“There’s nothing you have to say I want to hear.”

  Marcel smiled a little. “Sit, Ben. Tell me about your uncle.”

  “The only thing I’m going to do is—”

  The man sitting in front of Ben became a blur, air churned, but there was no hitch in his breath, no tension in his muscle, he simply transformed into a liquid state between two heartbeats and a blink of the eye.

  A blinding pain shot up Ben’s arm. The gun hit the floor, and Marcel closed his grip on Ben’s throat. He didn’t remember going to his knees. But there he was, for the second time tonight, groveling before the devil.

  Ben clawed at Marcel’s hand, shoved his body.

  “I will make you a promise, Ben Corbin. When it is time for me to die, I will gift you with my life. But until that moment, it is important that you tell me everything you know, because the person who sent you here will not be satisfied with just my death. They will kill Jacob. They will kill your friends. Then they will kill you. If you are lucky. If you are not, they will keep you alive until there is nothing left of who you are.” Marcel let Ben go. He flopped over heaving. The gun lay just beyond the leg of the chair near his feet. It might as well have been miles.

  Marcel picked it up.

  Ben closed his eyes. There was only silence. Then the soft scrape of metal on wood. When Ben looked, Marcel had the gun on the table, pushed up to the coffee cup sitting next to the plate of cookies.

  Marcel watched him.

  Ben eased himself to his feet. His pants were still open, but at least his junk wasn’t hanging out. The ghost of Marcel’s touch played over Ben’s skin. His heart fluttered, and his cock threatened to harden. Ben zipped up and put on his shirt. His coat still lay on the floor. He picked it up.

  Marcel’s dark stare went from Ben to the chair. Ben sat.

  “Tell me how Greg died.”

  Ben just wanted to leave, but the words fell from his lips. “He was shot. The police said someone broke into his apartment.”

  “His body. What did it look like?”

  “Why?”

  “What did he look like, Ben.”

  He swallowed. “I don’t know.” Ben crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. “I didn’t see it. They called me after…” If he’d been there… No. At one time, Ben believed if he’d been there, he could have done something. But now, now he knew he’d be just as dead.

  “You live somewhere else?”

  “On campus.”

  Marcel nodded. “Was there anything missing?”

  “What does that—”

  “Answer.”

  “The TV.” Ben shrugged. “It was old. Didn’t work.”

  Marcel sat back, gaze distant.

  “You really didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “If I had, I would tell you.”

  And Ben believed him. This thing, this not man, this demon, yes, he would tell him. Every detail. “Did you kill my father?”

  Marcel’s eyes burned. “No.”

  “My mother?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve killed people.”

  “Many times.” Marcel ran his disfigured thumb over the edge of the table. “Did you go to his apartment?”

  Ben started to ask why Marcel wanted to know.

  The man’s expression didn’t change, but his good eye flashed.

  Ben bounced a knee. “Yeah, sure. The super wanted me to come by and pick up some stuff.” And Ben had to see where his uncle had died. Why, he didn’t know. Or maybe he did and facing it was too terrifying.

  “Tell me what it looked like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The apartment. The furniture. Were the blinds open or drawn. Were there dishes on the table? If so, how many? Shoes by the door? Did you smell anything?”

  “It was his apartment. It looked the same as it always did it. But stuff had been tossed around—” Ben was yanked from the chair by his hair and pushed to his knees again. His face so close to Marcel’s crotch, the scent of sex became air.

  “Think, Ben Corbin. Close your eyes and go back to that apartment. Tell me everything you did. Everything you saw. What you thought about. What you smelled. Was there a taste in the air?”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  A hard shake snapped Ben’s head back and made the room spin.

  “You will tell me because I will it.”

  “You’re fucking insane.”

  “Tell me, Ben. Tell me about the apartment.”

  “It was the same as it always was, it—”

  “It was not. Greg was not there. It was empty of his presence. How did that feel?”

  Ben tried to twist free, but Marcel’s grip only tightened. “Lonely.” Ben bit back the sob trying to escape with the confession. “It was lonely and sad.”

  “Why?”

  “Like you said. It was empty. He was dead.”

  “When he would go to the store, did it feel sad?”

  For a moment, Ben was back in the apartment, waiting impatiently for his uncle to leave to do the shopping so he could steal a look at the books. “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I don—”

  “You will tell me because you do not have a choice.”

  “The air was stale.” The scent of the dust and books had always lingered, but after his uncle’s death, it had been different.

  “How?”

  “It tasted like copper and old bread. Not like a library. It always smelled like a library.” The pain stinging Ben’s scalp eased.

  “Keep going.”

  “Dirt. There was a dirt smell.”

  “Libraries can be dusty.”

  “This was…was…” The fingers in Ben’s hair massaged his scalp, smoothing away the tension in his shoulders with each circular movement. “Sour. Like swamp water.”

  “Sewer?”

  Ben opened his eyes. When had he closed them? “Like the alley after it rains and the runoff fills the sewer lines.”

  “What did you see?”

  The outline of Uncle Greg’s body filled the doorway between the bedroom and the cramped living room.

  “Was his bed made?”

  A patchwork quilt had been spread out. The edges tucked under the mattress. The pillows fat and swollen under the sheet. An empty glass sat on the bedside table. The lamplight was on. The bedroom drawer open. Ben told Marcel each of those things. “There was coffee in the coffee pot in the kitchen. He always had coffee in the morning.”

  “But this time it sticks out, why?”

  “The pot was half full. He was only supposed to drink a cup a day.” Tears blurred Ben’s vision. Dishes in the sink. Pans on the stove. Clean and ready to be put away.

  “Did he have company often?”

  “No.” The massage against Ben’s scalp became petting. Long, languid strokes to his neck, shoulder, and back up. He leaned into the contact but didn’t know why.

  “But the pot being half full was unusual. Why?”

  Ben shook his head. “Coffee was expensive. Greg only served tea to guests.” He laughed a little, but a sob broke it apart. “When people came over.”

  “What about when you came over?”

  He would always put on a pot and use the cream. The expensive kind he bought from the specialty market. “Yeah, for me, yeah, but he’d never make that much. He wouldn’t waste it. And if he did make too much, he always put it in the fridge.” Why had it been different this time? Had the intruders surprised him while making breakfast? If they had, the dishes wouldn’t have been washed.

  Marcel clicked his tongue and stroked Ben’s head. With each pass of his hand, Ben’s heartbeat slowed, and his muscles went liquid. He sat back on his heels. Marcel leaned closer. A bluish ring surrounded the iris in his white eye. Scars made the lid droop. “Why would someone stay at your uncle’s apartment long enough to make coffee?”

  “Uncle Greg would have never let anyone touch his coffee maker.” Over his dead body. Realization hit, and a strangled sound inched out of Ben’s throat.

  Whoever had killed his uncle had made themselves at home. Drinking his coffee, maybe eating his food.

  “There was something else different about the apartment. Something that made you come here. What was it?”

  Ben told Marcel about the books, the bank, the safe deposit box. With every word, the absurdity of it all came into focus, like some low budget Hollywood mystery.

  “The bank manager. He had a mark on his hand.” Marcel said it as if he’d been there.

  “How did you know?”

  “A circle, a snake, swallowing its tail.”

  Ben tried to remember. “I think so.”

  Marcel rose to his feet and went into the kitchen. Ben stared at the empty chair. Invisible ants chewed their way up his legs. He tried to stand and had to use the edge of the table to keep his balance. Then he wound up in the chair because he couldn’t feel his feet.

  Marcel returned with a glass of whiskey. “To settle your nerves.”

  Ben was about to tell him he didn’t drink. But he’d already had two shots before he walked to Marcel’s. He took it and drank.

  “She will come for you.” Marcel picked up the coffee cups and carried them away.

  Ben replayed what Marcel had said. “Who?”

  “Yvette.”

  “And who is she?”

  “The sister of a man I killed.”

  Ben set down the cup. “What?”

  “She will come for you, but not before she kills everyone you care about. Everyone she thinks you care about.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t kill you tonight.”

  Ben stood. His numb legs held him, but he still couldn’t feel the floor. Not that it mattered. Nothing made sense. Nothing had reason. Marcel watched Ben from the doorway of the kitchen. “I don’t understand.” And Ben didn’t.

  “Disputes between Houses must be settled by the Justices. Disputes between those of the House of Sicarii or those sheltered by pledge or blood, are punishable by death. She sent you in hopes I would kill you because she cannot kill me herself.”

  Ben shook his head. “I…you…” He took a step. “I need to go.”

  “I can protect you.”

  Marcel’s presence pushed against the empty space. Ben raised his head, and Marcel was already there. The heat of his body, the rich scent of sex, the more subtle flavor of leather.

  “She likes games, Ben. She is very good at games. She has already set you on a path. She will kill again to keep the match in play.” The deep rumble of Marcel’s voice vibrated Ben to his bones. Heat welled in his stomach.

  Nothing made any sense anymore. Nothing. “I need to go.”

  Marcel stopped Ben with a hand on his arm. Ben was about to protest, but Marcel said, “Your gun. You should keep it with you.”

  The 9mm still lay beside the plate of cookies. Ben picked it up.

  “Your mother made the mistake of thinking she could keep you hidden.” Marcel cupped Ben’s cheek.

  Ben yanked away. “Don’t touch me.” He took a few unsteady steps. The sensation of glass stabbed the soles of his feet as he walked toward the door. Ben expected Marcel to follow, but he remained close to the sofa near the opening into the dining room.

  “When you are ready. We will discuss the terms of protection. I will be here.”

  Ben grabbed up his shoes. “Fuck you. Fuck you and everything to do with you.” He fumbled with the doorknob, unable to coordinate his hands. Turn the lock. Turn the knob. Pull not push.

  Marcel put a hand over Ben’s. He shoved himself into the corner. From across the room, to right beside him, again without a sound.

  “What are you?” Ben didn’t mean to say it aloud.

  Marcel opened the door. “You already know what I am, Ben Corbin. Now you just have to decide if living is worth paying my price.”

  A car engine rumbled. A car door shut.

  Jacob pulled back the curtain an inch. A woman herded her children toward the sidewalk, then three doors down.

  A man stood by the planter near the office door, smoking a cigarette. Angry voices penetrated the ceiling, then a door slammed shut. Feet pounded the metal stairway. The black man who lived upstairs carried his suitcase to the green caddy. He threw it into the backseat, got in, and drove away.

  Quiet fell.

  Candy wrappers, a soda can, and a fast food bag danced in a circle where the Cadillac had been. Thunder rattled the windows. The wind changed direction, and the trash was shoved into the gutter.

  The clock on the bedside table read 11:15. It was a thirty-minute walk to Marcel’s through the woods at the back of the motel. Ben had left at nine-thirty. There was no reason to think he would be back this early.

  Or if he would be back at all.

  Jacob didn’t know which alternative was worse. The shame of not being able to decide weighed on him and yet worry kept him beside the window, watching the puddles of halogen lights between the darkness.

  And why was Jacob worried about Ben? He didn’t know him. He shouldn’t have cared what happened to him.

  But Ben had cared when Logan attacked. There were not many people in the world who would have.

  Jacob was about to sit down when Ben appeared from between two cars, arms wrapped around himself, face flushed, hair messed up. Jacob should let him go by, this wasn’t his concern, yet he couldn’t stop from opening the door to his room.

  Ben jerked to a stop. His eyes were swollen, and his cheeks were glossy. But there was no rain yet.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ben shook.

  “Hey.” Jacob reached out, and Ben whirled away. He tripped off the sidewalk and bumped into a car.

  “Don’t. Don’t…don’t touch me.” Ben ran to his door. The keys jingled in his hand. The deadbolt thumped, then he was inside, and the door shut.

  Jacob walked over and knocked on the door. “Ben?”

  Thumps and crashes came from inside.

  Jacob knocked again. “Ben, please open the door.” Jacob kept knocking. Maybe the clerk would let him borrow the master key? He started to turn. The lock clicked. The door opened.

  “What do you want?” Ben’s broken voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.

  “To make sure you’re okay.”

  Ben started to push the door closed, and Jacob got in the way. Ben stumbled back. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat and he heaved with one sob after the other.

  What the hell had happened?

  Few things would break a person this way. The thought of anything that terrible happening to Ben curled Jacob’s stomach. The idea Marcel…

  No. He wouldn’t.

  Jacob shut the door and sat beside him. “It’s okay.” He started to put an arm around Ben but caught himself. Why he’d even want to made no sense.

  Before Jacob could think about it too much, Ben said, “Did you know?” His bloodshot eyes poured tears. “Did you know what he was going to do?”

  Do…?

  Jacob struggled to swallow back the urge to vomit. “What did Marcel do?”

  “He…nothing. He didn’t do anything…” Confusion twisted Ben’s expression. “He didn’t. He didn’t do anything.” Ben shook his head. “It’s…I…just…” He wiped his mouth, his eyes. The front of his jeans tented up. “Fuck.” Ben shoved himself off the bed. “I hate that fucker. I hate him. And…” He pulled his hair. “What the hell is wrong with me? Why the fuck would I get…” Ben stared down at his crotch

  Tension eased from Jacob’s shoulders. “It’s okay.”

  Ben paced. “It’s not fucking okay. It’s not. And I can’t stop thinking…feeling…” Tears streamed down his flushed face. “I shouldn’t want to…to…”

  Ben shouldn’t want to be with Marcel, and it was clear, the fact he did, terrified him.

  Not because of who it was Ben wanted, but the loss of control. The inability to decide what you wanted because your body did it for you.

  Jacob understood. While he wanted to be with Marcel, he had never wanted to be addicted to heroin.

  Yeah, Jacob knew exactly how it felt to despise his body because it wouldn’t agree with his mind.

  Ben scraped his face, smearing tears and snot.

  “Wait here.” Jacob went to the bathroom. Towels and washcloths made of stiff white terrycloth lined the rack next to the shower. He collected a washcloth and wet it in the sink.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting you something to clean your face.” Jacob walked back over. His foot snagged Ben’s jacket. Jacob shook the sleeve loose from his tennis shoe. He picked up the windbreaker to lay it on the bed and was caught off guard by the weight.

  A gun fell out of the pocket.

  When he looked up, Ben stared at the gun.

  It had never occurred to Jacob that Ben’s tears might not have been because Marcel had done something. But at that moment, a whole new batch of unimaginable possibilities blossomed.

  “You son-of-a-bitch.” Jacob lunged, and Ben blocked his punch. “What did you do to him? What did you do?” Jacob kicked Ben in the knee, landed a fist to his ribs. Then Ben caught his arm and slung him onto the bed. Jacob sucked in a breath. Panic and fear cinched his throat. His muscles cramped, his lungs burned.

  Marcel.

  Marcel.

  His entire reason for existing.

  “Breathe.” Ben held Jacob’s face. He tried, but his lungs wouldn’t pull in air. “Goddamn it, Jacob, breathe.”

  His inhale whistled.

  “Do you have an inhaler?”

  Jacob shook his head. He couldn’t tell Ben this wasn’t asthma: it was worse. It was an unnamable creature with no source. A vicious beast that rode in on terror and sucked away all reason and logic, strangling him out.

  Ben turned toward the door. Jacob grabbed him. If he was going to die, he didn’t want to die alone.

  “The phone doesn’t work in here, I need to go to the office.”

  Jacob shook his head.

  “Jesus, Jacob. Breathe.”

  He tried. He really tried. Black flowers burst in front of his eyes, his lips tingled, his cheeks went numb. Then warmth covered his mouth, and heated air was forced down his throat. Once. Twice. It tasted of whiskey and Marcel.

  The vice around Jacob’s chest loosened. Ben’s mouth covered Jacob’s, and another breath was pushed in.