Chapter 18
Ezra stared at the cross nailed to the wall of his room. He hated that fucking cross, the serene judgement from a wooden face. He judged himself harshly enough—he didn’t need a carved idol to help.
He always knew his past would come back to haunt him, especially once Jem locked him up with a death witch.
It was exhausting, spending his life constantly on guard.
Jokes and the innuendo were easiest—they were his safe space.
While Analise was scowling at those, there was no chance he’d have to experience the moment when she realised who he was.
He’d shown her the man he wanted her to see, the man he wanted her to like. Ezra Tarrenfire, boxer, gangster’s lackey. If he’d shown her Ezra Ives straight away …
But that wasn’t who he was anymore either.
Ezra felt like some fantastical chimaera-like creature, and sometimes, even he couldn’t tell which parts of him were truth and which were fiction.
He felt like Icarus, flying too close to the sun, about to be swallowed by the blinding light of the truth of himself.
It came out anyway, like he always knew it would.
He didn’t expect how much it hurt to see such hatred on Analise’s face. It was a different sort of pain from the one he experienced in the ring, the pain he actively sought and used to steady him.
This pain tore his guts out. It was a slap in the face, an I-told-you-so for allowing himself to feel. It had gotten him nowhere and would possibly get him a knife in the back. If he could punch himself in the face, he would.
The further he was from people at the moment, the better. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Analise’s face, and if not hers, it was the shadowed face of the honey-voiced man from his dreams. Agnes was beating at the back of his brain more than ever.
Ezra twisted himself in knots trying to see this demon mark on his shoulder, convinced Lira was full of shit, but when he’d managed to angle himself in front of the mirror in the right way, there it was.
The skin was raised, like it was branded into him, and he had no memory of what happened for it to be there.
Only fools made deals with the Devil, and he wasn’t a fool.
Lira knocked on his door earlier, telling him again that he was not to leave the club and neither was Analise. She’d put her hands on her slim hips and given him such a Jem-like glare that if he hadn’t known they were related, he’d have been able to guess.
‘Look after her,’ she’d said, her gentle voice not matching her face.
Ezra laughed, unable to help it.
Lira’s expression had shifted, caught halfway between sympathy and irritation. ‘You will have to give her time.’
‘Why aren’t you angry with me?’ he’d asked. ‘She’s your friend.’
‘Because I’m aware things aren’t always as cut and dry as they seem, Ezra.
I’m not interested in what you did in the past. I’m interested in what you could do in the future, but I guess the question is—are you?
Or are you going to wallow in your self-pity for the rest of your life?
Because I’m pretty sure that’s all you’ve been doing for the last twelve months. ’
‘I thought you said you weren’t angry.’
‘I know what you’ve been through, Ezra.’
‘You really don’t,’ he’d mumbled.
‘One time stands out to me, from when we were kids. You’d lost your parents, your home, but instead of falling into a hole, you picked yourself up and moved forward.
’ She’d paused, giving him a measured look as she leant in his doorway, smoke curling from the cigarette between her fingers. ‘Or did my brother drag you along?’
‘Maybe,’ Ezra admitted, ‘in the beginning, but it was my choice to accept his help.’
‘Are you going to accept it now, as well?’
That was two days ago, and apart from that horrible interaction with Analise, Ezra hadn’t spoken to anyone, which meant he’d had a lot of time to think. The Gendarme provided him with security, and a sense of belonging. Finding out he could see magic had been an accident.
There’d been a woman—young, not much older than him at the time—lingering on a street corner.
There was nothing remarkable about her; mousy brown hair, eyes downcast, skin sallow, like most people in the Credges.
Yet, when Ezra passed her, he’d seen a flicker in the corner of his eye, and doubled back, curious.
He leant against the wall of the nearest building and watched as a fine mist rose from her skin.
It was silver, and it curled around her protectively.
The woman met his eyes, then turned and fled.
He followed her, watching that mist trail from her skin.
He never lost her, even in the crowd, her magic a beacon that pulsed in time with his heart beat.
She’d rounded a corner, trying to lose him, and found herself running straight into the arms of the Unseen. They’d been tracking her.
As she’d been dragged off, one of the men, Izellan, looked at Ezra curiously.
‘Were you following her?’
Ezra nodded, unsure of whether to tell Izellan what he’d seen.
The man seemed to know it anyway, and Ezra found himself, much like the witch had been, swept up by the Unseen.
He thought about her occasionally, the first witch he’d accidentally tracked.
One witch became two, and then ten, more, until Ezra lost count.
No one he’d worked with ever questioned why they could do what they could.
They accepted it, enjoyed the skills that set them above everyone else, and Ezra had as well.
It fed his arrogance, the desire to prove himself, and he made it his mission to catch more witches than anyone else, to see justice done.
He was protecting people, after all. His father would have been proud.
But then, Ezra started to see their faces in his sleep. The accusation in their eyes haunted him. They always asked why.
Questions grew like weeds, and Ezra had no one to give him answers.
Where did his talent come from? Why was he different from the rest of his colleagues?
On the street one day, he spied the woman who used to visit his mother.
She was older, her hair greying, but she was covered in the unmistakable colour of magic.
He’d intended on letting her go, but the Unseen didn’t work alone, and once his partner picked up her trail as well, there was nothing Ezra could do but watch as the woman was captured, her face pushed into the stones. Her name was Agnes.
He never saw her again.
That morning, Ezra lost his taste for what he did.
The questions that lurked in his head led him to his old neighbourhood, but people there had nothing to tell him.
They led him to the Credges when he was supposed to be asleep, where he’d pick up the trail of a death witch.
None of them would talk to him either, not even when he told them they were safe.
It was too late. His name was known, his presence was known, even if his face was not.
There was something about him that gave him away, some predation in the way he moved.
But even if one of them had chosen to speak to him, what would he have told her? I have this talent for hunting your kind, and I’m not sure where it comes from, can you help me? It was laughable.
That was the first time he smoked opium. Those women’s faces were in his head, and he couldn’t get them to leave. They haunted him like ghosts, and he stumbled into a den near the docks in the Credges in the hope of forgetting, if only for a night.
The only person in his life who realised something was wrong was Jem, and it was Jem who told him, when Ezra mumbled some lie about not knowing his mother’s family, where he might find an answer—the convent. The Church kept records of every birth, death, and marriage in the city.
He was looking for Agnes. He remembered she’d brought him sweets when he was very young.
She’d kneel on the floor where he was playing by the warmth of the stove and stare into his face curiously, like she was looking for something.
Her eyes were kind, Ezra recalled. And later, to repay that kindness, he did nothing as she was dragged away.
A little over a year ago, Ezra found himself standing outside the doors of the convent.
Flexing his Gendarme muscle, he’d been allowed to see the city records without question.
He had a story ready, but the nun who’d let him in asked for no explanation.
She led him to the chapel, to the small, sun-kissed room at the back, and to the leather-bound tome that held thousands upon thousands of names.
Ezra glanced at the cross on the wall again, and the figure pinned to it.
He guessed that man was supposed to be God, but how did anyone know what God looked like?
The wooden man with his flowing hair watched him.
Ezra watched him back, wondering, if there was truly a god, what he was thinking right now.
Maybe he, like Ezra, was thinking about the myriad of ways he’d managed to fuck everything up.
Ezra gave God another scowl.
He didn’t talk about Agnes to anyone, not even Jem, because how could he truly explain it?
How could he expect someone else to be able to relate?
Sometimes, after a night in Maddog’s boxing ring with his heart pounding and his blood on fire, Ezra wasn’t sure if his life with the Gendarme was real or not.
It felt like a chapter out of place with the rest of his story.
He could almost convince himself he was content with busted fists and an aching body.
In that eerie, otherworldly moment before dawn, where he’d been riding the high of a victory, the events of the night before blended with the day that was to come, leaving him strangely suspended between two equally bleak realities.
That day in the convent, he wrote a name on a piece of paper, even though he knew he’d never forget it, and it was the only tangible thing he took from that unassuming room at the back of the chapel.
He’d taken much more than that, though. The weight of thoughts that tried to drown him, over and over, crashing over his head and pulling him under.
The guilt. The regret and the loathing that he’d not been able to shake.
He heard the voice of the Mother Superior in his head. She’d appeared in the doorway of the chapel, and he’d blurted the whole story to her, needing to unburden himself.
‘What happened to Agnes Sutton was not your fault,’ she’d told him. ‘What could you have done about it, Ezra?’
Ezra looked up at the cross again.
‘She was my family. As far as I’m concerned, it was my fault.’