I burst into the living-room and the copper reek hits me first. Then the sight.
Three bodies sprawled across the Persian rug like broken dolls. Elder Gwen and Rown, Councillor Holt. Throats opened ear to ear, blood still pulsing in lazy rivers from the gashes. The white couch is soaked crimson. One of Holt's shoes is missing; it lies halfway across the room, sole up, as if he tried to run and never made it past the coffee table.
My knees lock. Breath stalls in my chest.
Devon sits in the middle of it all, legs crossed, a crystal tumbler of whiskey balanced on his thigh. His black shirt clings wet to his chest, dark hair pushed back, face unreadable with blood spills staining it. Blood drips from his right hand in slow, deliberate drops, pat-pat-pat onto the leather. He doesn't look at me. He stares straight ahead, grey eyes flat and dead.
I can't move. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
"…What did you do?" The words come out cracked, barely louder than a whisper.
