In an abandoned, dilapidated building somewhere in the isolated stretches of Darthmore, the shrieks of a man clawed through the air. Raw, guttural cries that could tear the eardrums of anyone unfortunate enough to hear them.
To Lemiel, it was nothing short of music.
Bone after bone, he snapped with a merciless rhythm, each crack swallowed by the man's wailing.
The duke's bloodlust was unshackled, a beast gnawing at its chains, and the scent of fear, the stench of sweat and copper, only sharpened his hunger. He wanted more screams, more blood, more pitiful begging.
The victim was one of Mr. Lowe's two henchmen, the one who had managed to escape death on that night in Lowe's mansion.
The sketch Sienna had drawn for him, delicate strokes capturing the man's rat-like face, had been all he needed. A name followed, and with Theron's aid, it hadn't taken long to corner the rat in his hole.
