Page 151 of The Cannibal

But even with only the light from the street, the specimens of the room were still marvelous.

Without so many people crowded in, you could see the worn dips in the well-loved seats. The cleaned fireplace awaiting the season’s end, but for now, a dark cave in the wall. The windows stretched tall, not as ornate, but just as efficient so that the electric chandelier need not be used until well into the night if guests were present.

No lights today, I was either unexpected or they didn’t want it to be known they had a visitor.

I looked down at the street. Small drops of rain patterned the glass, soon obscuring the image of my horse, the street, and even the streetlamps that turned to glittering starbursts.

My fingers ran along the pelt of the polar bear poised in the corner. The marble of the mantel beside it was so weathered it became a statement of its own. Antiquity embraced.

A pair of footsteps padded on the carpet behind me.

“Mary?” I turned.

A bitter pinch in my side.

Then a blossoming sear of pain.

“Rebecca.” The name was sibilated as I said it, my lungs struggling to keep a blemishless voice.

Her eyes were as resilient as basalt. The deep amber that cured and hardened with experience, holding on to whatever let itself fall into her. Those things became a part of her and without mistake, in her mind, I was to blame.

Even so, I smiled at her.

My hands cupped her face, her cheeks wet with rage and all that it made of her. Even with such a forgiving touch, she did not let herself fall into it.

She twisted the knife in my side, grating against the rib.

I nearly didn’t notice we had company.

Another blow, in the back between shoulder blades.

Golden eyes caught mine as I whistled an exhale—Pierce Soros.

Around me, the very people who’d put me on this pedestal, made me their bargaining chip, and now, happily discarding me.

Mary was huddled in the corner, clutching an imperial period dagger. I had never seen a person shake like that. Not since my last subject.

My head sloped to the side.

Her eyes were wild and wide, I could smell the bile rising in her throat, the sweat that soaked the pits of her men’s shirt. In the breast pocket, calling cards.

Fear was more than just an expression worn on the face. It was something that takes you over entirely, disguising every one of your senses and birthing a new animal. It smelled so sickly sweet. That is all I saw, an animal, cowering from her grave mistake.

The gentle touch on Rebecca’s face turned harsh, skin collecting under my nails.

A rope wrapped around my neck, the fraying manila scratching my skin as it pulled tight.

But not tight enough.

I pulled forward, not caring that it was crushing my trachea.

Rebecca’s eyes widened, as did my parted lips. My fangs flexed forward, overextended as the gap between tooth and skin closed.

My fangs sank through her cheek, biting down enough to feel the blood on my tongue despite my inability to swallow.

She screamed against my lips even as her vocal control numbed.

Rebecca fell back with a shaking grip on her face.