Page 52 of Close Quarter
"He was slaughtered. Eaten in front of me."
Silas ground his mouth closed, shook his head, then spoke. "I...went mad. Tore the soulless to pieces with my bare hands." He frowned. "I don't know how I managed that, except it must have been very young. They're not easy to destroy."
Rhys wiped a hand over his mouth. One glimpse of the feral side of Silas was enough.
"After that?"
"I went home. We mourned. That should have been the end of it. Except the one I killed was one from a pack ruled by an ancient soulless named Anaxandros."
He had heard that name before. Dread dripped down his spine. "Ancient when you were young?"
"Yes." Silence filled the room. Long minutes passed until Silas spoke again. "Anaxandros hunted me down, found me, and then slaughtered everyone I knew before my eyes. My parents. My sister. Cousins. Our king."
Rhys's tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. No wonder he hunted them. Hated them.
"And then he kept me as a toy for him and his.
A never-ending snack, neverquitedoing enough damage to kill me."
Rhys fought to keep the bile in, swallowed against its rising. Those moments with the vampires feasting on him had been the worst pain of his life. When he could speak again, he asked the question. "How long?"
The corners of Silas's eyes twitched.
Otherwise the man was carved from stone. "One hundred eighty-seven years. Five months. Twenty- seven days." Silas turned his head and focused on Rhys. "And seven hours. Give or take."
Oh fuck.Rhys stumbled off the bed and ran for the bathroom. Without grace, he heaved the contents of his stomach into the toilet, legs and knees hitting cold tile as he clutched porcelain.
That long in the hands of a vampire? The pain, the madness? Another of Silas's memories surfaced for a moment--a flash of immeasurable agony as flesh peeled from bone--and he vomited again.
Bare feet slapped against the bathroom floor.
Then Silas sat down on the edge of the tub next to Rhys, a glass of water in his hand.
Rhys brushed moisture from his eyes.
"Anaxandros. He's here, isn't he?"
Silas held the glass out to him. "Yes."
Rhys gripped the tumbler and took a swig to clean out his mouth. He spit and then flushed.
"How did you survive? I mean--" Rhys stumbled over his words. "Last night. I wanted to die when they had me."
Silas nodded. "It's always like that. They eat life. Consume it." He stretched out his legs. "I survived because I didn't have a choice.
Anaxandros set his pack up deep in the woods, in a cave where it was nearly always night. They feasted. I healed. Too much element around me not to."
Day in, day out. Bile rose again. Rhys took a sip of water and pressed the cool glass to his forehead. "How'd you escape?"
The smile that touched Silas's lips was full of malice and blood. "I broke a clay cup--they had to keep me drinking and eating--dropped it against a rock. Kept a sliver of it with me. When Anaxandros came to exact his punishment, I shoved it into his throat. Then I ran. For a very long time."
Rhys took another sip of water. "He didn't die?"
Something of the man Rhys first met emerged from under that cold, detached expression.
Incredulity gave Silas's face warmth, a touch of color. "You can't kill something that's already dead."
"Then how--" Silas held a sword last night, bright silver in the moonlight.
