Vincent froze, eyes widening. The blood drained from his face."What?!" His voice cracked into a roar. "How—the hell happened?!"
Greg's boots scuffed against concrete, and when he spoke again, his voice came muffled, as though he were shielding his face. "Poisoning. The smell's still here. It's foul."
"Fuck!" Vincent's curse tore through clenched teeth. He dragged his hand down his face, massaging his temples with sharp, frustrated breaths. "What about the other one? The other hermit?"
"He's safe. I moved him to our place, doubled the guards—" Greg answered, but his words broke off suddenly. "Wait."
His eyes narrowed at something out of place; a vase. Clean. Polished. New. Set deliberately on the edge of the decrepit room, it looked almost obscene against the filth. Inside, a single rose stood tall, scarlet and fresh.
