Chapter 32 #2
“The system isn’t perfect, Annie. Never has been.” He leaned back against the counter. “Sometimes justice and rules don’t align. That’s something I learned a long time ago.”
I nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. “So when the Alliance called you last night...”
“I made a choice,” he said simply. “Just like Cipher did.”
Just like I had, when I’d kissed Cipher. When I’d pressed myself against him knowing exactly what he was capable of.
“I’ve spent my entire life trying to be perfect,” I whispered.
“And exhausting yourself in the process.” Havoc’s voice was gentle. “It’s okay not to be perfect all the time.”
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I admitted.
Havoc’s smile was sad but knowing. “You’re still Annie. You’re just discovering there’s more to Annie than rules and order.”
There was a soft ding as the elevator doors slid open and Simmons appeared, pushing a cart with a single black box on it. A purple rose sat on top.
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my ankles.
“A package arrived for you this morning, Ms. Bishop,” Simmons announced. “We’ve scanned it thoroughly, of course,” Simmons continued, wheeling the cart closer. “It passed all security checks.Though it seems peculiar nonetheless.”
Leave it to Simmons to describe a potential death trap as “peculiar.” The man would probably call a nuclear explosion “a bit of a bother.”
“Is there a card?” Havoc asked.
“I know who it’s from,” I said, shaking my head.
Simmons cleared his throat. “Would you like to open it, or shall I dispose of it for you?”
What I should do versus what I wanted to do warred in my head. The proper response would be to have it incinerated immediately. The curious, rule-breaking Annie who’d emerged lately wanted to tear into it like a kid on Christmas.
“It’s fine. I’ll open it.”
Simmons nodded. “Very well.”
I approached the box cautiously, half-expecting it to start ticking. The black wrapping paper was matte and expensive-looking. I lifted the rose and, just like the last one I’d received, the stem had no thorns, they’d been carefully removed.
I pulled the black ribbon that tied the package closed and the sides of the box fell away because of course they did. Cipher couldn’t just send a normal package like a normal psychopath.
I staggered backward, my hand flying to my mouth.
Baron Ash’s hands. Just sitting there. Perfectly preserved.
They were positioned palms up on a gleaming black base, encased in glass. The detail was horrifying. Every callus, every scar, every filed-to-a-point fingernail captured in grotesque perfection.
“Holy shit,” I choked out, spinning away from the display as my mouth flooded with saliva, my body’s helpful way of saying “I’m about to redecorate this kitchen floor with your breakfast.”
My brain flashed back to the tunnels, to those same fingers digging into my skin, the weight of them, the smell of damp earth and fear. Now they were just meat behind glass.
Havoc let out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush, while Simmons merely sniffed with disapproval.
“I must point out,” Simmons said, “that this delivery violates no fewer than seven municipal codes regarding the transport of human remains, as well as the Tower’s explicit policy against receiving body parts through the mail system.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I muttered, swallowing convulsively.
I saw Havoc lean closer to the hands out of the corner of my eye. “The preservation work is quite remarkable. Look at the attention to detail in the musculature.”
I whirled around. “Are you seriously admiring the craftsmanship right now?”
Havoc had the decency to look slightly abashed. “Professional curiosity.”
“Indeed,” Simmons agreed, bending at the waist to examine the display. “The artisan has demonstrated exceptional skill. The glass appears to be museum-grade UV-resistant bulletproof material.” He gave it a tap. “One rarely sees such quality in impromptu trophies.”
Great. I was surrounded by connoisseurs of dismemberment art.
“There’s a card,” Simmons noted, delicately extracting a small black envelope tucked beneath the base.
My stomach lurched again. Because apparently severed hands weren’t enough, Cipher had included a note.
I took the note from Simmons with trembling fingers, half-expecting it to be written in blood. The envelope was thick, expensive paper. The card inside was simple black with silver lettering that caught the light as I unfolded it.
These hands will never touch you again. No one’s will.
—C
I stared at the words, reading them over and over. They were a twisted, horrifying, oddly touching promise.
I tried to look back at the hands, but my stomach performed another flip. I spun around, taking a deep breath that was 90% “please don’t vomit on Havoc’s imported kitchen tiles” and 10% actual oxygen.
Behind me, Havoc and Simmons continued their macabre appraisal.
“The preservation technique suggests cryogenic flash-freezing before the application of a polymer coating,” Simmons observed.
“Could you both please stop discussing those things like they’re a fancy wine?” I interrupted, my voice higher than usual. “They’re hands. Actual human hands. That used to be attached to an actual human.”
“A human who hurt you,” Havoc reminded me.
“I’m aware,” I said, waving the note. “Cipher made that point abundantly clear.”
Simmons cleared his throat. “Would you like me to arrange for proper disposal, Ms. Bishop?”
I hesitated. The proper answer was yes. The sane answer was yes. The answer that wouldn’t make me look like I needed a psychological evaluation was definitely yes.
“No. I’ll take care of it.”
Both men stared at me.
“What?” I challenged. “It’s evidence.” Evidence of what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. Evidence that I’d somehow stumbled into a relationship with a man who thought dismembered body parts made appropriate gifts? Evidence that despite everything, some twisted part of me was touched by the gesture?
God, I needed therapy. Lots and lots of therapy.
“Actually, Ms. Bishop,” Simmons corrected, “these are considered legal spoils of battle. According to League regulation 34.7, section B, paragraph 12, ‘Any Villain who defeats another in sanctioned combat resulting in death may claim reasonable trophies from the deceased.’ Baron Ash’s hands would fall under that provision.
” He adjusted his cuffs. “They cannot be used as evidence of anything.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “You’re telling me there’s an actual rule about keeping body parts as trophies?”
“Yes. The provision was added in 1982 after the unfortunate incident with the Collector.”
Of course, there was a rule. There was always a rule. Just never one I expected to apply to my love life. Wait. Not love life. Arrangement. Our no-strings-attached, purely physical arrangement that now apparently included severed hands as gifts.
Havoc ran a hand through his hair. “Couldn’t he just send you flowers like a normal person?”
“He did send a flower,” Simmons pointed out.
“Oh, well that makes it all better then,” I muttered.
“Ms. Bishop,” Simmons said. “There appears to be additional text on the reverse side of the card.”
I flipped it over with the enthusiasm of someone checking to see if the milk that smelled funny was actually expired.
Trophy rules, section 34.7.
I stared at the neat silver script, then burst into laughter. Not the cute, bubbly kind that might charm people at parties, but the kind that makes strangers on the subway move to a different car.
Of course he’d cite the exact rule. Heaven forbid Cipher send me dismembered body parts without proper documentation of their legality. What if I’d worried about breaking regulations while displaying my new hand collection? What a thoughtful psychopath.
“Annie?” Havoc’s concerned voice barely penetrated my hysteria.
The laughter died in my throat as suddenly as it had erupted.
Despite everything, the hands, the murder spree, the whole deranged situation, something warm unfurled in my chest. He knew me.
Knew I’d immediately question whether this macabre gift violated some regulation.
Knew I’d need reassurance that even in this, there were rules to follow.
It was, in its own twisted way, oddly touching.
I waved both men off, backing away from the grotesque display. “I can’t handle this right now.”
The hands seemed to be watching me. Which was ridiculous because hands don’t have eyes, but still. I could feel them there, a silent reminder of exactly what Cipher was capable of. What he’d done for me.
“Simmons, could you store these for me?” I asked. “Just until I figure out what to do with them.”
Like what? Put them on my mantel? Use them as bookends?
“Of course.” Simmons carefully replaced the sides of the box.
I nodded, already heading for the elevator. “I need to go.”
“Annie—” Havoc started.
“I need to not be around the hands,” I said, jabbing the elevator button repeatedly. “I need to think. Somewhere without dismembered body parts as décor.”
The doors slid open and I threw myself inside.
“I need normal,” I whispered as the doors closed, cutting off the sight of Havoc’s concerned face and Simmons wheeling away my gruesome gift.
Normal. As if I even remembered what that was anymore.