He fed.
He hadn’t healed that day, or in the days that followed. He’d been too young Made, the same reason why Raphael had been able to overwhelm him. But he did heal. At least on the outside.
“So young,” Honor said, squatting beside the dead male, her sadness a poignant thread in her voice.
Compelled by the sound, he watched her put a gloved hand on the protovampire’s jaw, open his mouth. “We already know of the fangs.”
“No, I’m looking for something else.” Leaning in, one hand continuing to hold the victim’s jaws open, she reached back to pull a slender tube off her belt. “Would you hold the flashlight so I can see into his mouth?”
He came down on his haunches beside her, his focus on her rather than the male on the concrete. The lines of her face were elegant, her eyes not bitter or hard in spite of what she’d suffered. She’d survived with her soul intact, still had the capacity to feel compassion for the loss of a life.
Dmitri couldn’t say the same. The tattered remnants of his soul had burned up in his son’s funeral pyre. Such golden flames around his boy, such a wild blaze for such a small child. It suited him, Dmitri had thought as the final piece of his heart broke, suited his Misha with the deep laugh and the hunger to explore.
“Dmitri.”
Glancing up, he saw too much knowledge in the mysterious green eyes that watched him, too much tenderness. “Don’t you know to keep your distance, Honor?” He was a predator, would strike at her weaknesses, take every advantage.
A slight shake of her head, curls escaping the rough braid she’d done on the flight over. “I think it’s too late for that.” Breaking the eye contact with that quiet statement, she said, “Do you see?”
Dmitri followed her gaze. “He doesn’t have his wisdom teeth.” While such a lack wasn’t an absolute indicator of age, when paired with his baby-faced appearance it was another sign these vampires were being Made outside of any accepted structure—the Cadre had long decreed that no mortal who had not lived a quarter of a century could be Made.
“He was vulnerable,” Honor said, reaching out to brush the victim’s hair out of his eyes with quiet care. “A target who could be controlled once he’d been hooked by the idea of immortality.”
Again Dmitri looked at the victim’s face. He wasn’t completely heartless—he mourned for the young—but this man-child was old enough to have made his own decisions. At that age, Dmitri had been working the fields and courting a woman with sunshine in her smile and eyes that told him he was beautiful without her ever saying a word.
“Leave him,” he said, rising to his feet. “There’s nothing you can do to discover his identity.” The Tower’s own technicians would fingerprint and otherwise process the body.
Honor, however, didn’t get up. “Anyone looked at his back?”
“It matters little.” But he bent down to pull the victim’s shoulders off the floor for her.
“Nothing,” she said in open disappointment. “I was hoping for another tattoo. Might’ve given us more clues.”
Standing, Dmitri waited for her to join him. They didn’t speak again until they were outside the gleaming metal of the warehouse, the late afternoon sun a gentle warmth in comparison to the shadows within. “There was no need for any such marking, Honor. The brand is message enough.”
Hearing the brutal cold in Dmitri’s tone, a whip that spoke of a vicious pain that might strike out at anyone in the vicinity, Honor nonetheless said, “Will you tell me about it?” because it was far too late to stand back, be rational.
“No.” A single flat word, a sudden reminder that the stark intimacy of those moments by the quiet music of the stream had been an aberration. “I think it’s time you went home.”
She should’ve let it go, but her response was instinctive, springing from the same wild, dark core as her emotions toward him. “You really think you can just set me aside when I become inconvenient?”
“You’re under contract to the Tower and that was an order.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed back inside.
Furious at the realization that she’d been shut down for the second time that day, she twisted with the intention of confronting him . . . when she remembered the memory card in her pocket. She had no doubts the Tower had the best computer experts at its command—but the Guild had the best of the best, and, unlike with the Tower personnel, neither Vivek’s nor Honor’s attention would be divided by other pieces of evidence.
Vivek was in a foul mood when she arrived. He snapped at her to slot in the card and then said nothing for almost twenty minutes. Then: “I’ve cracked the encryption. Data’s coming up on the screen to your left.”
Swiveling her chair to face it, she began to scroll through the information. Most of it seemed to be business related, so Tommy had, in fact, done some work amid all his depraved play. Not much of it, though. That wasn’t necessarily anything to note. A lot of the older vamps had so much accumulated wealth they spent the majority of their time in indulgent excess. The idea of it made Honor’s skin itch. What was the point of near-immortality if you weren’t going to do something with it?
“It is polite,” Vivek muttered, “to thank someone after they do a task for you.”
Blinking, she looked up to see him staring at what looked like grainy surveillance footage. “What? Oh. I thought I could cook you dinner when this was all over.” When she could lay the nightmare to rest, sleep knowing her tormentors would never hurt her or anyone else again.
Vivek shifted his wheelchair to glare at her. “Feeling sorry for the cripple, I see.”
“Knock it off, V.” In no fine mood herself, she returned the glare. “If we’re comparing the right to indulge in self-pity, I think I’ve got you beat.”
“I was abandoned by my family.”
“At least you had a family for a while. I was abandoned almost the instant I left the womb.”
“I can’t walk.”
“I was tortured for two months and can’t stand for a man to touch me in a sexual way, even a man I find wildly attractive.” Until the erotic, decadent taste of him was in her every breath. “Despite my better judgment.”
“It’s Dmitri, isn’t it?” A whir of sound as Vivek brought his wheelchair closer.
Returning her attention to the data, she let her silence speak for itself.