Wolf Omega: The Lykanos Chronicles 2

Chapter Thirty-Three

I smelled death in the cellar—not just fresh blood but also the subtle smell of decay from months of rot.

A single lit candle stood on a small table near the far corner. Beside the table was a crude mattress atop a simple wooden bed frame. On the bed laid the naked body of a young boy, no more than ten years old. Rough rope bound his small wrists together, which were tied to the bed frame above his head.

I could sense the boy's remains were still warm, and I smelled the man's scent upon him, mixed with blood and feces and semen. The child's dead eyes, still open, seemed to stare forward toward the candle beside him.

I was too late.

I heard a terrible commotion from behind me and turned to see Duccio climbing up the cellar stairs. He had seen the dead child's injuries through my mind, and in return, I felt the furious rage that moved him. He meant to slaughter the man.

"Stop!" I screamed and flew up the stairs after him.

Duccio's talons were already around the man's throat when I returned to the main level. I ran to place my hands around his face, bent on breaking his focus long enough to thwart him.

Duccio shook his massive head with agitation at the hindrance and glared at me, outraged that I would dare try to stop him. He growled savagely at us both, but I had tempered Duccio long enough to stay the man's execution.

"Please stop," I begged. "Please."

All that came from Duccio were blazing thoughts of the night he'd slaughtered the fiend who'd paid to rape a young Dionisio. His mind couldn't hide from me the desperate tears of the abused boy who would become his son.

Watching the child's suffering had broken Duccio to his core. Finding the damaged corpse below us had triggered nothing less than a vengeful demon from my alpha.

I placed my hand on Duccio's talons, still tight around the neck of the boy's murderer, and begged quietly for him to stop.

Please, I must know first. We must know who that boy is.

Duccio's angry glare softened, but his grip relaxed only after I carefully pulled it away from the man's neck.

Nothing but a soft trance came from the rapist's eyes, and he didn't offer the slightest resistance or acknowledgment that two monstrous werewolves stood before him.

I couldn't have said why I thought I could do what I meant to, except that I knew I could. Part of me understood what Sempronio had done to me the first day we met.

I took the man's head in my hands and closed my eyes. The surface of the man's mind was entirely flexible, and I entered through it as if placing my hand into a basin of still water. Stepping past the soothing visions of a fountain that trickled in a garden courtyard, I could soon see more imagery.

There were dozens of incongruous memories: working in an office writing letters; coupling with a young woman in the privacy of an old shed; wishing his father would return; arguing with his mother about finishing a chore; the smell of paint that wafted in from a window; the grating barking of the neighbor's dog; speaking to a group of boys in the parish schoolyard.

I latched onto the last memory, letting it play again and again before my eyes. Each time I saw the conversation, the memory expanded in length and depth, and I pushed forward to follow where it led.

The boys were playing, and I asked them who was winning. They argued over what was the truthful answer, and I laughed at their loud debate. I looked about the yard, nodding at the priest who refereed their game of kickball. Against the wall stood a blonde boy who seemed to have separated himself from the others. He didn't want to play and looked anxiously as the other boys swarmed after the ball. I stepped around the yard and spoke to him about how rotten the players were. He avoided me, but I laughed and smiled to catch his eyes.