Chapter 27
Gerard
He could have wrapped his fingers around Elora’s scrawny throat in Grayhollow and squeezed till her eyes bulged.
He could’ve ended the whole shit-show right there.
Put an arrow through the mercenary’s skull, watch the bastard’s brains paint the wall.
Drag the screaming apprentices into some piss-stinking alley and slice out their tongues while they screamed like gutted pigs.
Could’ve pinned the bitch to the filthy cobbles and let Thorn have his goddamn parade whenever the pompous ass wanted it.
Clean. Swift. A pat on the back, maybe. A fucking nod, at least.
Boring as hell.
Let the cunt run. Let him see which rats stuck to her ass and which little shits scattered when things got bloody. Let her find whatever hole she thought was safe. Let him turn it into her stinking grave.
The ring didn’t burn like it had on the road north.
No steady heat. Just the occasional prickle under the glove, like a tick burrowing into flesh.
He liked that better. Constant pain was like fucking the same whore every night—you stopped feeling it.
These sharp little bites felt like fresh meat.
She was learning. Keeping her monster quiet.
Good. Let the bitch try. She’d have to unleash the bastard sometime.
And when she did, he’d be balls-deep in her misery.
The ruts from the motorcar were easy enough to follow.
No need to rush. Those tracks snaked ahead like a map drawn just for him, leading straight to the forsaken edge of Aszona.
He led the way through the twisting streets, the stink of oil and unwashed ass hitting him first. Prostitutes called from shadowed doorways, voices syrupy and false.
Beggars with festering sores slunk back into alleys.
He picked an inn on the eastern edge, squat and grimy, with a sign creaking in the wind like a broken neck.
The barkeep looked up, face paling at the sight of uniforms. “Rooms. Ale. Stables,” Gerard barked, tossing coins that scattered across the counter like teeth knocked from a jaw. “And keep your fucking mouth shut.”
Up in the chamber, he stripped off his glove, flexing his hand. The ring sat there, cool for now. He paced to the window, the floorboards groaning under his weight. His men settled below, their shit-talking drifting up and drilling into his skull.
Then it hit. Heat bloomed in the band, slow at first, then searing, twisting his finger toward the southwest like a hook in guts.
Gerard gritted his teeth, the burn steady as a bitch in heat.
All damn night it would go like this—he could feel it already, the way it locked in place, no flicker, no shift.
She was hunkered down out there, curled up in whatever hole she’d found, monster form wrapped tight around her.
Clever little thing. One eye cracked, claws itching for a fight. He almost admired it. But he was smarter. No charging in while the ring scorched his skin, screaming her strength. Wait for the cool-down. Wait for her weak. Easy to chain. Easy to break.
She was in the city. That knowledge sat heavy in his gut, satisfying enough for now. No need to chase the pull tonight. Let her sleep, thinking herself safe.
He stepped out onto the upper balcony instead, the chill air biting at his face.
Below, the streets crawled with vermin—drunks pissing themselves as they stumbled from taverns, their laughter raw and stupid; whores with tits half-spilling from threadbare dresses, skirts hiked high enough to see where their last customers had finished; gamblers spilling out of dens, eyes wild with loss or the dumb-fuck delusion of luck.
Plenty to distract a man with an itch in his cock.
Maybe he’d pick one later, something breakable, to burn off the wait.
Movement caught his eye down in the street, shadows slinking through the lamplight like whipped dogs.
Figures trudged along, backs ramrod straight, the kind of posture beaten into asses with fists and fear.
More apprentices, maybe. No empire robes on them, instead wearing dark leathers hugging some, cloaks draped over others to bite back the chill.
They kept glancing back, twitchy, eyes darting like prey scenting a blade.
One stood out, a boy with blond curls, striding next to a woman who moved easy, like she owned the night.
Her hair was onyx black, knives glinting at her hips.
He didn’t give two shits about her. But the boy—hell, that sparked something vicious in his gut.
He could pretend it was Symond, right there, close enough to grab.
Pretend the hunt ended tonight, blades slicing through apprentice throats, blood hot on his hands.
Capture Symond, drag Elora out of whatever hole she hid in.
Prizes for Thorn, sure, but sweeter ones for himself.
Everyone back where they belonged, leashed and broken like the worthless cunts they were.
Now that was a dream worth spilling seed to.
He turned back inside, boots heavy on the creaking floor, mind already mapping the streets. Morning would come. He’d send Malvin to sniff around, tail them discreetly. No rush. Bait always tasted better when it squirmed and begged for mercy.