“Seth Boudreaux.” The words were formal, weighted.
Compulsion failed. “That’s not my name, True or otherwise.”
“Clever. Your mother was my finest protégé.”
“She’s dead.” I didn’t admit culpability.
The thing flicked its fingers and ripped open Nate’s chest. “I could pluck his heart like a cherry pit.”
I slapped my hand over the wound, healing it.
“Don’t DO that!” Nate rocked back, pulled his gun, and shot the monster.
I might have been next, but the thing rose. “You will listen, boy, or you will mourn.”
Nate fell, vomiting blood. “Don’t,” he rasped.
But he knew I had to.