Read Online Darkness of the Soul by Kaine Andrews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kaine Andrews
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little smile mouthed, “Crazy. Psychiatric leave,” to the young man, who nodded.
Drakanis could feel the veins in his forehead pulsing, could tell he was about to do or say something very stupid, that all it would take was one more comment, one more stare that looked even the slightest bit like it was directed at him, and someone else was more than likely going to end up with a broken nose today.
Parker saw Drakanis turn, saw him go that disturbing shade of purple only those about to do something idiotic or have a heart attack—or both—tended to turn, and reached out with one nimble hand. It tightened like a clamp on Drakanis’s shoulder. He shot his eyes up to Perez with a questioning look; the other officer just nodded, looking apologetic, and jerked his head in the direction of the door with raised brows. Parker nodded back, and before Drakanis could begin to get further than deciding who was going to get punched, his former colleagues were ushering him out.
Once they’d shuffled out the back door and into the dump that Woody—or his son, depending on how drunk the owner was at the time you talked to him—only half jokingly called Shooter’s Alley, Perez and Parker let go of him. Perez kicked the door shut with his foot while Parker tried to get Drakanis straight again.
Perez was not by any stretch of the imagination a large man, and when someone like Parker was around for comparison, he looked positively shrimpy; still, the look on his hard-edged face and the gleam in his almost-black eyes told enough of the tale to anyone who really felt like arguing with him. He crossed his arms and stood in front of the door, shaking his head with apparent disappointment and sadness. Perez, in this state, looked like a father expressing unhappiness over a bad report card, but he radiated a palpable aura that enforced the unspoken: they were not getting back in that room, at least not right away.
Seeing that look on this man—a man he genuinely liked and had always thought well of, a man whose nose he’d broken and yet who still put up with his shit and tried to keep on pleasant terms—caused something in Drakanis to hurt more than almost anything ever had. Seeing that look made him think about how many others he had hurt over the years, how many people he’d just shut out so he could wallow in his own misery. It also made him feel even worse about the captain’s death.
Christ, you fuckwit. It’s the man’s goddamn wake, and all you can manage to do is shout about how you don’t want to think about it loudly enough that you send his widow crying and get half the damn cops in town thinking you’re a nut again. That was what one part of him was saying. A deeper part, one that usually only spoke to him in the darkness of the night, when he wasn’t aware he was thinking anything at all, added to it, And how responsible am I for Morrigan? If I’d done what I was supposed to back then, would he be dead, now? What about the others this guy’s killed? Is it just two old men and one guy with a bad heart, or is it more? How many? How much blood is on my hands?
Drakanis shook his head, turned away, and vomited. He found himself grateful for a moment, since it came up like it always had. Even as a child, he could just send it up the chute and let it go without any pain, without any coughing spasms, and it was still like that now, just sick it up, get it out of the system.
Saved myself a hangover, at least. Should be grateful for that. Stuck as he was thinking of his lifetime vomiting experiences, he didn’t immediately register what the others were saying to him. He didn’t bother diverting his attention to listen either. He just let it go until it was all out. Then he stumbled back, flopped his ass onto an old crate that had supposedly once contained a great number of oranges, and looked blearily up, catching just the last of what Perez was saying.
“—going to be okay, Vincent?” Another thing about Perez that
Drakanis could feel the veins in his forehead pulsing, could tell he was about to do or say something very stupid, that all it would take was one more comment, one more stare that looked even the slightest bit like it was directed at him, and someone else was more than likely going to end up with a broken nose today.
Parker saw Drakanis turn, saw him go that disturbing shade of purple only those about to do something idiotic or have a heart attack—or both—tended to turn, and reached out with one nimble hand. It tightened like a clamp on Drakanis’s shoulder. He shot his eyes up to Perez with a questioning look; the other officer just nodded, looking apologetic, and jerked his head in the direction of the door with raised brows. Parker nodded back, and before Drakanis could begin to get further than deciding who was going to get punched, his former colleagues were ushering him out.
Once they’d shuffled out the back door and into the dump that Woody—or his son, depending on how drunk the owner was at the time you talked to him—only half jokingly called Shooter’s Alley, Perez and Parker let go of him. Perez kicked the door shut with his foot while Parker tried to get Drakanis straight again.
Perez was not by any stretch of the imagination a large man, and when someone like Parker was around for comparison, he looked positively shrimpy; still, the look on his hard-edged face and the gleam in his almost-black eyes told enough of the tale to anyone who really felt like arguing with him. He crossed his arms and stood in front of the door, shaking his head with apparent disappointment and sadness. Perez, in this state, looked like a father expressing unhappiness over a bad report card, but he radiated a palpable aura that enforced the unspoken: they were not getting back in that room, at least not right away.
Seeing that look on this man—a man he genuinely liked and had always thought well of, a man whose nose he’d broken and yet who still put up with his shit and tried to keep on pleasant terms—caused something in Drakanis to hurt more than almost anything ever had. Seeing that look made him think about how many others he had hurt over the years, how many people he’d just shut out so he could wallow in his own misery. It also made him feel even worse about the captain’s death.
Christ, you fuckwit. It’s the man’s goddamn wake, and all you can manage to do is shout about how you don’t want to think about it loudly enough that you send his widow crying and get half the damn cops in town thinking you’re a nut again. That was what one part of him was saying. A deeper part, one that usually only spoke to him in the darkness of the night, when he wasn’t aware he was thinking anything at all, added to it, And how responsible am I for Morrigan? If I’d done what I was supposed to back then, would he be dead, now? What about the others this guy’s killed? Is it just two old men and one guy with a bad heart, or is it more? How many? How much blood is on my hands?
Drakanis shook his head, turned away, and vomited. He found himself grateful for a moment, since it came up like it always had. Even as a child, he could just send it up the chute and let it go without any pain, without any coughing spasms, and it was still like that now, just sick it up, get it out of the system.
Saved myself a hangover, at least. Should be grateful for that. Stuck as he was thinking of his lifetime vomiting experiences, he didn’t immediately register what the others were saying to him. He didn’t bother diverting his attention to listen either. He just let it go until it was all out. Then he stumbled back, flopped his ass onto an old crate that had supposedly once contained a great number of oranges, and looked blearily up, catching just the last of what Perez was saying.
“—going to be okay, Vincent?” Another thing about Perez that
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