Chapter Two
Two
Axe
“You’ve got to be joking!” I mutter under my breath at Strike, my eyes darting to his lass, Honor, who’s standing with her pal pretty Josie the Rosie—that’s what I call her on account of her wild tangle of strawberry-blonde hair and the way her cheeks lit up like a bonfire the first time we met, right after I said astrology was fan fiction for nutters, and she looked at me like I’d just insulted her granny.
We’ve had a few run-ins since then—the second time, I told her believing in tarot cards is about as sensible as taking life advice from a Go Fish deck.
Can’t help it. I’ve got a knack for saying exactly the wrong thing with that lass.
Honesty’s not always the best policy, but watching Josie’s cheeks flame is my guiltiest pleasure.
Even if it means I’m constantly tripping on my own words around her.
Both women’s mouths are open like a pair of carps as they take in the scene of our lobotomy lab. Christ, how long have they been here?
“You’re the dumbass who didn’t lock the door,” Strike growls, redirecting the eleven-inch blade that he’s been using to slice and dice old Petrov—to get the information we need, but also for being the todger that he is—to the space between my eyes.
I laugh. No way Strike would even nick me with that thing.
We go way too far back—practically kids when the CIA recruited us.
Years of missions and a bond forged in fire have made Strike Madden the closest thing I have to a brother.
There’s no one I’d rather have watching my back.
Maybe I didn’t lock the door, but Petrov has proven to be the true dumbass of the night, crying and confessing names we haven’t even asked for.
He calls himself a pimp and a daddy, but strip him of his guns and flunkies, and the guy’s a fucking wuss.
He deserves every last punch I’ve given him.
In fact, he deserves way worse. If I still believed in Heaven and Hell, there’d be no doubt which direction this guy is going—and I’d be thrilled to be the one sending him there early.
“What the fuck?” Honor asks as Josie’s green eyes widen like teacups. If I’m ever a lucky enough man to blow Josie’s pupils, this is not how I want to do it. “Please tell me you are not this stupid.”
“What is…happening here?” asks Josie, who’s rubbing at the crease in her forehead. She looks like a confused Disney princess, but I remind myself this is not someone who needs rescuing.
We need to get the lasses moving and finish the job. Can’t have anyone else stumbling down here and catching a glimpse of this mess. The room is swimming in blood. Lucky for us, the whole venue’s a forensic nightmare—too much contamination for them to ID anything.
After all the scheming we did dreaming up our House of Horrors, the last thing I expected was for the girls to stumble into the one room where Strike and I—in the spirit of the old days—decided to get up to some of our more questionable hobbies.
We knew it wasn’t smart or careful, not our usual way.
But once the idea was out there, neither of us could back down from the challenge.
Who’d notice a bit more gore in an asylum already swimming in the stuff?
The party planners painted the walls with buckets of bovine blood, so why not add a dash of human splatter to the mix?
The DNA here is more mixed-up than a Scot on a six-pub crawl.
Strike smiles sheepishly at Honor. She’s known about our independent investigations since Strike took down her sister’s killer six months ago, and it’s obvious that we’re definitely not fooling her.
“Firefly, don’t worry. We got this all under control,” he says, and even though he’s literally holding a wet knife, Honor melts like butter on a hot scone.
Now, I don’t believe in soulmates—that’s as daft as astrology, or Heaven and Hell for that matter.
But when I see Strike and Honor together, the way they just accept each other’s darkest bits without flinching, I can’t help but wonder if maybe someday I’ll find someone who’ll love me like that—madness and all.
I shut that thinking down. The last bloody thing I need, the last thing I want, is a lady mucking up my life.
I’ve got my ducks lined up exactly as I like them, and I do just fine on my own, thanks.
Besides, there’s not a soul broken enough in this world to put up with the real me.
What’s that famous expression? I’d never want to join a club that would have me as a member.
“We thought we’d put on a show for the guests,” Strike says.
“Maybe too real, guys, if you want my opinion,” says Honor.
“All part of the fun.” I smile at Josie a bit wolfishly. I can feel my canines. She doesn’t smile back. I turn to Petrov, hanging by his wrists like a sad sack. His front tooth’s dangling by the root, and he fucking stinks—he’s gone and pissed himself. Amateur hour.
In the CIA, they taught us how to hold it in even when you’re getting the shit kicked out of you. But this guy’s a pure novice. Low-hanging fruit. Just the first step in a bigger plan. “Right, Petrov?”
Last thing I need is for Josie to think the CEO of SynthoTech tortures sex traffickers at the annual corporate party. Even if, ah, that’s exactly what I’m doing.
“Still gross,” Honor says, but I catch her wink for Strike. I wonder if she’s got half a mind to drop-kick Petrov square in the stones. She definitely would if Strike showed her his file and the pictures we’ve seen of Petrov’s victims. Some were just wee ones. Twelve, thirteen years old.
Josie grips her sparkly little bag as she surveys the whole grim scene—the blood, the lacerations, even the knife—and shrugs.
I don’t know her that well, but there’s something different about her today.
Reflexively, I give her the once-over from head to toe, stealth-like, the way I used to scan a perimeter, on high alert, ready for anything.
But I’m never ready for just how stunning she is, luminous even, though tonight her eyes look troubled.
“You okay?” Honor asks Josie as she gives her hand a squeeze and they head toward the door. Both women are dressed to kill—Honor in black velvet like a vampire queen, Josie wrapped in layers of tissue-thin fabric, a mummy costume for a goddess.
“Yeah,” Josie says quietly. “Let’s get out of here.”
Now Honor turns back, her eyes daggers that land first on Strike, then me, then back on Strike.
“Later, boys,” Honor says, keeping her voice light and flirty.
I steal one last, long look at Josie, not even bothering to be subtle this time, but she’s too busy studying the floor. Funny thing about boar’s blood—it looks just like human, but for a split second, I’d swear she knows the difference.
There’s something about her. Like she’s got a sixth sense or some kind of spooky insight. Her all-knowing act rattles me, not that I’d admit it out loud. So, naturally, I just end up ripping on her astrology as nonsense instead, trying to knock her off that high horse.
That, and to watch her cheeks go pink, of course.