Chapter 23 · Dead Men Tell Tales

"Still shaking, little cousin? I remember you being more spirited when you were six."

Julian’s voice was a sandpaper rasp against my ear. He had Silas pinned to the stone wall, a forearm crushed across the man's throat. The High Inquisitor—the man who owned every room he stepped into—was gasping for air, boots scraping uselessly against the floor.

I couldn't move. The air had turned to lead. Ten years. Ten years of mourning a dead man, and here he was. He smelled of old blood and ozone, looking at me like I was a piece of fruit he was deciding whether to peel or crush.

"Let him go," I snapped. My voice cracked, but I forced my chin up.

Julian chuckled. It was a low, vibrating sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. He didn't even look at me. He just tightened his grip.

*Pop.*

Silas groaned, his face flushing a dangerous purple.

"Why?" Julian finally turned his head. His eyes shimmered with that unnatural, S-rank shadow energy. "He's just the appetizer. You're the main course, Alice. Or should I say... the vessel?"

He released Silas with a violent shove, sending the man sprawling.