I staggered out of the warehouse, throat working convulsively, trying not to vomit. Bile rose in my throat as I crossed the rust-colored stain on the concrete floor. It stank of madness and old death. Someone had been murdered here, swift and merciless as the slice of a guillotine. Familiar magic clung to it, the same thrum of power I'd once felt in the stolen silver sword of a Warden. The White Council's so-called justice, no doubt.
Marcone had just killed two people in front of me, and I'd done nothing to stop him. It had happened quickly, and I hadn't had time to make an escape. Like it would have mattered in the end, a cynical part of me muttered. I'd still feel the throbbing pain of it a block away. At least it hadn't been torture. I couldn't have survived with my sanity intact if I had to endure that much pain and terror. This was bad enough.
It didn't matter that they'd been peddling drugs to teenage girls. A life was a life, and I could feel the loss as acutely, like a bullet had burrowed into my skull, adding to the already unbearable migraine pounding at my temples. It felt like my brain was trying to ooze out my ears. The light of the streetlamp nearby stabbed into my retinas and I retched.
I went as long as my wobbling legs would take me, which wasn't far. I sank down on a stack of pallets and bent double, head between my knees, sucking in deep lungfuls of air, trying to quell the rising sickness. It didn't help. If this continued, I was definitely going to throw up. Tears hazed my vision, then began rolling down my cheeks.
Oh, God. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...
I felt his approach before he rounded the corner. His aura was still placid, unshaken by what he'd done. That should have pissed me off. I couldn't understand how he could murder someone in cold blood and remain stoic. I ended up a quivering mess anytime I had to kill someone. But at the moment, I could only be grateful he wasn't a stew of conflicting emotions. Mine were bad enough.
"Ms. Carpenter," he began.
"For the love of God, Marcone. Call me Molly," I sniffled. "We've worked together long enough for you to use my first name."
His eyebrow quirked. "I'll call you Molly when you call me John."
I balked at that. It was strange to think of him as a John or Johnny. Calling him by his first name seemed...too intimate. But the stiff disapproval when he said 'Ms. Carpenter' reminded me so much of Nicodemus that it made me bristle.
"Fine."
He sidled closer, taking in my tears with a hint of frustration. "I have an Accords matter to attend to. I don't have time to track you down."
"Then get lost," I said sourly. "I'll recover...eventually."
"I thought a Knight would have a stronger stomach than this."
I turned to glare at him. "You don't have any fucking idea what I'm going through, John."
His brow climbed. "Enlighten me then."
I didn't want to. Admitting weakness to Marcone was a bad idea. But if I didn't, he might pull support, which would be disastrous in the long run. I needed the backup.
I heaved a sigh. "Do you know what a Sensitive is?"
"No."
"A Sensitive is a sorcerer or a wizard who's adept at tuning into the emotions of others. I feel them with people and can sometimes pick up their thoughts. It makes me good at delicate, complex magic like veils, but it leaves me open to the feelings of others, and vulnerable to psychic attacks and the aftershocks of violence or negative emotion." I shuddered, clutching my stomach. "I felt them die, and it hurts. It hurts every damn time." I let out a weak chuckle, more tears pouring down my cheeks. "I guess the Black Knight name is accurate. My arm's off and phantom limb is a real bitch."
Lines around his eyes tightened, and his expression shifted from annoyed to guarded in an instant. "You can read me?"
My lips curled into a watery smile. "No, actually. You've got your emotions locked down more often than not. It's soothing. The last time I felt that placid, I was still in possession of a coin. I didn't hold onto her for so long for shits and giggles. She was like morphine. It was so fucking good to block everyone out. It felt like a worthwhile tradeoff. One voice, instead of hundreds. Letting her go felt like amputating a limb."
There was a beat of thoughtful silence. "What can I do?"
"Physical contact helps. I either go home for a few hours, or I spent the night with Thomas." I laughed again. It sounded bleak. "That's over, though. It's a shame. I miss the orgasms. Lots and lots of orgasms."
Marcone cleared his throat, a tinge of embarrassment tinging the air. It was accompanied by a spike of interest and intense desire. Freydis hadn't been wrong. Marcone was interested, if only sexually.
"I'm sure you could find someone willing to provide."
"Like you? I felt it when you saw me without a shirt. It was sort of intense."
His eyes smoldered for just a moment before he reined his emotions in. "I don't know a reasonably straight man who wouldn't."
I let my head loll back against the warehouse wall. I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with him. He'd just murdered two men, for God's sake. I shouldn't be talking about sex. It was wrong. And yet, I couldn't tear my eyes away from his. I could admit, if only to myself, that he was the sort of man I went for. Older, amoral, and sporting a dubious moral code. Was I one of those girls looking to reform a bad boy? Good God, I hoped not.
Marcone sank down on the pallet, draped his coat over my shaking shoulders, and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me to his side. I leaned away from him. "What are you doing?"
"Physical contact. I can't have you going to pieces." He smirked. "It's no orgasm, but it's something at least."
I was tempted to shove him away, but the utter calm he exuded was intoxicating, sanding the edges off of the sharp pain that twisted under my ribs. I leaned into him, head nestled in the hollow of his throat. He was wearing cologne. Something woody with a faint tinge of smoke. Probably something expensive. Vetiver, maybe. I wasn't sure how long we sat there, but I felt the loss acutely when he pulled away.
"I have to go. Take the night off, Carpenter. Sort yourself out."
I gave him a weary salute. "Sure thing, boss-man."
"John," he said quietly. "And...I'm sorry this hurts you."
"But it doesn't change what has to be done."
"No, it doesn't."
He turned and walked away. I could have sworn he felt...regret. He tried to tamp it down, pretending he hadn't shown a moment of weakness, but I'd sensed it. The kingpin wasn't made of stone after all.
I stayed on the pallet for a few minutes, collecting myself. Then I stood, trudging forward, intent on one of my many hideouts. I tugged his coat closer. It was still warm and imprinted with his calm and surety. It was enough to carry me home.
Marcone was human after all. Who knew?
