Paragraphs without Context #2

“I don’t enjoy torture,” Carlysle said as he twirled the stilleto in his his hand.  “I just happen to be really good at it.”  He stood in front of Harry and bounced the flat of the blade softly upon his captive’s head.  He crouched down.  “I can go all night, eat some breakfast, nap for half an hour and go all the next day.  I don’t want to, Mr. Innes, but you’re making it necessary, do you understand?  I’m not angry—not angry, merely disappointed.  I don’t like taking these tools out of storage.”  He gestured towards the workbench and the implements of cruelty arrayed there.  “I’d much prefer for them to be getting rusty in their locker, but you—more to the point, people like you…just insist on making me take them out again and again.”  Carlysle shook his head in bewilderment.  “It just boggles the fucking mind, don’t you think?”

Harry gathered bloody spit in his mouth and decorated Carlysle’s face.  “Do your worst, you prat.”

Carlysle didn’t flinch.  He didn’t wipe the spit away.  He stared into Harry’s eyes and set his jaw.  “No, Mr. Innes.  I won’t do my worst.  I’ll do my best.  And by the time I’m finished, you’ll tell me where Cynthia is sure enough, but you’ll also spill every rancid little secret your mind has ever harbored.  And before you die—and you will die—you will be shocked to learn the depths to which you’ll sink to make the pain stop.  That’s a promise.”  He swiped a hand down his face and wiped it on Harry’s thigh.  “Shall we begin?”