The knife sliced through the flesh, bringing a stream of blood and a muffled, grunting cry from the man strapped to the chair.
James looked up from his stance in front of him. The blood splattered on his face looked like war paint. “I’m sorry, does it hurt?”
The man whimpered and his head tilted to the side, releasing a thick ooze from his empty eye socket. The stream of bloody fluid ran down his bare chest, mingling with his chest hair.
James tsked him. “Well, maybe you should’ve staked the Master instead of gloating so close to sunset, hmm?”