Page 30 of Stroke of Shadows

Ricky seized beneath him, body bucking as he seemed to struggle with the change into his stag form. His shoulders had already widened, the bones snapping and reforming into their alternative shape. His face had lengthened into a snout, his broken nose crooked as the skin stretched so fast it split in a burst of red.

It was both disgusting and fascinating at the same time.

Sythe noticed Ricky’s arm moving, deciding to allow the fist to connect to the side of his head. It landed hard, much harder than expected until he realised Ricky’s hand had fused to become a hoof. Wiping the blood from his brow, Sythe reached down to pin Ricky further, clamping his knees around his waist. It wasn’t the most appropriate position, and he knew his brothers would be laughing their arses off if they saw. But it worked.

Although, he needed to end this before he was straddling an actual deer.

Taking out his phone, he took a picture of Ricky panting, his face half formed and eyes widened in fear.

“Perfect,” Sythe said with a grin, sending it straight to Wyatt. “Now this may hurt. Wait, who am I kidding?” He pressed closer, making sure every word could be heard. “This is definitely going to fucking hurt.”

Sythe savoured his final punch, the power reverberating up his arm as he lifted Ricky by one of his malformed antlers and struck. His head rebounded against the floor with an audible crack, and once again, the entire bar was in complete silence.

So quiet Sythe could hear the sirens in the distance. Which was exactly what he wanted.

“Put your hands up!”

Sythe didn’t bother turning, slowly placing his hands on the back of his head. He still straddled Ricky, but from the bubbles of blood popping out of the end of his snout, he knew he was alive. Which was an actual shame, but an ABH charge was easier to talk himself out of than manslaughter.

“I get a phone call, arsehole,” Sythe said as he was yanked back, and metal cuffs were quickly snapped on his wrists, the little dangling charms used to suppress strength, magic, and anything else the witch on duty could think of, rattling against his hands.

“Shut the fuck up,” one of the officers sneered, hauling Sythe to his feet. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.” Sythe didn’t resist, allowing the officers to shove him to the exit. “Let the Light guide you, too, arsehole.”

Chapter 11

Sythe

Sythe stared at the two detectives, his smile teasing. He’d lost count of the amount of hours they’d questioned him, and not once had he uttered a single word apart from confirming his name.

“This is ridiculous. Surely you had some sort of vendetta against Mr Sanders? His skull’s been fractured in three places and we’ve been informed he’s currently in emergency surgery,” the one on the right explained, his brows pinched as he stared down at his notes.

Sythe cocked his head, tapping his fingers in an annoying rhythm along the table.

“You were heard exiting the crime scene saying the phrase, ‘Let the Light guide you.’ Are you a member of the Church of the Light?”

Sythe remained silent. Not because it helped him, but because he was enjoying the frustration at his continued blatant disregard. It wasn’t like they were going to be able to keep him there. Firstly, because he didn’t actually exist, and secondly, because he was about to make bail.

“Mr Black,” the detective on the left said with an exhausted sigh, his moustache more grey than brown and about twenty years out of fashion. “Do you understand the seriousness of the possible charge?”

Possible charge.

Sythe’s smile widened. They hadn’t even charged him, despite several witnesses to the attack and the uniformed officers finding him literally straddling the victim.

The state of the police these days, he chuckled to himself. It should have warranted an immediate charge, and yet they still sat there asking mundane questions that were completely irrelevant.

A knock on the door, and the detective on the right pressed a button on the desk. He leaned forward to speak clearly into the mic.

“Interview paused at—” He checked his watch. “Seven thirty-five PM. Sythe Black, Detective Lane, and Detective Parker present.”

Fuck. He’d been there close to twenty-four hours.

The door opened and a grim-looking woman with round glasses and an itchy looking grey cardigan peered through.

Detective Moustache stood. “If you’d excuse me.” He slipped out the door, locking shut behind him.

Sythe waited, continuing his rhythmic thrumming of his fingers.