Prologue
Soon.
Impatience is such an illogical concept. Time doesn't even exist. Things simply are, or they are not. And if they are meant to be, they will be. Thewhendoesn’t matter.
Except it does. This time, it does.
He doesn’t know what lies beyond the threshold. None of his kind do, destined to tread the edge of the precipice. Seeing the horizon, but never further. It’s perfectly possible there’s nothing there at all, just an endless void sucking everything in like a black hole.
He hopes not.
He’d much rather believe the good old tales that speak of heaven and hell, of bringing justice that failed to be delivered on the plane of the living.
But better late than never.
Until now, he never cared what’s out there. His job is easy and straightforward, beautiful in its ruthless simplicity. Just take, hold, and deliver. Then do it again. And again. And again. Like a perfect machine, doing what it was created for.
And heisa machine, a pawn among many. Most of the time, at least. And sometimes, once upon an eternity, he feels it. A surge of something that should be foreign and wrong but is uncomfortably familiar. He’s only able to put a name to it because he’s been watching humanity succumb to the same force for as long as he can remember.
Emotions are such a silly thing. They're also, to his grief, seemingly imperishable.
He doesn’t know what lies beyond the threshold, but as he watches Caledon Reeves wash drying blood from his knuckles, watches him sway as he takes another swig from the rapidly emptying bottle of whiskey before stumbling over to the sofa and collapsing onto it like a pile of worthless filth…
Yeah, he really hopes there’s a heaven and hell. And he really hopes that, when he finally rips Caledon’s rotten soul from his disgusting body, he will be delivering him to the hellfire where he’ll burn forever. If he had a heart, it would be fluttering in excitement at the prospect of dragging the monster from this plane.
Soon.
Until the time comes, he’ll be following the man like a dark shadow, lurking beyond the veil, awaiting the moment he’ll finally get his hands on him. It will be so, so sweet.
He'll have to think of a way to make it last, to drag it out with excruciating slowness. The exact opposite of what he always does. One touch, and it's all over, like severing a thread. Painless. Absolute.
Not this time.
He will rip Caledon open, seam by seam, until there's nothing left but fear and agony.
It’s the quiet sobbing that pulls him out of the well of hatred and rage he’s been sinking into. Calling out to him.
He shouldn’t. He knows that. There’s nothing forbidden about it, but Caledon is his job. He shouldn’t allow any distractions.
As if an invisible force has taken hold of him, he follows the anguished sounds, passing through the door like a ghost. He knows what he’ll find there, but that doesn’t stop him. Nothing could stop him.
The rage he just escaped pulls him under before it’s replaced by something else. Something quieter, softer, and unfathomably more powerful. It doesn’t matter how many times he reminds himself what he’s come here to do; the sight of Dawson strips the rest of the world away, making everything else insignificant.
Dawson’s hands shake as he cleans his face, running a damp, red-stained cloth over the open wounds. Blood drips from his bottom lip into the sink, flowing faster the more Dawson cries, the more he trembles. His left eye has started to swell, the skin around it turning darker as seconds tick by. Who knows what violence can be found under his shirt sprayed with crimson droplets.
Dawson lifts his gaze, looking at his reflection. His face hardens, disgust flashing over his features. He grips the edge of the counter, leaving two bloody handprints behind.
Maybe it’s because he can’t stand the sight of himself, or maybe he’s just tired, but he allows his legs to cave, sliding to the tiled floor. Leaning against the wall, he pulls his knees to his chest and buries his beautiful, hurt face in his palms. A violent sob is torn out of him, sending ripples through his body.
His haunted eyes shoot towards the door when his own pain-filled sound reaches his ears. When nothing happens, when no monster comes barrelling in, the tremors resume.
He pulls in a hiccuping breath. And stills. When he looks up, his face is tear and blood streaked, and hauntingly blank. Light flickers out of his honey-colored eyes, leaving them hollow.
Unable to stay away, he gets closer to Dawson and kneels at his side.
“Soon,” he whispers into Dawson’s ear. He wills himself not to read anything into Dawson’s soft gasp, the sharp intake of breath.
He never thought he'd have to fight so hard to not break the rule—the only rule. But the sight of Dawson's battered face tries him, tempts him to return to the living room and take Caledon with him right now.
