"If you don’t give us what we want, there’s another way to get rid of your ‘gift.’ We can rip your hands off. Then your arms. Make you feel the pain gradually."
"And leave your severed limbs at the gates of Hell’s Mouth as a gift for Viktor," said the one from New Orleans, smiling cruelly. "The choice is yours."
As if to emphasize his words, his boot pressed harder onto my left arm. Agony shot up to my head, blinding me. The crack of bone echoed through the tiled room.
I struggled to breathe, but kept my refusal:
"I will never help either of you."
He shook his head in disapproval.
"Wrong answer, witch."
"We can’t touch you. And you can’t touch us," murmured the New Orleans vampire. "But there are many other ways to break you. Piece by piece."
A weak laugh, metallic with blood, slip
