Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
W hen Draven said everywhere, he truly meant everywhere. It has been almost a week since he issued that command, and I honestly thought that he would be satisfied by now. That he would just do it for a day or two to prove a point. But Goddess was I wrong. Every day, he takes me with him when he goes out into the city to hunt for the Red Hand.
Torchlight dances over the dark wooden walls of the tavern we’re in. The people who are renting rooms in the adjacent corridor quickly disappeared into them the moment that four dragon shifters in black armor stepped across the threshold. But the humans who were just here to eat or drink weren’t as lucky. Most of them are cowering down in their seats, trying not to draw attention to themselves while Galen, Draven’s former best friend who appears to still be his second-in-command, tortures a man at the bar.
I wince as another scream shatters from the human man’s throat.
“Who is the Red Hand?” Galen demands, his voice hard.
The man clenches his teeth.
Two steps away, Draven is leaning nonchalantly against the bar while he watches the brutal interrogation. Galen flicks a glance at him, to which Draven responds with a nod.
Galen twists the man’s arm higher up. The guy screams, bending forward where he is kneeling on the floor, and shifts his body to try to relieve the pain that the unnatural angle of his arm is causing.
Averting my eyes, I wince again as another raw cry of agony rips from his throat. The other people in the tavern cower deeper into their chairs while a few of them cast desperate glances towards the door. But the other two soldiers that Draven brought are standing on either side of the door, preventing them all from leaving.
“Who is the Red Hand?” Galen demands again.
“He’s the leader of the resistance,” the man gasps out at last.
Snapping my gaze back to him, I blink in surprise. That’s news to me. I knew that the Red Hand was an important part of the resistance, but I didn’t realize that he was the actual leader.
“We know that,” Galen replies, still keeping the man’s arm bent at an unnatural angle. “But who is he?”
“I don’t know!”
“Here’s the thing.” He nods towards Draven. “He won’t let me stop until you give us the Red Hand’s name. And I do what he says.” He twists the man’s arm farther back. “So give me what I want.”
Another cry of pain, followed by a whimper, spills from his throat as he trembles on the floor. “Please. I don’t know his name. I don’t know who he is. No one does.”
A sudden realization hits me like a fucking lightning strike.
I know who the Red Hand is.
Hector.
Based on the way Kath and the other humans reacted when he walked through the door, he is their leader. And this man just confirmed that the Red Hand is the leader of the resistance. Which means that Hector is the Red Hand.
Oh by Mabona. Draven is out here torturing people in order to get them to tell him who the Red Hand really is. People who truly don’t know the Red Hand’s identity. If he only knew that the person who sleeps in his bed every night is the one who has the coveted answer to his question.
Determination pulses through me. No matter what happens, I have to take that secret with me to the grave. I have to keep the Red Hand safe so that we can have a shot at toppling the Iceheart Dynasty.
Another scream echoes between the dark wooden walls.
“Please,” the man gasps. “Please, I’m begging you. I’m telling the truth.”
Draven just watches him with merciless eyes for another few seconds. Then he flicks his wrist. Galen immediately releases the man’s arm and takes a step back. Soft whimpering comes from the human as he moves his arm back into its proper place.
After studying him for another moment, Draven slides his gaze over the rest of the tavern.
Clothes rustle and gasps ripple through the room as everyone shrinks back.
But Draven just pushes off from the bar and straightens.
“Move out,” he says to his soldiers, who nod and immediately start towards the door. Draven shifts his gaze to me and jerks his chin. “Selena.”
I flick another glance towards the man, who remains kneeling on the floor, while Draven stalks out the door. Guilt twists my heart. If I had told Draven what I knew, I could have ended this man’s suffering. In fact, I could prevent a lot of suffering for all the humans. But it would only be temporary. The work that the Red Hand and the resistance are doing is too important.
Tearing my gaze from the man on the floor, I start towards the door as well. But I only make it one step before someone grabs my arm. My stomach lurches as the sudden pull on my arm makes me stumble into the table next to me.
“Act like you just tripped,” a woman with short brown hair hisses in my ear. “This whole tavern is full of idealistic idiots, and I don’t want them to know that I gave this to you.” With one hand still on my arm, she uses the other to press a paper into my palm. “Give this to Commander Ryat. This is what the Red Hand looks like.”
My eyes widen in shock, and I flick a glance down at the folded-up piece of paper in my hand before I meet the woman’s gaze again.
Her brown eyes are serious as she holds my gaze. “Tell him that not all humans support the Red Hand. I despise him. His actions only bring trouble for the human communities.”
Before I can figure out how to reply to that, she releases me and pushes me away from the table, as if she’s annoyed that I tripped into her.
“Watch where you’re going,” she snarls, very convincingly, at me.
I quickly stuff the paper into my pocket and then hurry out the door.
Outside, I find Draven arguing with his soldiers. Or rather, with Galen. The other two dragon shifters look like they would rather be anywhere but here at this particular moment.
While Draven is otherwise occupied, I drift over to a cluster of barrels as if I just want to lean against them while I wait. But once I get there, I shift my body so that I’m standing at a better angle. And then I yank out the piece of paper that the woman gave me and flip it open.
My heart jerks when I find a hand-drawn sketch of a tall and muscular man. Just like Hector. In the sketch he is wearing nondescript gray clothes and a hood pulled up over his head. And on his face, hiding his features from view, is a red mask. It’s shaped like a snarling devil. The illustration might not show any of Hector’s facial features, but the height and build it shows, combined with this very distinctive mask, is incriminating enough.
Behind me, Draven continues arguing with Galen. My heart slams against my ribs as I crumple the paper in my hand again so that it won’t be visible. I can’t remain with my back to Draven for too long, or he will get suspicious.
So with the note hidden in my hand, I turn and lean against the barrels like I was pretending to do from the beginning.
Guilt and worry and indecision twist inside my chest again as I watch the street before me.
Humans and dragon shifters are moving up and down the cobblestones. Most of them walk with purpose, as if they have somewhere to be. But almost all humans cast looks full of wariness and poison at Draven and his soldiers.
Red light from the setting sun slants down over the buildings, painting them the color of blood. The torch that has been stuck to the barrel next to me crackles as a late afternoon wind sweeps down the street.
My mind drifts back to the man inside the tavern behind me. And then to all the humans out here who hurry past Draven and his clan members. More of them are going to get hurt. As long as Draven can’t find the Red Hand, he is going to take it out on these people.
I’ve seen it these past few days. Seen the ruthlessness and the brutality that he and the other dragon shifters inflict on the humans in their mad search for the Red Hand.
And I could put an end to it.
If I give Draven this drawing and tell him that Hector is the Red Hand, I can prevent further suffering. But the cost of that would be devastating. It would cripple the human resistance and destroy any chance they have of overthrowing the Icehearts.
Those tangled thoughts drag up that infuriating instinct that I thought I had already buried. I want people to like me. Secretly, I want all of these humans to look at me like a hero. I want the recognition that I never received in the Seelie Court. The recognition I never received no matter how much I did for the fae rebellion there. I want the other fae resistance members to admit that they were wrong. To tell me that they should have trusted me. That they should have let me help before.
But in my heart, I know that it’s a ridiculous and utterly selfish wish. It doesn’t matter if people like me. It just matters that we win.
So while I keep my eyes on the humans who will now suffer because of me, I move my hand to the torch right next to me.
And then I burn the drawing of the Red Hand to ash.
“Selena, let’s go.”
Startled out of my thoughts, I tear my gaze away from the humans moving up and down the street and instead turn towards Draven. Galen and the other two soldiers are striding away, along the road that leads farther into the city, while Draven is facing the street that leads back to the Ice Palace.
Discreetly moving my hand behind my back, I let the remaining flakes of ash fall to the ground while I push off from the barrels and straighten. Draven, whose dark brows are drawn down in a scowl, appears to be too frustrated after his argument with his soldiers to notice what I did. After flexing his hand, he rakes it through his hair while impatiently waiting for me to reach his side.
Almost before I’ve closed the final distance, he starts off down the road. I jog a few steps to catch up before I can fall into step beside him. Whatever the argument was about, he’s apparently not happy about it, because he just stalks forward in silence without even looking at me.
At first, I plan to just let him be. But the farther along the street we walk, the more exasperated and angry I become as well. Because at almost every public building we pass, I see dragon shifters harassing and interrogating humans in an unnecessarily harsh manner.
“You could stop this, you know,” I grind out eventually, and flick a hand towards the cruel behavior around us.
Draven gives me a look from the corner of his eye. “Why would I?”
“Because it’s wrong. You know it’s wrong.”
“No, actually, I don’t. Because it serves my goal.”
“These people are innocent! You know that. They don’t deserve to be treated like?—”
My words are cut off by a gasp as Draven suddenly grabs me and pulls me into a darkened alley. Only the deserted and very narrow pathway observes us as he pushes me up against the rough stone wall and plants his palms on the wall on either side of my head, caging me in.
“Let’s get something straight.” His eyes burn through my very soul as he locks them on me. “I am not a hero. I don’t care about other people. I only care about getting what I want.”
Drawing in an unsteady breath, I just stare up at him in silence while my heart beats hard against my ribs. Because I can tell that he means every word of that.
He nods towards the mouth of the alley, where on the other side, dragon shifters continue to brutally interrogate humans. “These injustices that you want me to stop? I encourage them. Because they serve my goal.”
“To finally take down the Red Hand?” I let out a mocking scoff. “Did he really bruise your ego that much when he beat you last time?”
“It’s not about my ego.”
“Really? Then why are you taking it out on the civilian population like some kind of bully who got his own pants pulled down?”
“Because I don’t care who gets hurt, as long as it serves my goals. This world is cruel and unfair. And if you’re too kind and too trusting and too empathetic, people will only take advantage of you.”
His words hit me like a knife to the gut. Because deep down, deep in the hidden corners of my soul that I try to hide from everyone, I know that he is right. All my life, I have done everything I can to please the people around me. And all anyone has ever done is to use me because of it. I have drained myself, sacrificed everything that I wanted, to make everyone else happy and to help them achieve their goals. But it didn’t make the world better. It just made me miserable.
Draven takes one hand off the wall and brushes gentle fingers over my cheek, pushing a stray lock of hair away from it and hooking it behind my ear instead. The soft touch sends a ripple down my spine.
“So I don’t wring my hands about collateral damage,” he says as he holds my gaze with those intense eyes of his. “I take what I want from this world. And God help anyone who stands in my way.”
My heart pounds in my chest. I know that I should be outraged. That I should berate him for his lack of morals and his complete disregard for other people. But deep inside those hidden corners of my soul, I find myself desperately craving that kind of ruthless conviction for myself. I have spent my life living for other people. What would it be like to only live for myself? To do only what I want? To take what I want from this world and to hell with everyone else?
However, I can never voice those dark and forbidden thoughts out loud. And the fact that I even have them makes me panic. Makes me feel horrified and angry with myself. So instead of admitting that I might actually understand the desperate desire that Draven has just explained, I decide to hit back.
“You don’t care about anyone else, huh?” I challenge.
He flashes me a sharp smile. “No.”
“Then why did you try to save me ?”
That ruthless expression on his face falters for just one single second. But since I was watching him so closely, I saw it. And he knows that I saw it. A muscle flickers in his jaw.
Holding his gaze, I stare up at him. Waiting for him to finally explain why he cares about my safety. Daring him to tell me.
But just like before, he gives me no answer.