Page 107 of Stroke of Shadows

Sythe gripped the head tighter, ignoring the drip, drip, drip of blood on his boot. “Soon. I have a few loose ends I need to deal with first.”

Chapter 37

Harper

Harper slipped inside the house, the front door closing silently behind her. The security had let Sythe drive her in without question, so it was only a matter of time until Angel was made aware.

Her pulse quickened, head spinning before she closed her eyes and took a second to compose herself. She’d been given the opportunity to run, and she’d chosen to stay. She could never live with herself if she survived, when others didn’t. Not when she could stop it.

“Miss Beauchamp.”

Harper froze, something cold and metal pressed to the side of her head. “Charles,” she greeted. “I assume he’s in his study?”

Charles pulled the gun back, but held it in her line of sight. He followed close behind, a heavy presence that she tried to ignore.

Her uncle waited for her by the fireplace, a glass of amber liquid in hand. He stared at the flames, slowly taking a sip from his drink. “Have I ever told you about your parents?”

At her silence, he continued.

“Did you know your father never believed in the cause?” Angel turned, his face carved from stone. “He believed that Breed were just like us, which is why he got a fucking Faerie pregnant. So I killed her.”

Harper gripped her elbows, her body trembling.

“I waited until you were born, of course. I’m not a complete monster.” He moved around his desk, leaning against the lip. “I would have killed you, but the Gods had other plans.”

“You knew this whole time that I wasn’t human?” she whispered. “Why did you never tell me?”

“Because I couldn’t ever admit to everyone you weren’t anything but pure. What would they think of me?” He swirled the amber liquid, head angled slightly. “Your father never forgave me.”

“Is that why you got Wyatt to kill him?”

“I killed him because he was weak.” His words came out a harsh bark that made her jump. “Because he never saw the bigger picture.”

Muffled sobbing echoed down the hall, and Harper turned as Charles came walking back in, dragging something behind. Detective Shawl curled into the fetal position on the floor, arms bound painfully. Her eyes pleaded, makeup smeared across her face along with blood, bruises and other substances. Several fingers had been removed, the bloody stumps leaving marks as she tried to shuffle along the wood.

“Ah, Detective. How nice of you to join us.”

Shawl cried beneath her gag, trying to pull herself towards Harper.

“Charles,” Angel said. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Harper screamed, the pop of the gun only an inch or so from her ear.

“Now, I’ve just had an interesting conversation with the Detective here.” Angel crossed the room, his glass still in hand. “She had some pretty interesting things to say.”

Harper remained where she was, trying to control her breathing as she felt the cold compress of the gun against the back of her head once more. Shawl had sagged against the floor, a pool of blood growing.

“Do you want to know what she said?” Angel asked, stopping in front of her. “Answer me, Harper.”

“I don’t know.”

He took another drink, savouring the liquid before swallowing audibly. There was nothing in his expression. No anger or upset. He was completely devoid, almost detached.

Angel leaned forward, his breath feathering across her face. “She said you were the rat.”

Harper jerked awake, a painful throbbing in the back of her head. She could tell her hair had been wet, the dried flecks of blood fragrant.

Discomfort surged through her wrists and ankles, her limbs bound by rope. She let out a cry, the skin beneath broken and bleeding. How long had she been there?

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