The Shadows

The Brother turned his head so that his powerful goateed profile cut a pale slice out of that illumination, the tattoos at his temple seeming more sinister than usual.

“How much,” Trez repeated. “I know you saw it.”

There was a subtle hiss as the Brother inhaled, the tip of the cigarette glowing a vital orange. “What I get is not that specific. Sorry.”

“You’re lying.”

That dark brow popped up. “I’ll forgive you that cheap shot. Once.”

With that, the male resumed striding off, those massive shoulders shifting with his hips, his warrior’s body not exactly the kind of thing anyone, even someone of Trez’s size and with his Shadow skills, would voluntarily take on.

Especially with that glowing hand of his.

But there wouldn’t be a brawl between the two of them. Not on this topic, at least.

They both knew he’d lied.

V was the Brother with the intelligence, the mystical visions, born directly of the Scribe Virgin’s body. He was also incapable of bullshitting anyone about anything. It was just not part of his hardwiring, that incredible brain of his too busy to care about whether or not he offended or postured properly or couched things in ways that were palatable to the inquirer.

So when he had refused to turn around? When all he had done was show his profile?

He had answered the question well enough.

Vishous would never, ever voluntarily hurt or injure a male he respected. That was even more ingrained than the no-lying thing. And yes, Trez had heard that there was usually not a timeline on V’s visions about death—but clearly it was different in this case.

Maybe because what had been seen was less about the Chosen’s death, and more about what happened to Trez afterward.

There are two females. And in both cases, you’re running out of time.

“. . . Trez?” Doc Jane said, as if she had been trying to get his attention. “Are you ready to talk with me?”

No, he thought, as V disappeared through the glass doors of the office. He was not.

TWENTY-NINE

“Did you think no one would know.”

As maichen stepped out from the cell, she froze. The voice behind her was so deep, so low that the words were more growled than spoken—and it was the last thing she had expected.

Footfalls, of a male twice her height and three times her weight, circled around her body, and through the mesh that covered her face, she looked up, up, up.

s’Ex’s features were covered as well, but for the executioner, it was chain mail, not delicate links of silver, that hid his particulars, though not his identity.

Fear rang in her chest, a hollow strike that brought sweat out under her armpits and between her well-concealed breasts.

“And you were feeding him?”

When she neither confirmed nor denied the statement, the executioner threw his hands up in frustration—but he was careful not to touch her or anything that was indirectly touching her body, and that included the tray, everything on it, as well as her robing and even the large marble square that her feet had happened to land on.

It was forbidden for any male to come into contact with her, punishable by death, at s’Ex’s hands—which would mean that he would be required to commit suicide, she supposed.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Did you poison him?”

“No! He has been without food for over twelve hours—”

“Do you normally concern yourself with my prisoners?”

“He is no normal prisoner.” She lifted her chin. “And you have not taken care of him properly.”

“There are a thousand others to look after such things.”

“Am I not one of those thousands who live here?”

He leaned in. “Do not go in there again.”

maichen removed her mesh so fast, he did not have a chance to look away in time. As he gasped and wrenched around, ducking his face under the folds of his sleeve, her voice matched the authority of his.

“You will not tell me where I can and cannot go.”

“Drop your mask!” he barked.

“I will not. I do not take orders from you.” She ripped the sleeve away from him so that he had naught to cover his eyes. “Are we clear?”

The executioner closed his eyes so hard, the features of his entire face distorted. “You’re going to get us both killed—”

“No one is here. Now I command you to meet my stare.”

Such was the turning of tables that he became the cowed one as he took his time opening those lids, as if his face did not want to obey the dictates of his mind.

When he finally looked at her properly, it was the first time in her life a male had ever seen her face—and for a split second, her heart got to beating so fast she grew light-headed. But the thought of that prisoner in there overrode the upset.

“He”—she jabbed her finger in the direction of the door to the cell—“is not to be harmed in any way. Do you understand me?”

“It is not your place to dictate—”

“He is an innocent. That is the Anointed One’s brother, not he who must serve the throne. I know from the tattoo—”