Page 71 of Close Quarter
Rhys froze under the soulless's touch, even as he fought against its thrall.
Silas raised his sword, cocked his hips, and waited. So that dance with the blond had not been entirely out of lust, but part of a ruse for the soulless. Clever Rhys.
"Now," the soulless said, "where is Quintus Silvanus?"
Rhys spoke the truth because he had no choice. "He's behind you."
It turned. Silas swung and cleaved its head from its shoulders. The trunk fell, smoldered, then burst into flames. The head rolled to a stop, then turned to ash. A length of braided hair fell to the deck, limp as an old rope.
Rhys rubbed his arm. "That's a bit disturbing."
"The hair?"
"Yeah. I kind of like it when there's nothing left. Like before."
So did Silas. Others who hunted the soulless sometimes took trophies, kept track of the numbers.
He did not. The Messengers knew the count. That was enough. He knelt and tossed the braid onto the pile of smoking ash that had been the soulless's body. The hair ignited, flamed, and was gone.
"Better." Rhys toed the edge of the ash pile.
"What about this?"
"The wind will scatter it into the sea." Silas rose and listened for other movement. "We won't be able to do that again, I believe."
"Pity. Even you believed my performance."
Rhys shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Now what?"
"Up." He nodded to the stairs. "Let's see where this thing came from."
"From me, Quintus. She came from me."
Anaxandros stood at the top of the stairs to the next deck. His jagged teeth gleamed in the moonlight for a moment. "Just as you did."
Breath refused to enter Silas's lungs. Years fell away in a rush of memories, and he stood on the blood-soaked grass of Campania, the corpses of his family and the rest of the fae court lying at his feet. Anaxandros's hand wrapped his throat, and that voice slipped into his ear, into his soul.
"You belong to me now."
Rhys gripped his wrist, snapping the image and pulling him sideways. "Come on!" He headed toward the port deck.
An uncontrollable burning rose up from Silas's chest, setting his heart and soul in motion.
Twisting away from Rhys, he rounded on Anaxandros, his sword flashing forward.
Anaxandros caught the blade with one hand, skin hissing under its edge, then stepped in and drove the other into Silas's side.
Pain, so intense white spots flickered before Silas's eyes, replaced rage.
"Do you need this, Silvanus?" Cool, whispered words licked against his ear.
Anaxandros's tone was conversational. Friendly.
Then the soulless squeezed what he held.
Agony shunted every other sense out. A whine, like the high-pitched sound only electricity produced, filled Silas's mind. His vision turned completely white.
A voice overrode the whine. "Perhaps not.
