Chapter 24 #2
I’ve never scrambled out of a chair so quickly. Good thing I’m still in the stolen hunter’s uniform, because these clothes will have to be burned. When I turn back to face him, those pale eyes are lit with wicked amusement.
“What’s your favorite?” I ask, regaining some composure.
“MFFM probably, but I’ll try anything once—”
“Movie, Deacon. What’s your favorite movie.”
He shrugs, running a broad hand down his too-small hunter’s jacket. “I like a lot of things.”
“You won’t give me one suggestion? I’m going to be holed up here for who knows how long.”
“I’m not going to be some STC film bro with his beanie and fake lenses, decreeing which movies are art.”
I stifle a laugh at the mental image. I’ve been hit on by far too many of those faux-intellectual trust-fund kids who moved to Babylon to live like real Asterans and wax poetic about the stuffiest films—
The realization hits me like a mallet: Deacon just made me laugh.
“I swear not to accuse you of mansplaining movies to me,” I say to recover from my shock. “Give me one of your fancy art-house recs.”
“La Douleur Exquise is pretty great. It’ll rip your heart out, though.”
“Noted.”
So much thought has been put into this space—the twinkling lights, the golden curtain tassels, the framed posters lining the walls. I don’t even care if he’s had sex in every chair. It’s magical in here.
And I don’t know why the question comes to me now, but I find myself asking, “Will this make things much harder for you?”
“Well, the Elders don’t come around here in the first place.”
“Because of the blood that you won’t tell me about. No wonder you made such a fuss about giving me a vial to do that spell to find Reid.”
“There’s nothing to tell, really. I go to Harker every once in a while to make a donation, and they allow me and my club carte blanche. I don’t ask for any more information. But knowing that my blood is useful to them…there’s a reason I don’t hand it out to anyone willy-nilly.”
“You aren’t worried they’re doing something sinister?”
The look on his face tells me I’ve momentarily forgotten who I’m talking to. “I’m not a worrier, and there’s no one more sinister than me.”
“I’m serious, Deacon.”
“What do you want me to say?” He sinks into the chair beside mine. “It’s been this way since I was building railroads nearly two hundred years ago. One of the Elders found me and paid me handsomely to drink from my veins. I needed the money then so I didn’t ask what for. Now here we are.”
“Fine.” Something to dig into later. “What about with Caspar?”
“Fever Dream is the last place he or Finn would look for you. Why would I harbor their syrabraxa, whom I cannot kill? And Caspar doesn’t want me as an enemy any more than I want him as one, which means mostly he stays out of my way.”
A shadow passes over his face and I remember the story Reid told me about the High Thane.
That he isn’t the deadliest one the deviants have ever knelt before, but rather the most cunning.
I’d be willing to bet Deacon could give Caspar a run for his money physically, even with the extra power sitting on the Throne of Bael offers him.
But that’s why Caspar holds that woman hostage.
To stop Deacon from ever rising up against him.
“I won’t be having his Brood over for business meetings in the near future, though,” Deacon adds. “That’s for sure.”
“It’s ironic…You were so offended when I suggested you might have been the High Thane. That first night we met, remember?”
Deacon’s eyes simmer on mine. “I do.”
“But you run a pretty similar operation to your uncle. You work criminally under a different name, while you own this successful Asteran business, and you have an entire crew of people that would follow you into hell.” The look of trust in Baz’s eyes earlier flashes in my mind.
The way Ward seems to have made Deacon his de facto alpha.
“And Caspar is sort of the same. Runs the Brood under an alias, has built himself up in Half City society, leads a band of loyal warriors…”
“The Brood isn’t loyal to my uncle. They’re loyal to the Throne of Bael and whoever sits upon it. They’re loyal to power.”
There’s a bitterness there. Something I want to press on, to see what else I can milk from the sore spot, but now isn’t the time. Not when he’s shown me kindness. Or the closest thing to kindness Deacon is capable of.
“They’re going to learn I’m here eventually.”
“And we’ll have rescued Odette by then.” His eyes hold a well of regret. Regret, and deadly resolve. “And I can kill them both.”
Instead of dwelling on what becomes of me in that scenario—when the syrabraxa has infested my mind enough that I’m able to dream of this woman I’ve never met—or what becomes of Reid if I find proof of life in the photos still bound in my back pocket, my mind is assaulted by something else entirely.
Who is this woman Deacon is so devoted to saving?
What does she look like? Beautiful, I’d imagine, like every woman I’ve seen him with.
But even more—what kind of person might she be, to earn the love of man incapable of such a feeling?
Because there’s no denying that’s what shone in his eyes last night in the Fickle Thicket. Undying, unyielding love.
“You have a photo of this Odette? So I can try to figure out what I’m supposed to be dreaming of?”
Deacon’s face creases a bit, something about even speaking of her bringing pain to the surface, but he fishes out his wallet just the same.
“This is all I have, but Baz is tracking down more.” He hands me a very yellowed piece of paper. It’s been folded into a square for so long the creases might as well be part of the composition. “No cameras back then.”
I study the image. It’s a sketch, charcoal I think, of a strikingly beautiful woman with light hair, sharp cheekbones, and large, cunning eyes.
“She’s beautiful.”
He remains silent, watching me study the image. And though he’s claimed all afternoon that this chess move won’t affect his position in this city, I have an unusual, snaking feeling in my stomach that somehow, keeping me safe will cost him.
“I’ll do the best I can. But I’m not sure seeing this will mean I can…” I try to find the words for what it feels like when I know Deacon or Finn or any other deviant is nearby. “Sense her.”
“I know. Try anyway?”
I nod. Because I will.
“Thanks,” he says on an exhale, standing from his seat.
“Thank you,” I say. “For taking us in.”
There are so many ways he could reply. He could remind me he isn’t doing any of this for me or Penny or Hound. He could make a crass joke or ask for something disgusting in return. He could criticize me or mock my sincerity. Perhaps I’d have done that to him.
But he just stares at me. Those blue eyes brighter than the skyline outside these walls. After a while, he says, “You’re welcome.”