The Beast

SIXTY-SEVEN

His mistake had been the unmuffled gunshot.

As Assail proceeded from Naasha’s suite to Throe’s, and then broke down the male’s locked door, he was greeted with an empty bedroom and an open window, the traitor having obviously dematerialized out when he heard the forty go off.

“Goddamn it,” Assail muttered as he wheeled around and checked the bathroom. And the closet.

Nothing was particularly out of place, and the true telltale of quick departure was the open wall safe across the way, that landscape that had been ever so slightly cockeyed upon its hook before now sitting on the seat of a chair, the metal belly of the keep-all exposed, the light inside illustrating that its contents had been removed.

But whate’er did it matter? Naasha had been the true target.

Throe could be pursued at leisure on another night.

Assail doubled back to Naasha’s, and strode through her bedroom, going to the window that he had seen her in from down below. Willing the lights off in the bath, he peered out of the glass as the sweet chemical stink of gasoline now reached even the second floor.

Down below at the foot of the drive, as prescribed, was a group of eight standing beside the lamppost, the illumination detailing that the seven servants and that butler had arranged themselves in a line and were staring up at the mansion.

“Good male,” Assail muttered as he turned away.

He was about to leave when something caught his eye—a gleam over on one of the counters. Reigniting the lighting, he stepped over her dead body and picked up the diamond necklace. The thing was modest, by Naasha’s standards, naught but a rivere of two- and three-carat stones.

Below where it sat, there was a series of thin drawers, each with a pair of brass key locks that were engaged.

Mayhap it was nostalgia for his cat burglar, or perhaps a final fuck-you to Naasha, but he extended his gun arm and pumped off a number of rounds into the fucking things, splintering the wood, scattering the locks, ruining the pristine bank of cabinets.

When he had emptied his clip, the top drawer lolled open like a cartoon character’s tongue. Inside, in a jumbled mess, were all kinds of things that sparkled, and he grabbed handfuls, stuffing the rings and earrings and necklaces and bracelets into his pockets.

His jacket was near full to bursting when Zsadist came in.

The Brother had ready his flamethrower, the tip of the discharge nozzle spitting blue fire, the wand in those oh, so capable hands like the head of a dragon who was ready to roar.

“Time to go,” the fighter said.

One had to admire his disinterest in the thievery. Then again, Assail had just committed murder right over there in that swivel chair, and the Brother seemed unbothered by that as well.

With a last look at Naasha’s sprawled, motionless form, Assail walked out with the Brother. In the hall, the fumes were strong enough to water the eye, and that became even more prevalent as they descended.

Ehric and Evale had gathered in the foyer, and, ever thoughtful, they had retrieved his pack from where he had laid it down outside.

After he strapped it on and lit his pilot, so to speak, he pumped off several bursts of orange flame.

“Shall we?” he said.

Splitting up, they went to the four corners of the grand mansion. The gasoline, which his cousins had liberally doused all manner of textiles and wood in, was perhaps overkill, however, the flamethrowers’ kisses would thereby be capable of igniting whole walls of fabric and expanses of pine, oak and mahogany with naught but a burst.

As the arson was initiated with efficiency, Assail moved through the dining room, setting ablaze the antiques and the Zuber wallpaper, the Aubusson rug, the Federal table that was twenty-five feet long and two centuries old. He had a momentary pause before he went on his way into the kitchen, a spark of grief for the Waterford chandelier that was in the midst of the now e’er-expanding bonfire making him wish he had removed it first.

But sacrifices had to be made.

He did not bother with the pantry. It would be consumed soon enough. Instead, he set about lighting afire the fine professional kitchen, starting with the drapes on either side of the banks of windows and continuing on to all the wooden cabinetry that his cousins had so competently covered with accelerant.

The great whoosh! as things caught and flames held was a rush every time it happened, and he felt himself get hard, some primal part of him expressing dominance and demanding submission from this static environment of inanimate objects. Indeed, with each explosion of power, it seemed as though he were reclaiming some part of himself that he had lost along the way.

Sure as if he had been the one chained down below.

Soon, the re-doubling heat became unbearable, his hair curling up at the ends, the skin of his face tightening to the point of pain.

As he rounded the circuit back to the foyer, he realized that he was surrounded by the fire he had sought to create, trapped in the inferno. Smoke, billowing and toxic, needled his eyes and stung his nose and sinuses, whilst undulating walls of fire blocked every exit.

Perhaps this was the end, he thought as he lowered the muzzle of his thrower.

All around him, great waves of orange and red flames ebbed and flowed, like mouths chewing on the mansion and its contents, and he was momentarily mesmerized by the deadly beauty of the blaze.

Calming down, he took out his phone.

Summoning up a number, he hit send and turned in a circle slowly as it rang, and rang, and rang—

“Hello?” came her voice.

He closed his eyes. Oh, that voice. Marisol’s beautiful voice.

“Hello,” she demanded.

There was a silence over the connection, although no silence in the house. No, things were creaking and popping, moaning and cursing as if the studs and plaster had bones that broke and nerve receptors to feel the pain.

“Assail?” she said urgently. “Assail . . . is this you?”

“I love you,” he replied.

“Assail! What is—”

He cut off the call. Turned off his phone. And then he removed the pack and placed it at his feet.

As the temperature increased and the chaos rose e’er higher, he straightened his jacket and tugged his cuffs into place.

After all, he might have been a degenerate, self-interested, drug-dealing sociopath, but one should have standards and look good when one passed.

Dhund or the Fade, he wondered.

Probably Dhund—

From out of the tsunami of flame, a black figure streaked into the eye of the inferno’s hurricane where Assail was standing.

It was the Brother Zsadist. And contrary to the impending death and destruction that was overwhelming things, the gentlemale seemed more annoyed than frantic as he skidded to a halt.

“Not going to die here,” the male yelled over the din.

“This is a fitting end for me.”

Those black, soulless eyes rolled. “Oh, please.”

“Even though this arson is for proper reason,” Assail hollered, “your King will have to prosecute me for murder, as there was no due process for the blood slave transgression of that female. So allow me to perish here, on my terms, satisfied that I have—”

“Not on my watch, asshole.”

The punch came from the right and plowed into Assail’s jaw so hard, it cut off not just his rather poetic speech, if he did say so himself, but his link to consciousness.

The last thing he heard as he went lights-out was, “—carry you out of here like luggage, you goddamn fool.”

For Fates’ sake, Assail thought as everything went dark and silent. The principles of others were so fucking inconvenient.

Especially when one was trying to kill oneself.