Snippet #2702905

The way Hel honed straight toward a scene of carnage like a shark in bloodied water was uncanny.

“Hel,” said Spire, slowing his run to a walk when he saw the group, and Hel thankfully unharmed. “Hey. Don’t do that,” he panted.

And he didn’t mean the stuffing bloody feathers in her pockets; that behavior didn’t even strike him as odd for a six-year-old. At her age, he had enjoyed twisting the necks of small mammals and fingerpainting with their blood, back before he escalated to bigger prey.

“You can’t run off without asking, okay kid?” Spire said, recovering his calm. “Not when the labs are trying to get you back.”

Spire had looked away from the girl for maybe ten seconds while talking to Soren in the kitchen. She’d been five feet away from him. Her picked-at plate sat at the table, but she’d vanished. Last time she’d disappeared from under his nose, it was because an Erubescan speedster had tried to abduct her, so her sudden disappearance was understandable cause for alarm. This time, he’d launched after her so fast he might as well have been a speedster himself.

But now he showed no sign of his momentary panic. He stood as cool as carved stone, and addressed the group at large. "Well," he drawled. "We've been getting a lot of unwanted company lately, haven't we?"

Spire nudged Hel away from the battered Larke. He didn’t want her poking around too close the body, since Spire could tell by the general fussing that their avian friend was still alive. Fine. If he lived, maybe he could join the speedster in Pierrot’s extra-dimensional hell. And maybe eventually someone would acknowledge that the most practical solution was to let Spire cut both their throats. Trying to extract information from the speedster could tide him over for a while, but it did more to whet his thirst than anything else. At the end of the day, torture in and of itself felt empty--just pointless indulgence. Taking a life--that mattered. It combined all the satisfaction of ridding the world of one more corrupt creature with the empowering feeling of control, and the electrifying sensation of steel slicing flesh, of slick, warm blood between his fingertips. Spire would get his fix, the Wanderers wouldn’t have to waste resources on dangerous prisoners, and Hel would have an abundant supply of feathers for whatever craft project she appeared to be planning. He didn’t see the problem. Everyone would be happy. But especially Spire. Spire would be very happy.

Okay.

Focus.

Spire’s pale eyes peeled away from the vulnerable form of the unconscious crash victim, pushed his hands into the deep pockets of his coat, and turned to his younger brother. “You okay? What happened?”

“I’m not hurt. I shot him down,” Toby said hoarsely. “He’s Erubescan.”

Spire nodded, and, not perceiving the difference between “okay” and “not hurt,” he moved on to other matters. “How does he know your dad?” he asked Hel, always a little grated by the mention of Commander Green for a combination of reasons that tended to confuse him.