The hunter huddled in on himself, one arm across his ribs. Though his expression remained defiant, his posture told a different story. It would take very little to break the man completely, as Tzadkiel had been tempted to do when Benjamin had accused Tzadkiel’s mora of creating the keres.
“What do you mean?” Benjamin licked his split lip. “That we’ve fought them before? That you’ve created them before?”
Tzadkiel fixated on Benjamin’s mouth. He could almost taste the sweetness of the hunter’s blood as that darting tongue sampled what Tzadkiel himself so badly craved. His self-control hung by a thread, more of a spider’s wisp really, ready to snap at the least provocation.
“You do not know your own history?” Tearing his gaze away, Tzadkiel removed himself to a safer distance.
Benjamin’s nostrils flared, a sure sign Tzadkiel had touched a nerve. “I know enough.”
It was likely that the hunter knew very little, or remembered little. He had been only a boy when his family had been taken from him…murdered. Tzadkiel forcibly shook off the dangerous sentiment. Benjamin might have been an innocent then, but his relations had been the most diabolical representations of humankind Tzadkiel had ever known—and he had known quite a few over his long span.
“The Trojan War—”
“I know about that.” Benjamin batted at the air with his free hand. “We fought with you to retrieve Helen. She was…the sister of…of…”
“She was my great-grandfather’s sister. My grandaunt,” Tzadkiel interjected. “The daughter of Zeus and Leda, and the sister to Castor and Pollux.”
“Yeah, that.” Benjamin’s finger snap echoed down the corridors leading to the central chamber. “You don’t have to give me the whole history. I don’t understand where the keres come in. That’s all.”
Tzadkiel raised one brow, but otherwise didn’t comment on Benjamin’s doubtful knowledge.
“The keres come in, as you say, because my brother Zeuxis created them to hide inside the Trojan horse and overwhelm the gates once inside.” Memory spooled backward to that black day, and Tzadkiel folded his arms protectively over his chest. “It was a perfect plan according to my brother, apart from the keres having no loyalty. Once they finished with the Trojans, they turned on our own army. Your family and mine fought side by side to vanquish them. After, your enmity for us was born.”
Zeuxis had acted on his own, without the mora’s or its archon’s approval, and had suffered the consequences—they all had. Their victory plan, the Trojan horse, had turned into a bloodbath that history had thankfully forgotten—something that, unfortunately, Tzadkiel had never been able to do. He pushed away memories of his brother’s execution at the hands of their uncle—their Justice Giver—and trained his attention on Benjamin once more.
“So why not do it again? Overwhelm Boston and take over the city?” Benjamin scoffed. “Sounds like something you and your family would do.”
Tzadkiel blinked at the hunter, at first not comprehending the insult. On the heels of hot anger came another, more chilling surge of understanding. If someone were intent on doing that very thing—on taking over Boston and overwhelming its populace with untold horrors—they would have reason to create keres. He didn’t believe that was exactly what was happening, but perhaps something very, very close.
“This coming from a family of fortune hunters who prey on the lives of innocent men?” Tzadkiel bit out. “My brother died for his crimes, and yet you still hunted us—for our wealth.” He swept out a hand, indicating a room that had once housed an abundance of treasures, now all gone, then jabbed a finger in Benjamin’s direction. “If I had truly desired to harm you or this city, you would no longer possess a head with which to cast your foolhardy aspersions.”
Tzadkiel disdained torture as a rule, but there was nothing he would not do to see his mora safe. The hunter was lucky to still be alive and relatively in one piece. Had it suited his purpose, Benjamin’s death would have been a fait accompli.
Long fingers raked through tangled curls. The spiked portion of Benjamin’s thumb ring caught on the strands, and he tugged it away with a frustrated jerk. “If my rib wasn’t broken, I would take you out.”
“If tonight was evidence of your battlefield prowess, please excuse me if I do not worry overmuch.”
The hunter gaped at him. His open mouth reminded Tzadkiel of a fish speared on the banks of the Charles. He flopped around, gasping and sputtering, until he found the words with which to vent his indignation.
“We’ve killed your kind over and over.” Spittle flew from Benjamin’s lips when he leaned in. “They died like you will. Begging.”
Tzadkiel forced Benjamin’s back against the pillar, his palms to either side of the hunter’s head. The lethally focused repartee twisted and coiled in on itself, forming a knot of adrenaline-junkie lust in Tzadkiel’s belly. He tried, and failed, to recall the last time a man had dared to confront him thus.
“Do you want to know how many of your kind I have slain in my time, hunter? Without the assistance of my mora? Do you wish to know your great-great-grandfather’s dying words?” Tzadkiel let his voice go silky with menace, a smooth pour of honey that spoke of dark deeds and even darker nights. “I know your history. I know every last breath and every last request.” His rough exhale disturbed Benjamin’s hair. “I know the taste of your blood and its lineage—the flowering of the fruit on the vine. Its slow fermentation and decay.”
Benjamin paled so his bones seemed to visibly shrink under his skin.
“I know how you are going to die.” Tzadkiel curled his fingers against the cold, unforgiving rock and leaned closer to Benjamin’s ear. “I know how you will taste, and how you will beg for your life.” Hardened consonants combined in a savage caress. “I know how you shall smell—of blood and bile—when I tear your throat out.” He growled with his exhale. “That is my promise.”
Twisting, Benjamin brought his weight into a headbutt. His skull met Tzadkiel’s jaw with a sickening crack, and Tzadkiel stumbled backward, his hand to his face. Something popped when he flexed his jaw.
“You have a death wish, Benjamin Fuller.”
“The only thing I wish right now,” Benjamin replied, hand to his skull, “is for a drink.”
Footsteps sounded, breaking into the argument. Tzadkiel tensed, shifting his attention over Benjamin’s shoulder.
“…went this way.”
The witch.
Benjamin stood taller, but Tzadkiel placed a staying hand on his shoulder. The muscles there bunched, so tense it was as if they’d turned to stone. Benjamin attempted to move forward, but Tzadkiel pulled him back.
“They’re my friends.”
“I’ll see the three of you dead first, and damn my promise, if you tell them what you know.” Tzadkiel ducked them into an anteroom off the nearest corridor. “Your friend is a witch, and I’ll not have her running to the coven.”
Benjamin faced him. “And how exactly do you propose to keep all this from them?”
The footsteps grew louder. A flashlight’s beam cut across the darkness. They couldn’t afford to be caught arguing, not if Tzadkiel wanted to keep his promise. He had no doubt Benjamin’s friends would attack if they thought anything amiss. Worst case, one of them would get away to alert the coven of Tzadkiel’s return. Best case, Tzadkiel would have to kill them all or be killed himself. The only way to keep everything from going to hell was to pretend he and Benjamin were allies. Strong allies. Perhaps something even more.
“I have an idea,” Tzadkiel said. “Play along, and get rid of them any way you see fit.”
Without time to explain, he leaned in and claimed the hunter’s lips in a kiss.