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I moved to the next room, finding a space empty of furniture. There wasn’t even a carpet. The floorboards were bare and probably creaky beneath my boots.
Half a dozen cages, some too small for fucking corgis, were the only thing to take up room. Each cage was empty of life, but death lingered in the stains of blood and feces. A nail rolled from behind my foot, kicked there by the five-foot tall cretin who believed me to be deaf and stupid.
Yeah, babe, deaf, not fucking stupid.
I stepped over a small cage, letting her think I hadn’t noticed, and then I kicked that cage backward with a heavy foot. Sharp prongs of metal stabbed through her hairy shin, and she screamed but ignored the pain.
Pressure on the trigger landed a bullet in the same place on the other leg, and she fell to the floor, probably squealing, judging by how her chapped lips moved.
“Where is my brother?”
She just continued to scream.
“Answer me, or this next bullet kisses your ugly as fuck mouth.”
“You hurt my lovely legs.”
I rolled my pained eyes, the glass gone, the blur still present. “There isn’t anything lovely about those fucking things. Now, where is my brother?”
“They are beautiful.” She ignored me, slumping on her ass and acting like the deluded fuck she was as she admired herself. “Maybe not as long as Aribella’s.”
The hairs on my neck rose in defense.
“She has such nice legs. I’d always help hold them open for Rothbart whenever she’d put up a fight.”
I blew a hole in her other leg, the bruise I’d caused acting like an X marking the spot.
The squealing commenced.
“Ollie!”
“Ollie!” she screamed, too. Creepy fucker.
“Where is he?” I stomped over to her.
“I can’t talk.” She shrieked, dragging herself away. “Too much pain.” She squealed again, and I thought about pulling the trigger.
But I wanted her to suffer even more than I wanted her death.
She pulled a packet from her apron—the same dirty one from yesterday—and dipped her fingers into the contents inside. They came out coated in white powder, and she took it to her nose and inhaled.
She waved the bag at me and said, “I got this, especially for you, but I guess it will help with my pain.”
Ignoring the fact that she was taunting me with drugs and the fact I felt a pull that I didn’t care to admit toward that little bag, I aimed my gun at her head.
“Ollie?”
“He left.”
“No, he didn’t. Where is he?”
“There’s blood on my legs.” She pouted. “Not like Aribella’s.” She rubbed her dirty fingers through her blood and guided the red stains to her inner thighs. “That’s more like it. Bleeding just like her.” She chuckled darkly, and it faded into a sinister smile she kept on her face as she dragged out the name, “Catharina… and just like her, all because of you.”
My finger went off with the gun level with her cunt.
“You can fucking bleed to death alone.”
I stepped up to her, clutching the bag of white that would have helped her to forget her pain, and I bent to her side. The muzzle of my Glock slapped her in the head to get her attention, and she stared up at me, wailing in agony, her dirty hands between her legs.
