the garb of a male there was, in fact, a member of the fairer sex: With her hair shorn, and heavy sandalwood sachets to cover the scent of her, no one had guessed her truth.
When it came to slaughtering her, Syn hadn’t cared about which sex she was.
And he hadn’t spared her.
He had shed all the blood from her veins until the inlaid floor beneath her bedding platform had glistened with what had kept her alive. He had felt nothing.
No, that wasn’t true. The usual rush, the thrill, the sadistic joy he experienced at causing pain, as well as the release from his own buildup of anger and aggression, had all been there.
They were always there.
In fact, that cycle of kindling, target finding, killing, and resulting relative peacefulness was why he had to murder on a regular basis.
His talhman was what made him a serial killer. Like an alcoholic needed a drink to deal with stress, he needed to bring death to complete his cycle, and he had not, and never did, regret a thing. But that was because he had rules. The efforts and time spent determining whether his marks were criminal had ensured he was not like his father.
And had also ensured that he got to kill people like his father, over and over again.
That was why the Lessening Society had never been enough for him. That was business.
What he did with his murder kit on his own time was personal, a return to the death he had wrought on the sire who had tortured him and his mahmen.
Syn was getting lax about the screening process though, wasn’t he. When Gigante had told him to kill Jo, he hadn’t looked into whether the target was an innocent or not. He’d been reeling and kill-starved, overdue and therefore prepared to murder a reporter, regardless of their virtue or lack thereof.
Which was very different from a mobster who sold drugs to kids and did fuck-all else.
“I don’t want you around her,” Manny said abruptly.
“So you’ve decided to believe her. About your kinship with her.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The surgeon’s dark eyes went to the rearview. “Sister or not, she doesn’t need you in her life.”
Syn looked down at the gauze banding around his thigh. Manny had insisted on packing that wound as well as his others.
“So you’re just going to let me bleed out, huh,” Syn said.
“No, I’m still going to treat you. I have professional ethics.”
Syn lowered his head and closed his eyes. As images of Jo came to him, a relentless onslaught of memories, his instinct to protect her surged under his skin and raced along his veins. Under different circumstances, he might have suggested he and her brother fight it out.
What stopped him was . . . he couldn’t disagree with the man’s conclusion.
Jo was much better off without him.
You stole from me again.”
As Jo spoke, she stared out of the window of the truck she’d gotten into at the abandoned mall. The last thing she remembered, they were leaving the site of the fighting. Now, they were in a parking garage somewhere . . . God only knew where.
“It’s for your safety.”
She looked across the seat. The man—male—beside her was Syn’s size, but with a long, flowing, multi-colored hair and the calm demeanor of someone who had done so many super-dangerous things that chauffeuring a woman to . . . well, wherever the hell they were . . . was waaaaaaaay down on his list of stressors.
“My safety?” She glanced at the bulk of his leather jacket. “Really. Like I’m not already at risk around you.”
He killed the engine and stared over at her with yellow eyes that were beautiful—and so not human. “You will not be hurt here.”
“I’m supposed to trust you? When I’ve lost—” She tapped the digital clock on the dash. “—seventeen minutes. Oh? You mean you didn’t