Page 43 of Dance of Madness

The roaring's still there.

The fucking screaming that lives in my chest, always just under the surface.

I wash my hands, pour a glass of whiskey, and knock it back. Then another. The burn is weak. It doesn’t scorch deep enough tonight.

I walk to the window and look out over the city. Somewhere out there, she’s still trembling from what I did to her.

But I still feel likeI’mthe one coming apart at the seams.

The surge of raw emotions inside of me is relentless, all-consuming, welling up so fast that I almost slam the empty glass in my hand into the window in front of me, just to feelsomething.

My legs shake as I stagger away from the window, yanking pants and a shirt on again and dropping to a knee next to the bedside table. I punch in the code, open the top drawer and fumble inside for the revolver.

This gun is different from the one—or two—I usually keep on me.

I haven’t done this in months. I don't enjoy it.

But right now, I need it.

It’squiet when I pull up at the side gate of the massive Bronx mansion. The guards there nod me through without a word. So does the one outside the back kitchen door when I park there.

It’s been a while, but this is hardly my first time here.

I head upstairs to the back wing of the house, heading down a darkened hallway to the closed office door. I barely rap my knuckles on it, then surge through.

Kir glances up from whatever report he was reading as I storm toward his desk. He doesn’t blink at my obviously manic state, just eyes me cautiously as I yank out the revolver and the single bullet and slam them down on his desk.

His dark eyes drop from me to the gun. He still doesn’t say a word as he exhales slowly, closing his laptop and taking off his dark-framed glasses.

He rolls his neck, stretching his arms, letting the muscles of his forearms flex against the rolled-up sleeves of his dress shirt.

It’s one in the morning, in the comfort of his own home, and the motherfucker isstilldressed up. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in anything less formal than a dress shirt, slacks, and a tie. He’s the kind of rigid fucker who considers removing his suit jacket “unwinding”.

But right now, the atmosphere in the room is in anything but “unwinding” territory. Kir looks at the six-shooter and the bullet next to it, his face grim.

“I thought we were done with this.”

I shake my head. My jaw’s so tight it aches. “Nope,” I growl. “Not tonight.”

“Nero—”

“This isn’t a social visit,” I hiss. “Load the fucking?—”

“No,” he says quietly, shaking his head.

“Do it,” I grunt, “or I will. And I won’t stop at one.”

His nostrils flare, and his eyes drag up to mine. “What triggered this?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

“Just load the fucking gun.”

“I’m going to say this as plainly as I can, Nero,” Kir says gently. “What happened to you, and what happened to that woman, isnot your fucking fault, if that’s what this is about.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Yeah, it’s notthosedemons tonight.

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