The Darkness in Dreams (Enforcer's Legacy, #1)(55)

“Do you know who I am?”

There was no response. The man had been stripped of all clothes except underwear. The clothes were in a pile in the corner.

Christan gestured toward Arsen, who stood at his side. “Do you know who he is? It’s his mate you’ve been hunting. I’m not saying you hunted her last night, but you’ve been hunting all our women, so the threat is the same.”

“You’re an enforcer,” the snatcher said. “He’s your second. You’ll kill me no matter what I say.”

“Perhaps. But before we do that you’re going to talk.” It was enough of a threat. The man stared at his bare knees. They were white and thin.

Christan let the man wait. “Who do you work for?”

“An intermediary.”

“This intermediary have a name?”

Silence. Christan let it go.

“What does this intermediary tell you to do?”

“We’re supposed to find a girl.”

“Just… any girl?”

Silence. This time, Christan didn’t let it go. A low moaning filled the cellar as the enforcer probed into the snatcher’s mind. The man spit blood on the dirty cellar floor.

“He told us to grab every bonded girl we came across and force her memories. That’s all I know.”

“Not all. Let’s talk about the other attack last night.”

“It must have been successful if you’re asking about it.”

“So you do know.” It was all Christan needed, a confirmation of knowledge. From there it was simple; the interrogation technique had just been demonstrated and everyone in the cellar understood how it would end. Including the snatcher tied to the chair.

“You’re a bright boy,” Christan said into the silence. “I’m sure you see your options.”

“What I see are enemies around me.” The man grew bolder, too poorly trained to moderate his emotions. “When you look around, Enforcer, what do you see?”

“A stupid man tied to a chair.”

“You sure of that?”

The snatcher was arrogant. Perhaps he’d forgotten how short life could be when an enforcer was standing in the room.

“You have enemies all around you,” he said. “Enemies who know where your friends are. Where your girl is and that she’s alone. Where his girl is, trying to hide in Florence. You can’t protect them all, not when you’re trying to protect every bonded mate we fi—”

“Hush,” Christan interrupted. “I talk and you answer. Those are the rules.”

“Fuck your rules.”

“I fuck with rules all the time.”

Silence.

“Tough guy. Especially with women.” Christan hated interrogations when they turned bad. He preferred to meet his enemies on the battlefield where the fighting was swift and clean. Digging into the depths of a depraved mind required a total lack of emotion. And there were times when Christan realized he’d committed similar sins throughout his long life, when he felt no different from the many different men tied in the many different chairs.

“That’s okay,” he said after a moment. “You don’t have to answer, nod if you like. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

The snatcher ignored the question, spoke with the fervor of a believer. “Do you remember a cottage on the beach? That stupid cat?”

“You have something to do with that?”

“Heard you killed the man you thought did.”

“I don’t mind taking out the trash,” Christan agreed. “I’m doing some of that right now.”

“Her bedroom smelled like fresh flowers,” the man said. “Her sheets like sex. I rubbed my cock all over her pillow and then I nailed that cat to her bed.”

“I’m disappointed to hear that.” The man tied to the chair jerked beneath the sudden pain. “Who told you to kill the cat?”

“No one. They told us to have fun.”

“Are you having fun now?”

The warrior shrugged, trying to shield against the mental intrusion; Christan eased up enough to let him believe resistance was possible.

“We’ll still get the girl and she’ll squeal like her cat,” the snatcher said. “If not today, then some other day.”

“Who sent you?”

“Don’t have a name.”

“You don’t have very much, do you?”

“Okay,” the snatcher said, seeming to understand the danger. “Maybe it was this rich guy.”

“He’s the one paying?” Because mercenaries rarely did anything without money in the bank.

“Yeah, but only if we get your girl.”

“Alive?”

“Dead is okay, too.”

“How many have you killed?” Christan asked.

No answer. Moaning filled the cellar again.

“How many?”

“We haven’t counted,” the man said, and tried to laugh until his windpipe completely closed. The snatcher struggled against the plastic ties that held his wrists, and his bare feet beat against the dirty floor. Christan released the mental pressure around the man’s throat enough for the snatcher to look into his face.