Read Online A Siren's Song (Ride of the Darkyrie 2) by Saranna DeWylde - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Saranna DeWylde
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lips. “And I hope you pass. Unpleasant things will happen if you don’t.”
He threatened me ? I’d destroy him. “Where are your brushes? Your paints?” I asked in reference to his tools of torture.
“We’ll have to wake him up first.” Richard pulled me into the room with him and he slipped a needle into Anderson’s arm. In seconds, Tommy’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled around in his head like a cow’s during slaughter. When Anderson’s eyes focused on me, his terror seemed to double. His mouth worked, but no sound came forth and he struggled against his bonds.
That was when Richard made his first and last mistake. He turned his back on me. There was a whole work table of gleaming instruments: scalpels, debrieding tools, and electric saws beside us.
I closed my fingers around the cool, sterile metal handle of a size twenty scalpel and in one fluid motion; I drew it across Richard’s neck just like the swipe of a paint brush.
Blood spilled from the gaping maw like I’d turned on a faucet, but he didn’t collapse immediately like I’d expected him to. Instead, Richard drove a pair of surgical scissors into my abdomen and as he crashed to the ground he tripped a mechanism that snapped Tommy’s manacles in opposite directions.
I screamed, but it wasn’t for me. There was no pain when the scissors entered my flesh, only the strange contrast of cool metal against the heat of living tissue. I screamed for Anderson. There was nothing I could do, no time to try and stop it, to save him. The apparatus ripped him apart, splashing the walls with his blood and porcelain bits of bone.
The red stain of my failure.
I’d always thought tearing a man in half would take longer. There’d be screaming that wasn’t mine. Ripping and tearing, a slow torture. Not two torn halves of a skin sack sagging on opposite walls and a pile of organs like some rotten meat Jell-O in a soupy mess at my feet. My knees buckled and I crumpled in the gore, a raw sound torn from me. I wished I could cry and wail for him.
For me .
The darkness that was in Tommy Anderson hadn’t birthed itself from shadow into the world. He’d still been one of the sheep. One of the flock I was supposed to protect.
He was dead because I’d failed.
As sure as if I’d slashed his throat instead of Richard’s.
My stomach turned on itself again and I gagged. My dinner of gyros, Turkish coffee and marzipan cake came hurtling back up my throat and I vomited like a snot-nosed rookie on his first crime scene. My back arched up with the effort—a bastardized version of my morning yoga, Cat Lift. Every convulsion pulled the scissors deeper.
I wished it would hurt because I deserved to suffer for my failure.
I yanked those scissors out of my belly and watched my intestines crawl back inside my gut like slithering worms and the wound stitched itself together.
My phone rang as the wound finished closing. I was starting to hate the sound of it. It was the harbinger of something else spinning out of control, an alarm that signified something else I was powerless against.
“Hill,” I managed in a raspy voice.
Richard was still looking at me, the creepy motherfucker. I checked his pulse to make sure he was dead and I felt nothing, but stranger things had happened.
Like me.
There was a psychotic grin on his face, as if he’d just won the lottery and although his eyes were glassy with death like two round,
He threatened me ? I’d destroy him. “Where are your brushes? Your paints?” I asked in reference to his tools of torture.
“We’ll have to wake him up first.” Richard pulled me into the room with him and he slipped a needle into Anderson’s arm. In seconds, Tommy’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled around in his head like a cow’s during slaughter. When Anderson’s eyes focused on me, his terror seemed to double. His mouth worked, but no sound came forth and he struggled against his bonds.
That was when Richard made his first and last mistake. He turned his back on me. There was a whole work table of gleaming instruments: scalpels, debrieding tools, and electric saws beside us.
I closed my fingers around the cool, sterile metal handle of a size twenty scalpel and in one fluid motion; I drew it across Richard’s neck just like the swipe of a paint brush.
Blood spilled from the gaping maw like I’d turned on a faucet, but he didn’t collapse immediately like I’d expected him to. Instead, Richard drove a pair of surgical scissors into my abdomen and as he crashed to the ground he tripped a mechanism that snapped Tommy’s manacles in opposite directions.
I screamed, but it wasn’t for me. There was no pain when the scissors entered my flesh, only the strange contrast of cool metal against the heat of living tissue. I screamed for Anderson. There was nothing I could do, no time to try and stop it, to save him. The apparatus ripped him apart, splashing the walls with his blood and porcelain bits of bone.
The red stain of my failure.
I’d always thought tearing a man in half would take longer. There’d be screaming that wasn’t mine. Ripping and tearing, a slow torture. Not two torn halves of a skin sack sagging on opposite walls and a pile of organs like some rotten meat Jell-O in a soupy mess at my feet. My knees buckled and I crumpled in the gore, a raw sound torn from me. I wished I could cry and wail for him.
For me .
The darkness that was in Tommy Anderson hadn’t birthed itself from shadow into the world. He’d still been one of the sheep. One of the flock I was supposed to protect.
He was dead because I’d failed.
As sure as if I’d slashed his throat instead of Richard’s.
My stomach turned on itself again and I gagged. My dinner of gyros, Turkish coffee and marzipan cake came hurtling back up my throat and I vomited like a snot-nosed rookie on his first crime scene. My back arched up with the effort—a bastardized version of my morning yoga, Cat Lift. Every convulsion pulled the scissors deeper.
I wished it would hurt because I deserved to suffer for my failure.
I yanked those scissors out of my belly and watched my intestines crawl back inside my gut like slithering worms and the wound stitched itself together.
My phone rang as the wound finished closing. I was starting to hate the sound of it. It was the harbinger of something else spinning out of control, an alarm that signified something else I was powerless against.
“Hill,” I managed in a raspy voice.
Richard was still looking at me, the creepy motherfucker. I checked his pulse to make sure he was dead and I felt nothing, but stranger things had happened.
Like me.
There was a psychotic grin on his face, as if he’d just won the lottery and although his eyes were glassy with death like two round,
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