There were streaks of blood, and discarded weapons. Whatever happened here had bordered on the medieval. He stepped over the Magpye's coat and mask, turning his lip in disgust at the things. To him they seemed childlike, toys for play acting. Jack Taylor had never been able even to pretend to be something that he wasn't. He didn't lack imagination; the myriad ways in which he had wounded, maimed, tortured, and killed were a testament to that; he just couldn't imagine being anything other himself. Clarity, as a gift, had its limitations too and one of them was understanding in the very core of your being that who you are never ever changes. At least, not for Jack Taylor. He found King sitting next to something had once been a body. A fire axe was on the floor next to them both and Cane had clearly been putting it to use. Taylor had cut Lee Grice up a piece at a time; what Cane had done was infinitely more brutal, more visceral. It was fury and hatred, the kind that takes years to brew and therefore exists almost exclusively in families, made manifest in the meeting of axe and flesh.
