Page 17 of A Sip of Sin

Adair stumbled back, clutching the counter as his mouth fell open. One of the plates of cookies fell as he bumped it, shattering all over the floor and throwing clumps of delicious crumbs everywhere.

“I was always the one watching and the one they couldn’t see.” George strolled closer, reaching for Adair. Thick black smoke curled around his hand, dissipating to nothing as soon as it touched the air. “I’d like you to see me.”

The string snapped with a gut-wrenching tug, throwing Hollen back to the forefront of his mind. His ears popped, his legs collapsing as if his strings had been cut. The floor was inches from his cheek before he managed to throw his hands out, catching his fall with aching wrists.

Breath rushed into his lungs, and he let out a groan, rolling onto his side. The sharp scent of pizza and cookies filtered in, replacing the fire that had consumed him. Ash and darkness faded, tingling erupting over his skin as black markings faded into smoke.

He rubbed his hand where the eye was slowly melting away, expecting to see dark smudges against his fingertips. Instead, there was nothing except for an ache and a rush of blood that pounded fiercer through his veins. It retreated to an itch, then a mere glimmer that faded along with everything else.

The pale stretch of skin was as blank as it had been before, no clues left behind of the drawings that had looked so similar to hieroglyphics that they just had to be. Adair had told him the meaning of that one before, bursting out excitedly on those later nights he read on the couch.

“You could have warned me,” said Hollen, licking the bit of drool from his lips. They were cracked and sore, the taste of blood sliding over his lounge. “That was way worse than the last time.” His limbs throbbed, his wrists most of all, and his voice was scratchy from overuse.

“What the fuck was that?” Adair’s voice broke through his haze. Hollen twitched, his muscles protesting the simple action. They were stretched, like they had tried to fit over a frame so much bigger than his, their elasticity pushed to the maximum. His head thudded back against the ground a moment after he tried to lift it.

“Can you carry me to bed, baby?” Hollen asked softly, letting his eyes close. The room spun, his stomach clenching. “Nevermind. I think I’m going to puke.” He turned himself over just in time, heaving onto the floor as Adair let out a distant scream.

Footsteps thudded next to his head, going softer as Adair ran from the room, headed for the bedroom. He slammed the door shut behind him, a click sounding as he turned the lock.

Gee, thanks, George.

Chapter Eight

Munro

The sun peeked through the sliver beneath the restaurant door, tracing across the small, carpeted entrance. Tables had been cleared, dishes washed, and patrons fulfilled hours ago, but Munro hadn’t stopped staring at the door. At any moment it could turn, and Hollen could walk through it, the wood moving aside with a small touch of his hand.

Munro licked his lips. Those few drops of blood—he hadn’t been able to banish them from his thoughts or the scent from his memory. After the bloodbath had ended and Corby had ceased to exist, he was ashamed to admit that he’d gone back to the room, breathing deep to try to catch the remnants of Hollen.

He’d gone to his knees, not quite stooping all the way down and licking the small, darkened spot. It was a battle that he’d almost lost, staring and reaching out to touch the few dried flecks that remained.

Sweetness didn’t begin to articulate the honey that rolled over his senses with each inhale, imbedded under his fingernails once he’d scratched the floor clean. He’d brought his fingers to his nose, sucking in the warmth with saliva flooding his mouth as hunger had consumed him.

Three hours had passed when he’d searched the halls and the restaurant for a hint of another drop—or any lingering sign ofHollen. There was nothing, not even a saturated hint clinging to the sodden mop.

Sean, the chef who had been with him for years, helped the servers throw most of the food away, only the tea leaves going back into storage. He did it quietly, his head down, probably with the knowledge that the pallets in the building had been sated more than he ever could be.

The servers were mostly unaware, a few of them grumbling about the absolute waste, while Sean was completely aware of exactly who andwhathe made his nightly pastries for.

The only true waste was the following day, when Munro had waited, his heart sinking further every time the door opened.He’s not coming back.

“I can’t believe this,” said Rhys, breaking the silence as he strode across the room, knocking into one of the tables on his way. While Munro had remained still, Rhys had paced, his thoughts carving a winding pathway around the restaurant until Munro was grinding his teeth, the sharp points cutting into his lips.

The fresh blood in his veins had obviously strengthened him, and he’d been insufferable all night. Munro was honestly surprised that he was wearing clothes instead of a robe, the sheer shirt leaving little to the imagination, regardless.

“I thought he would come,” said Munro, shaking his head. There was something pulling at him—something more than just centuries of experience turned to a sharp instinct that rarely steered him wrong.

There had been a few brief glimpses in his life when he’d developed a certain longing, his past with Rhys one of the more unfortunate of circumstances.But nothing like this.

“It would have made things easier,” said Rhys, curling his lips over his teeth as he strode toward the small display that was tucked between curtains in the front window. Munro made sureto refresh it every evening at eight o’clock, but it had long since grown cold, the small pastries losing their freshness until the bread would crumble from the lightest touch.

“Hmm.” Munro nodded, looking back to the door. The wood was thick and etched with flowers that had been tainted with a deep stain. He’d commissioned it shortly after the chair, the same hands creating art that had yet to be replicated.

Rhys curled his hand into a fist. “I could have ripped his throat out right here and put an end to it.” His nails sliced into his palm, vermillion dripping to the floor. It was bland and nearly as unappetizing as Corby had been. “He would be one of the easiest kills I’ve ever made.”

Munro jerked from his stupor, whirling on Rhys. “No.”

Rhys paused in his pacing, sending him an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious.” He stared at his own palm before licking it clean. “He’s a threat, and he needs to be eliminated.”

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