Page 114 of Close Quarter
I'm sorry, my love. There's so much Iwanted to show you.
Chapter Fourteen
Rhys scrambled over to Silas and grabbed the hilt of Anaxandros's sword with his left hand.
Hundreds of knives flayed his skin from his muscles, then muscles from bone. He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip, and yanked the blade out.
He tossed the thing as far from Silas as he could.
His hand turned bluish gray. The other was in ribbons.
Vampires might not have souls, but he knew the blade did. It was like him, that soul. Rhys sought for a pulse at Silas's neck, but his fingers had gone numb. He laid his head on Silas's chest.
The only sound, only beating, came from Rhys's own thrumming heart.
No.
Rhys balled Silas's shirt in his hands. Gray and black lines ran up the side of Silas's neck.
They spread as Rhys watched, creeping across Silas's cheek.
No!
Life swam around him, his element, Silas's element. Rhys took all that he could and slammed it into Silas. In his mind, he ripped out the damage the blade had done, built new, healthy flesh, and pushed at the blood that grew stale in Silas's veins.
Move, damn you!
Silas's heart did, slowly at first, then faster.
A thump, then another, and another. More. A steady rhythm.
Good.Rhys pulled back slowly, but as he did, Silas's heart faltered and slowed.
Oh fuck.
He laid his head on Silas's chest once more and listened to a heart that only beat because Rhys forced it to beat. After a while, he lessened the flow of element and let Silas's heart slow and stop. He closed Silas's empty eyes.
There was nothing else he could do. Rhys sat up and swallowed the lump in his throat and rubbed his neck. No blood. No wound. He didn't have to glance down at his chest to know he'd healed those injuries too. All except the ever- growing crack wrenching his soul apart.
Fan-fucking-tastic. Rhys lurched to his feet.
He could heal himself, even fix Silas's body, but that meant nothing. Nothing at all.
Because Silas was dead. Rhys screamed and kicked at the nearest ash pile. He hadn't even had the satisfaction of watching Anaxandros burn. All that was left was a dead Silas, piles of ash, and a living sword.
Three long strides took him to the blade. He picked it up and felt the flesh of his hand wither. A strong pull of element fixedthat.
So he could wield this thing. And there were plenty of other ways to seek his revenge, a way to right the injustice that had happened here.
He pulled more element. Nearby, ivy withered, died.
Good. The last thing he wanted was life. The blade whispered a thought to him.Angels.
Yes. They'd sent Silas here. He'd start with the angels.
"Rhys Alexander Perun Matherton." His name thundered through the garden like the clear tone of a giant bell. A man of average height with short brown hair stood in the center of the garden path.
"Put the sword down."
