“Shh, shh, shh,” he rasps against my ear, making my blood curdle. “Be a good little null.”
Rage explodes beneath my ribs as I consider how many others he’s done this to. How many have been swallowed by his gluttonous greed like they’re nothing more than a snack.
No more.
I lift my boot and bite down on the metal cap crowning my back molar. With a click, an iron pin spears free from my heel. “Glei te ah no veirie,” I whisper-sing, the words a strangled ache in my mouth, spat free. Coaxing Clode to siphon almost every wisp of air from Tarik’s lungs.
She giggles.
Tarik sucks a strangled gasp through the compacting organs, and I stomp the nullifying pin through the top of his boot. Biting down on the cap a second time, I shoot the pin so deep between Tarik’s fine bones and tendons that the only way to be rid of it is to hack through his own ankle and sever the appendage.
Precautions.
I doubt Clode would loosen her hold on his lungs, but damned if I’m letting him set Ignos on me with a few blazing words. The God of Fire loves to feast, and I’d rather be skinned alive than have him gnaw on me.
Again.
Tarik’s grip loosens, and he stumbles back, limping, boots scuffing against the snow while I brush my hands down my gown and straighten myself. “Tarik fucking Relaken,” I mutter, easing the runed dragonscale blade from the secret pocket of my bodice, this one sharp enough to cut through bone like butter.
I turn, head cocked to the side, looking right into his wide, bloodshot eyes—anticipation prickling in the tips of my fingers. “Are you having a Creators-blessed slumber?”
His eyes bulge, then narrow on the blade I’m twirling. He loses his footing, crumbling against the far wall, mouth agape while he claws at his throat.
Guess that’s a no.
His chest convulses, barely a thread of breath whistling down his windpipe, doing little to inflate his suctioned lungs. Just enough to keep him present until he’s heard my well-prepared speech.
Once, I watched somebody drop a line beneath an icy lake and reel a long, slithering eahl to the surface. It squirmed in the snow, iridescent scales glinting as its mouth gaped and gaped until it became chillingly still.
This game always reminds me of that, except I felt sorry for the eahl.
I feel nothing for Tarik bar the ferocious desire to slit his throat before he ruins any more lives. But not yet.
First, he needs to suffer.
I move forward, gaze flicking between his hands, trying to decide on a preference. Tricky—they’re both so similar.
“One of the other Elding Blades might have eased you into death the gentle way,” I muse, deciding on the right. I grip it and yank, slicing my blade through his wrist so fast I’m certain he doesn’t realize what’s happened until I’m waving the severed appendage at him. “Probably would’ve done this after you were dead.”
Unfortunately for Tarik, I have a special well of rage I reserve specifically for folk like him.
He gawks at me, clawing at his neck as if his hand is still attached, blood spewing from the gory stub—his mouth so wide I can see his tonsils.
“Perhaps I should explain,” I say, pulling a wax bag from my pocket. I stuff my new hand inside and tug the drawstring tight. “You see, I was roaming the Undercity and stumbled upon your little business.”
Little is an understatement. His sprawling establishment is like a city of its own, fit with an amphitheater-sized battle pit, sleepsuites for those who never want to miss a duel, and cells of caged children. Nulls he’s snatched off the wall or purchased from desperate parents who lack the wealth to keep them fed, certain they’re buying their younglings a fighting chance at life.
A chance to battle their way to supremacy.
None of them looked malnourished, but there’s more than one way to starve a soul.
“I tried to free your captives, some of whom—I might add—were in dire need of a healer to mend their small, broken bodies.” I wave the laden bag at him, shrugging. “Imagine my disappointment when I discovered I required your handprint to open their cells.”
I can tell by the panicked look in his eyes that he’s not imagining hard enough. That he’s too caught up thinking about himself.
I lump the bag on the ground atop a pile of snow that’s blown in as he fumbles, jabs his remaining hand into his pocket, and yanks out a blade. I seize it from his paltry grip, clicking my tongue before I stab it through his thigh.
“Not that I knew who you were at that point,” I murmur, watching him quiver and convulse.