Page 43 of Destined for Shadows
“No idea.”
He knocked on the door. Not more than a moment passed before a frail woman in her late fifties with white-blond hair answered the door. Tormod had been right about her. No one could miss the apprehension in this woman’s reddened and puffy eyes, or the way she hunched over slightly as if she expected to be hit at any moment. She wore a white short-sleeve blouse with frayed lace at the edges and black stretch pants. Bartol noted bruises on her upper arms that could have easily matched a man’s fingerprints. Some might think the suffering he’d endured in Purgatory would make him less sympathetic to another’s pain, but if anything, it only made him more sensitive to it.
He ground his jaw and forced himself to push down the rage tightening his muscles. The last thing he wanted was to scare this woman even further. “Is Martin Landry here?”
“Yes.” She gave a hesitant glance over her shoulder. “My husband has, uh, just laid down for a nap. What is this about?”
“Are you his wife?” Bartol asked.
She nodded. The weariness of too many years of being married to a cruel man must have weighed on her thin shoulders. It was written all over her face and in the way she held herself. Bartol wished he could take her somewhere safe right then.
“We’re looking for your son,” Tormod said, his tone easy and gentle. He had to know what the woman was feeling with his abilities, but his sensitivity came as a surprise.
Her brows creased. “Which one?”
“Griff,” Bartol answered.
“We haven’t seen him in years.” She didn’t show any sign of being sad about her son’s prolonged absence. “Not since he skipped on his bail and cost his father a lot of money. He’s…he’s not welcome here.”
“Who you talkin’ to?” A man yelled from somewhere farther into the house.
The woman stiffened. She drew a deep breath and answered over her shoulder, “Two men are here asking about Griff.”
“Tell them to get the hell off my property. We ain’t got nothin’ to say to them.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave.” She started to close the door.
Bartol slapped his hand against it before she could. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist on coming inside.”
“Woman! What did I tell you?” A man with long, gray hair and a matching beard appeared in the doorway. He had to be Griff’s father. Martin was tall and sturdy despite his age, and his voice was sharp enough to make the woman next to him shake in fear.
Bartol took a step forward, barely keeping himself from exploding in rage, and Tormod growled his own aggressive feelings. They had to get this situation under control fast. In a way, Martin had a lot in common with Kerbasi. The older man was one of those people who took pleasure in exerting his power over others and didn’t know the meaning of kindness. People like him didn’t deserve to live. In fact, they needed to be executed, but in this man’s case, he was human. Bartol’s hands were tied when it came to how much he could do to Griff’s father without bringing down the wrath of the angels.
Of course, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a few options at his disposal. Bartol stared into the wife’s eyes, pulling on his considerable power to influence her mind. “Please go. We will deal with your husband.”
She started to turn away, unable to do anything else except obey the command, but Martin snatched her wrist. “You don’t listen to anyone except me, Ruth.”
Bartol broke the man’s hold on his wife, grabbed him by the neck, and lifted him a foot off the floor. “Do not touch her!”
Martin’s eyes widened. Bartol pulled the older man onto the porch and shoved him into the wall next to the door, pleased when the human grunted in pain. He glanced at Tormod. “See if you can do anything for the wife while I deal with this fool. I believe she’s got injuries that need tending.”
“I’m on it,” the nerou replied, heading inside to follow Ruth. Tormod had some healing powers at his disposal that he could use to help her.
“Let go of me.” Martin struggled, weakly attempting to swing his fists.
Bartol narrowed his gaze and spoke in a compelling voice, “Do not fight me.”
Martin stilled, but his eyes remained rebellious since his mind was still clear.
“What do you want?” he asked, choking the words out.
Bartol loosened his grip slightly. “Have you seen or heard from your son, Griff?”
The older man swallowed. “I ain’t seen him in nearly four years, and even if he did come home, I’d be more likely to shoot him than talk to him.”
It was no wonder Griff had turned out so badly. “Have you heard from him?”
“What’s it to you?” Martin’s gaze narrowed. “And what the hell are you? One of those freak supernaturals?”
