23
The scent of blood was neither subtle nor hidden, and I easily followed its trail to the dining room, where David—or what was left of him—sat tied to one of his chairs. Either he’d decided to look back through his documentation on Wolfsheim or the intruders had found it because the now familiar papers sat scattered over the top of the table. Splotches of blood punctuated the statements and pictures in a fine spray. More blood coated the floor and windows. David sat with his head back, his throat a gaping testament to the powerful, violent magic that had been wrought upon him, similar to the security guards at the Institute. It was only later that my mind would remember his lips curled in a smile.
Selene’s horrified gasp reminded me I wasn’t alone.
“Oh, god, it’s just like Otis,” she
