Chapter 4 The Many Faces of Power #2
Like in my bedroom, I could smell the greasy sweetness of burning flesh before we reached the doors.
My jaw tightened.
We passed through the main hall.
Satoshi moved ahead to open the main doors.
Light spilled in—gray and wrong through smoke.
I stepped through, and heat hit me in the face.
Yesterday, this island had been paradise. Cool ocean breezes. White sand beaches where my men's children built sandcastles while their wives lounged in the shade. Laughter echoed across the water.
The war had probably felt distant, held at bay by the beauty of this place, and for a few precious days, we'd all been able to breathe.
Now the island was a battlefield.
The air was thick with smoke, heavy and gray, pressing down on everything like a burial shroud.
Even though it was morning, the sky was dark, choked with ash.
I coughed and covered my mouth with my hand. The smoke burned my throat, my lungs, coated the inside of my mouth with the taste of death.
Since my argument with my Tiger, the pyre had grown.
My men had been feeding it all morning, adding wood and fuel, keeping the flames hungry. Bodies near the bottom had burned down to bone and char, but at the top of the pile, newer additions were still recognizable.
Still human.
The fire crackled and popped, consuming flesh.
Ash drifted through the air. Some settled on my shoulders, my hair, the sleeves of my shirt. I watched a flake land on my hand and thought of Tora at the window this morning, thinking it was snow.
At least she didn’t vomit. She just gagged.
The thought surfaced unbidden, and I held onto it. Most people—even men who had spent years in this life—would have emptied their stomachs at the sight of over a hundred bodies burning.
At the smell.
At the understanding of what that ash really was.
But my Tiger had stood at that window, breathed it in, and kept her spine straight for longer than most.
She'd been horrified.
Shaken.
Angry enough to demand things from me that no one else would dare ask for.
But she hadn't broken down and sobbed like some weak individual.
Continuing to walk, I turned my hand over and watched ash settle into the creases of my palm.
Reo is right. She's stronger than I give her credit for.
A few weeks ago, Nyomi had been a woman with a normal life. A woman who had probably never seen a man burn to death, never smelled burning flesh, never had to reckon with the kind of violence that ran through my veins like blood.
Now she was in my kitchen, preparing for a party honoring killers, holding morale together with her bare hands while the sky rained human remains.
That wasn't survival.
That was adaptation.
The kind that couldn't be taught.
The kind that either lived inside a person or didn't.
And that was what my Roar wanted for her.
I glanced his way.
Keeping my pace, Reo's jaw was set, and his stride even. To anyone else, he looked untouchable. But I saw the way his left hand stayed loose at his side instead of swinging naturally—protecting the ribs I'd damaged.
The whiskey should have slowed him.
The pain should have shown on his face.
But Reo moved as if neither existed.
I smiled and faced forward.
Movement near the pyre caught my attention. The Lion stood barely five feet from the flames.
If only he could just slip and fall into the flames, my day would be much smoother.
Only the Lion would stand so close to this sort of death.
Everyone else had retreated—my men and even his people kept a respectful distance of at least ten feet.
The families on the island had fled entirely.
But Kazimir stood close enough to touch the fire, close enough that the heat must have been searing, and he stared into the blaze like he was watching the most captivatingly beautiful vision in the world.
Sick bastard.
He was massive and tall. Built like a bear, with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun.
Today he wore black boots, black pants, a black long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms thick with muscle and tattoos.
And I realized that this wasn't the Kazimir I was used to seeing—the one in tailored suits and silk ties, the one who looked like he belonged in a boardroom negotiating hostile takeovers.
The realization settled into my chest.
Why is he dressed this way?
Whatever had brought the Lion to my island, he hadn't come expecting peace.
His men—around twenty Russians in dark suits—stood in a line behind him. Still as statues. Eyes that tracked movement without appearing to move at all.
Why the hell would you come here?
As I got close, Kazimir reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar.
Next, he walked right toward the pyre.
Huh?
He got closer.
Closer still.
Until he was standing at the very edge of the flames. Heat shimmered around him. Ash settled on his shoulders.
And then Kazimir leaned in toward the fire and burning bodies and then crouched by one of the burning skulls.
What the fuck is he doing?
The skull sat low in the pyre—half-swallowed by stacked ribs, splintered femurs, and the other men’s torsos slumped.
The heat had erased its identity. The skin was dark, crusted over, and cooked into a blistered lacquer.
The man’s melted eyes had become glossy pits, the lids fused and cracking.
The mouth hung open in a permanent, slack scream—gaping, black, rimmed with ash—teeth exposed like white stones in a burned-out cave.
Kazimir didn’t flinch as he crouched by that head. And with the calm precision of a man choosing a wine, the Lion reached out the hand holding the cigar and angled his wrist until his cigar’s tip hovered inches above the flaming skull.
What is wrong with him? Surely, he or his men had a lighter.
A tongue of flame curled up from the dead man’s brow and kissed his cigar.
The wrapper darkened.
The tip glowed.
Kazimir rolled it slowly.
A thin strand of melted flesh sloughed from the head’s cheekbone and dropped onto the coals below with a wet hiss.
The stench—fat and smoke—pushed into the air in a thick wave.
Satisfied with the light, Kazimir rose, put the cigar to his mouth, and drew in once. Deep. The cigar flared bright as a wound.
Then he exhaled, and the smoke left his mouth, drifting over along the heap of bodies.
My stomach clenched.
Disgust crawled up my throat.
He took another long pull and let the smoke curl from his lips.
He's enjoying this.
Kazimir blew out a long plume of smoke and turned to me. To my surprise, a smile spread across his face, wide and warm, like we were old friends.
Like we were the same.
My stomach turned for a different reason now.
I got close to him, stopping and keeping three feet between us.
“This is quite impressive.” Kazimir gestured back to the pyre. “I love it.”
I parted my lips in shock.
If the Lion thinks this is impressive, then maybe I did go too far.
I pushed that thought out of my head. “Good morning, Kazimir.”
The Lion nodded.
"You're a long way from home."
"Not true, my friend.”
“No?”
“Home is wherever death burns brightest." He faced the pyre and gestured toward it with his cigar. "And today, my home appears to be here."
I did my best not to growl.
This is not your damned home Lion.
Behind me, Reo shifted closer.
My Fangs spread out with their hands near their weapons.
Many of my deadliest Scales were already outside, probably due to Reo’s orders. They saw our positioning and headed over, getting close to the Lion’s men, but not too close to cause perceived disrespect.
Kazimir took a puff of his cigar. “We should talk. You and I have much to discuss."
This is going to be bullshit. I can already tell deep in my gut.
I could feel it in my bones too, the particular burden of a conversation designed to cost me something. I just hoped I was ready to know what it was.