“You lied to me,” Nick says.
The knife in his hand is long, with serrated edges. He picked it up off the dead body of a Skalengeck, after he’d bashed its head in. It doesn’t fit right in his hands, uneven edges cutting into the flesh of his palm. That’s not why Nick brought it.
“Nick,” Renard says, face impassive.
Nick jumps over the kitchen counter, crashes into Renard and bears them both to the floor. Renard is still suited up from work, the gun on in its holster a hard weight against Nick’s knee. He puts the knife to Renard’s throat.
“You killed my parents.”
Renard’s face is like stone, but Nick knows the curves of his mouth like the inside of his own. He knows the weight of Renard’s hands on his thighs, he knows the beat of Renard’s heart against the flat of his back. He feels sick, cold all over.
Renard’s face is still as a painting, but Nick knows how well it lies.
He presses down with the knife until blood wells up—red and bright, like anyone else’s blood. Renard is only human, after all.
Nick has killed enough to know how to make it fast, but also how to drag it out, unending. He knows where to cut to make it hurt, how to cut so it feels new on every stroke. He puts that knowledge to use now.
