Chapter 26 #2
“I—” She starts to speak, then stops. “Maybe we should give up on this, Elliot.”
“No.”
“Elliot, I’m serious.”
“So am I,” I snap, yanking a shirt over my head. “If you think I’m letting you ruin your life over a piece of shit like Oliver St. Grey, you don’t know me at all.”
She quiets, and I lace my shoes before standing at the end of the bed.
“Come here,” I say
She scoots forward, kneeling on the edge and wrapping her arms around me as I take her face in my hands and smooth out the frown in her brow.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say. “I promise.”
She nods, and I kiss her because it turns out I was right. It does make her feel better.
***
They place me in my usual room.
A dark, five-by-five, brick box. No windows, one door, and an old cot in the corner.
I take a seat at the small wooden table in the center, claiming the aged chair with the X carved in the left arm from the last time I sat in it.
Might as well make myself comfortable. I know the drill by now.
They’ll leave me to sit and stew for a while.
Eventually, an inquisitor will come in, dressed in an impossibly tight pair of pants with a file the size of my head and say something droll.
They’ll then sit down, pretend to take a moment to organize their thoughts, and hum suspiciously while I wait, presumably with bated breath. All for the sake of wearing you down.
I use the other chair to prop up my feet while I wait.
I would use the cot, but I’m pretty sure the oblong orange stain was here the first time I was in this room. I’ll take my chances with the chair.
I don’t count the time as it passes. That only makes it worse. Instead, I close my eyes and focus on the one thing that’s going to keep me sane for the next few hours.
Her soft, brown skin. Thick, two-toned lips. The little cluster of freckles on her nose.
Years of watching her, and I’ve memorized every inch, to the point her image solidifies until I can almost hear her calling my name. But the moment is disrupted as the heavy metal door creaks on rusty hinges.
“Good evening, Mr. Cross. My name is Inquisitor Almar. I will be conducting your inquiry today. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
The inquisitor greets me as is standard, though I can already hear the presumption in his voice, as I shake my head.
I remove my feet from the chair, but I do not greet him in return.
“I see it’s been a while,” he says, settling. “I have to admit, I’m not surprised to see you here. However, I did anticipate a more speedy return. Guess that dampener has some utility after all.”
I say nothing as he shuffles his papers aimlessly, humming in disappointment at various pages.
When he’s ready, he leans back in his seat with a small smile on his face.
“I’d like to talk about Serena,” he says.
My dampener constricts at the sound of her name, killing my air supply until I cannot swallow, but I refrain from prying at it.
“I’d rather not,” I choke out, slowly.
The inquisitor nods.
“Yeah, I expected as much. Unfortunately, this is not about what you want.”
He straightens as he rifles through the folder in front of him and produces a small stack of photos.
He slides them across the table, face down.
When I do not reach for them, he turns them over for me, but I do not look.
I have seen them all before. At least a hundred times.
I could describe them with my eyes closed.
Down to the funny shade of blue in her lips.
“What happened here, Mr. Cross?”
“If you want to know what happened, you can read it in my file. I won’t repeat it again.”
Almar shrugs.
“Okay,” he says. “Fair enough.”
He pulls a page from the file and begins to read aloud.
“Fifteen claw marks. Three to the victim’s chest and back. Five to the legs and torso. And several more along the arms.”
I stop listening.
It’s been almost five years since I heard those words for the first time. I was pretty out of it then, but they aren’t the kind of words you forget.
Almar continues.
“Victim found fifty yards from the Crescent pack line. Witnesses describe the attacker as a wild animal.”
He stops, straightens the little stack of papers, and tucks them back in the folder to glare at me expectantly.
Unfortunately, whatever he’s expecting, he shall be disappointed.
“Wow, you’re reading really well. Good for you.”
Almar’s teeth grind audibly, and he shuts the folder with a dull slap.
“Is there anything you’d like to add to that summary, Mr. Cross?”
“It’s been well established that I was hexed that night. It’s all there in my file.”
“Yes, I’m aware of what the file says.” He drums his fingers across the stack. “But perhaps you can tell me what about this seems so familiar.”
He produces a new stack of photos and sets them beside the images of Serena.
These ones I have not seen before. Although I am familiar with the subject.
Oliver St. Grey lies bloated and cold in the patch of grass where I put him. His arms and legs are splayed out like a star, as I arranged, and the claw mark I’d carved into his neck glistens in the light of the flash, concealing Iris’s teeth marks just as intended.
It is perfect if I do say so myself. If not for one problem.
Someone has torn Oliver St. Grey to ribbons.
“Hells,” I mutter, cringing. “That’s disgusting,” I mutter.
“Have you seen this image before?”
I shake my head, though I don’t have to lie. This image is nothing like what I saw that night.
When I left the forest, Grey, although dead and maimed, was in one piece. The man in these pictures is not.
Claw marks run along every inch. From shoulder to wrist and hip to heel. So deep, whoever did it struck bone. The blood from his wounds is pooling in the grass, and there are dark lines burned into his arms and legs, like shadows that never faded.
I have not seen these images before. But, to Inquisitor Almar’s point, I have seen images like them. In comparison to Serena, they are shockingly similar.
Fuck me.
“I didn’t do that,” I say flatly, sliding the photos back across the table.
“I did not say you did.”
He leaves the images on the table to haunt his inquisition.
“Tell me what you were doing the night Grey died,” he demands.
I shrug.
“I already made my statement. I was upstairs all night with my girlfriend.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
“You know what’s funny?” Almar frowns. “People keep saying that.”
“We’re not exactly a subtle pair,” I say.
His brows lift, and he leans forward, almost excited.
“I’ll say. This would be the same girlfriend with a habit of leaving men lying around campus half-drained, correct?”
I chuckle at the thought of Iris leaving a trail of bodies behind her. She does tend to let them lie where they fall.
“That’s my girl,” I proclaim, feeling oddly satisfied as I claim her out loud.
“She has quite the record herself. You must be very proud.”
I smile, flashing my canines.
“What can I say? She’s a woman after my own heart.”
Almar does not find my praises amusing. In fact, I can smell the rage crawling up his throat. It makes its way out in the form of a single question.
“Did you take your dampener off that night?” he asks, fist resting on the table.
My smile widens.
“No.”
“And your girlfriend will corroborate that? Since you were together ‘all night.’”
“She will.”
I know she will.
Almar watches me a moment, deciding if this exercise is worth it. But, given what comes next, we both know this is nothing more than a formality.
“Okay,” he says finally, pushing back from the table and gathering his papers. “We’ll see about that.”
“I’m sure we will.”
He leaves with the same air of hostility with which he entered, swinging the door open wide and slamming it shut behind him.
I go back to lounging in the chair while I wait.
This time, there is a knock at the door before it opens.
“Come on in,” I call.
The metal creaks as my next guest takes their time, and I stand to hold the door open as they enter.
“Young Cross,” he says, his usual formal greeting.
“Hey, Tree.”
He turns on me, hands stuffed in his tweed jacket, fiddling with the watch in his pocket.
“That is all I am to receive?” he asks. “‘Hey, Tree?’”
I correct myself.
“Hello, Treehorn.”
He pats my hand before continuing to the table, where I pull out his chair as he takes a seat, his short legs a few inches from touching the floor.
“I thought we had an agreement,” Tree sighs. “When you started at the store, you said that this would not happen again.”
He waves his hand around the room to sum up our current circumstances, and I hang my head, unable to meet his gaze.
“We did,” I say. “But, I swear, Tree, I didn’t do anything. Honest.”
His hazy eyes inspect me, power penetrating as he tries to decipher the truth of my words. When he cannot find them for himself, he simply asks, “Then why are we here?”
I know why I’m here. Iris needed me.
Simple.
But I can’t say that to Tree. His role as watcher to the inquisition means he is sworn to honor the truth in whatever report he gives. He may care about me, but even his favor cannot escape a sworn promise.
“Some things are worth it,” I say.
“You may feel otherwise after this.”
I won’t. My decision was made that night in the grove. I would not let her become like me. I refused.
Tree drags the chair into the center of the room and commands me to sit. I don’t need any further instruction. I remember the first time like it was yesterday.
I was nervous then. Terrified of what he might find. I was certain he’d report that the inqury have me dismembered at their earliest convenience. Or perhaps confined to my cage for all eternity. In fact, I think they would have, if not for Tree.
I lean down in my chair, bringing my face in range of his short arms, and he settles his hands on my cheeks as we lock eyes.
“I didn’t do it,” I say. “You’ll see.”
Tree nods, and his eyes slide shut.
“Yes, let’s hope you didn’t. Otherwise, you’ll be out of a job, and my store will go back to being a mess.”
I chuckle, though I know I shouldn’t find it funny, and he pats my cheek, silencing me.
Tree’s readings are not jarring by any means.
In many ways, they are less intrusive than Dred’s mind weave.
It is difficult to feel Tree as he weeds through you, unlike Dred, who you can almost feel prying you apart.
Tree’s power feels more like the sensation of eyes on the back of your head.
Like you know, you’re being watched, but you can’t exactly tell from where or by whom.
I sit quietly as he examines me, and when he’s finished, he steps away, storing his hands back in his coat pockets.
“Curious,” he mutters, frowning. “The girl. She means a great deal to you.”
I nod, though he did not ask.
“Yes.”
“But you do not love her,” he says.
Again, it is not a question, but a statement of known fact. But even so, I can’t bring myself to affirm it aloud. To do so feels like quitting, like giving up on her. And I’m not ready to do that. Even though it is true. I do not love her.
“You sacrifice a great deal in her name,” Tree says when I do not answer. “Why?”
“Because I want to.”
“That is rather circular, my boy.”
“No, Tree, you misunderstand. I sacrifice for her because, more than anything, I want to love her.”
My head bows, ears ringing as the dampener threatens to smother me.
“I would love her,” I declare. “If I were capable of it.”