Necromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 6)

A woman cried softly in the background. Clelia? Maya begged Cain to hurry it along. The voices in his head formed a protesting choir too loud to bear. They knew he was leaving and that their connection would soon be gone. Colors transformed the people around him, basking the space in red, blue, and green.

“A–Alice,” he stuttered.

The color in the theater changed to a white, blinding reflection. Everything bled into that one light. The people around him no longer had distinctive hues. He held onto Cain’s gaze when the pain became intolerable. Not once did Cain’s face transform in agony or horror. He was there, steady as a rock as the spotlight on the stage dimmed and darkened Cain’s face, the last Ivan saw before all light turned to darkness.

Chapter 18

The key sounded in the lock. A moment later, Godfrey appeared in the door. It had taken longer for him to return than Alice had expected. She watched him warily from where she sat on the bed. Should she tackle him right where he was standing? No. Her energy would be wasted. Physically, he was far stronger than she, and judging by his broad, toned chest, he was in good shape. He chuckled as if he knew what she was thinking and reached behind him to close the door. While he locked it, she scooted to the center of the bed.

He dropped the key in the front pocket of his pants. Removing his jacket, he crossed the floor with an unhurried pace, his eyes fixed on her like a chameleon judging the distance to a fly. He stopped by the chair where Boris had been sitting and dropped the jacket over the armrest.

His lips tilted as he regarded her position on the bed. “Running?” He unbuttoned the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt and folded it back twice. “You can’t get much farther away than that, unless you move the last few inches up to the headboard.”

Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she tried to hold on to reason instead of giving in to the fear that made her tremble.

“Boris hasn’t been back.” She sounded a lot braver than she felt. “How will you know if Ivan did what you wanted?”

He unbuttoned the second cuff. “You don’t have to worry your pretty little head over the logistics.” He reached for something in his waistband behind his back. When he brought his hand forward again, he was clasping a butcher’s knife.

Her mouth went dry. Her body and mind went into flight mode. All she wanted was to jump off the bed and run, but there was nowhere to run.

“If Ivan did what you wanted, Boris would’ve been here,” she said in a desperate effort to win time.

“You’re right.” He moved to the edge of the bed. “The fact that we haven’t heard from Boris can only mean something has gone wrong.”

It took every ounce of restraint she had to stay put. “You can’t be sure.”

“You’re playing for time, honey.” He said it as if he found the fact endearing.

She licked her dry lips. “Wouldn’t you if you knew you were about to be murdered?”

“What difference is one more minute going to make?” He tilted his head and ran his gaze over her length. “It’ll only prolong your mental suffering.”

“If I believed you’d make it quick, I wouldn’t want another minute in your presence, but knowing what Boris wants you to do, my desire to put off the inevitable is an involuntary reaction.”

“I find your logical conversation, and especially your lack of hysteria when faced with death, most entertaining.” He reached for the button of his pants. “Maybe I can find something to do with you that’ll put off your death for a short while longer.”

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “Or a long while, if you can last.”

He laughed from deep in his throat. “My, my, but you are a brave little thing.” He pulled down his zipper. “I’ll come inside you before I kill you. Consider it my personal souvenir to your daddy.”

She bit back the insult on the tip of her tongue. Contempt and disgust for the man facing her made the tears at the back of her eyes dry up in burning anger.

“Lift up your skirt, honey,” he said.

She gave a cold laugh. “I’m not making anything easy for you.”

He rolled his shoulders, his smile cruel and his eyes filled with a glimmer of excitement. “I’ve always loved a good fight.”

She was hoping he’d put down the knife, but it was futile. Even as he freed his cock through his open fly, he held the weapon tightly. He acted with an ease that told her he’d forced himself on women and killed before. A sick feeling made her stomach turn. Afraid she’d vomit from the sight, she tried not to look at his hard-on as he climbed onto the bed, but when he pumped himself in his fist, the action drew her gaze.