On that note, Lucan started walking past the product rooms, toward a wall of fresh Sheetrock about twenty feet across and ten feet tall. The expanse was both new—and stained: All along its flat plane, there were pegs set at intervals, with greasy straps that hung loose and ready for further service. Behind the beating posts, that Sheetrock had soaked in the blood that had flowed—and you could smell it, too. The whole area was air-stained with both the plasma bouquet of torture and the new-built-house perfume of chalk and sweet pine.
As they closed in on the Executioner’s private quarters, the pair of guards on either side of the inset door palmed up their guns.
Unlike during the Command’s era, they were members of a private guard, hired to maintain order—as opposed to culled from the prison population.
“I’ll let him know you found him,” the one on the left said.
The steel door set into the Sheetrock opened and closed.
“You can go,” Lucan muttered to Mayhem. “I’ll make sure you get your reward—”
He caught the scent first, and it was the kind of thing that made the nape of his neck prickle.
Letting his head fall back, he breathed in deep. And then a howl started to curl in his gut and rise up out of his throat.
The sound of his people was cut off as the recessed steel door opened once again.
The black-clothed figure that emerged had a bald head and narrow, calculating eyes. And the male was carrying something in his arms, something that was large and furred—and limp as a rug rolled up in itself.
The head and forepaws dangled off to one side, the back paws and tail to the other.
The Executioner threw the dead wolf at Lucan’s feet.
“I believe this is one of yours,” he announced.
When the door to the makeshift clinic area opened, Rio sat up. “Luke—”
The man who stepped inside was not him. And the way that harsh face snapped in her direction . . . made her wish that she had pretended to be asleep. She didn’t need to know him for it to be clear that being alone with someone like this should come with a Surgeon General’s warning.
As his eyes narrowed, he took a step toward her and his upper lip peeled off his front teeth.
Which exposed tremendous teeth, teeth that surely had been cosmetically—
Rio scrambled to remember where Luke had told her that gun was. Under the bed. It was under the bed.
She lunged forward, diving under the mattress—
In some kind of Matrix-like time bend, the man somehow managed to cross the entire room in the blink of an eye: Just as she felt the cool barrel under her hand, a rough grip locked on the back of her head, right where she’d been hurt, the pain blinding her and rendering her limp and paralyzed.
As her vision went checkerboard, she had a split second’s clear sight of the nine millimeter.
Rio cursed as he pulled her up by the hair, grabbed her around the throat, and hauled her bodily off the bed until her feet dangled. Slamming her against the wall, he put his face directly into hers and smiled like a demon.
Fangs. He had fangs.
Or rather, they looked like fangs.
“Fucking Lucan,” he snapped while she began to choke and claw at his hold. “He’s complicating shit he needs to leave well enough alone. So I’m going to take care of you for him—”
“Stop.”
The word was spoken so softly, Rio could barely hear it above the ringing in her ears. But the man who was aggressing on her, with those canine-like teeth, whipped his head in the direction of the draped patient bed.
“Let her . . . go.”
The voice was so weak, yet its effect was like that of a shotgun to the man’s temple. As those hostile eyes seemed to pierce the fragile barrier strung from the ceiling, his whole body went as immobile as hers felt.
“Now.”
Her manhandler cursed. And then he—
“Gently.” There was a pause. “No matter her origins, she is a patient, as I am.”
Rio’s feet touched down toes first. Then the balls and arches made contact with the floor, and finally, her soles. After that, the man with all the teeth took her arm and settled her back down on the bed—and he didn’t let go until she could hold herself up while she gasped for air.
When she was steady, he turned away and went over to the curtains, pulling a flap aside and disappearing into the interior.
Even though she was still getting her breath back, Rio snapped into action, falling to the floor and grabbing the gun under the bed. Her hands were shaking—until she saw how much the weapon was moving back and forth.
A quick shot of self-preservation stilled things. Calmed her down. Cleared the panic from her head.