Page 39 of Destroyer

"I don't think this is good, brother. Never is hurting the right way."

"Tell me who you work for?" Gregory turns on the man, running the blade across his non-existent hair line.

"I don't work for anyone; this shop is privately owned."

"Not in this town. The Thayers own everything." Gregory corrects him. He isn’t technically correct with the Russians operating on our doorstep.

"Are you working for the Slayer?" I ask hopefully. "Not would you get hurt for that."

"Never heard of anyone with that name," the man whimpers. "Please don't let him hurt me."

I'm used to men begging me to spare their lives while another man holds them, but they were always men we knew. Gavriil and I had a good working relationship, and our victims always had a reason to be with us. This man hasn't done anything, and I don't even know his name. As Gregory's knife scrapes across the man's head, I see the man who was kicked out of his family. The man screaming on the floor has no information to give, no way to save his soul.

"I will see upstairs if he is laundering the money." I walk off into the store area before mounting the creaking stairs to the room above. I'm not expecting to find pound notes hung over airers up here. I know how money laundering works, but I need to find out something about the man being scalped downstairs to justify all this.

I snoop about what appears to be an art studio. I didn’t expect the man downstairs to be the person painting all these images, but it does explain his reluctance to sell to someone like me. I'm not sure why being a talented painter is a redeeming quality for this man, but it sours my interest in the painting. If the grouchy man did make the cloud art, I have lost my desire for it.

Reluctantly, I have to take matters into my own hands and do the one thing I hate. Calling Caeo for help.

"Nico? I thought you didn't like phones." Caeo may sound surprised, but he answered my call instantly. The very fact I'm calling him already has him worried.

"I think I may have done something wrong."

"I'm already on my way. Just tell me where."

"There is a painting shop in the town centre. Porter will know it. I don't think he is mob laundry. I think I was wrong. I just wanted to get his picture."

"What the fuck is that sound in the background?"

"That is man screaming in pain," I admit.

"Do not move Nico. I'm coming."

Chapter twenty-five

Caeo

Porterknowswheretheshop is, Knox is driving, and I am biting my nails.

I haven't bitten my nails since I was a kid, and now this crazy boy is testing me to the limits. I want him, but I can't love him like this.

"What am I going to do with him?"

"We," Knox assures me. "You don't have to do this alone."

"Thank you." That means more than anything right now. His personality changes around me. He'll turn into that sweet little kitten, and I'll feel sorry for him. But the second I turn my back, he's like a tiger with a death wish. If I can't trust him to stay, I'm going to have to tie him down. We park at the back of the property beside a row of industrial wheelie bins. The back door is unlocked, as expected; Nico would always leave his exits clear.

After following Knox as he runs off blindly for love, now it's my turn. Both Porter and I head straight for the door, while Knox stops for the chloroform. It's our plan; we discussed it on the way over. Take Nico down and then deal with his mess. Then never let him out of my sight again.

Nico said he was upstairs, hiding away from the screaming, but I have to stop to see the mess of the man in the back of the shop. He's lying on the floor, sobbing. I know Nico is thorough, but I've never seen anything like this. The man's head is red with blood where his scalp would be, and his fingers are clearly broken on each hand. He's alive with potentially survivable injuries, but he has seen my boy so I can't let him live.

"Go upstairs, find your boy. We'll deal with him after." Knox urges and I find the strength to tear my eyes away.

Nico is sitting on the floor upstairs, knees bent, head resting on his arms, facing towards the door. There's no creeping up on him, and my boy lifts his head.

"He would not sell me the painting. But this is not what I wanted to happen."

"Oh, my poor boy." My heart melts and I instantly forgive my little serial killer. His body language morphs from the confident killer into the vulnerable young man. Pulling him into my chest, I hug him tightly, his arms wrap around my sides, and we just stand together. I turn my body, moving him with me so Nico's back is turned to the door.

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