Chapter 27 · Blasphemous Truth

"Get your hands off her, you sanctimonious piece of shit," Lucian spat, his voice scraping like gravel on concrete.

Malakar didn't even look at him. He had Vesper pinned against the jagged remains of the vault wall, the tip of a glowing holy blade pressed firmly into the soft hollow of her throat. One twitch, and her windpipe would be a memory.

"The cripple speaks," Malakar sneered, his eyes finally sliding toward Lucian. "Still hiding in that scrap-metal chair, Cross? I remember when you were the pride of the force. Now you're just a broken dog barking from a cage."

Vesper struggled, her boots scraping against the debris. She glared at Malakar, but her eyes kept darting to Lucian. She was bleeding from a gash on her forehead, her breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

"Let. Her. Go," Lucian said. He didn't shout. He didn't have to. The air in the room suddenly dropped ten degrees. A faint, oily black mist began to leak from the seams of his wheelchair, curling around the floor like living ink.

"Or what?" Malakar laughed, pressing the blade deeper. A thin line of red appeared on Vesper's skin. "You'll roll over my toes?