Chapter 29 #2
When foreign arcana entered the body, the natural aether of the victim had a tendency to activate, acting almost like an immune system, attempting to expel what didn’t belong.
The effects were awful on a Resonant human, and crueler still on a well-trained Conduit such as Skielg.
The stronger your connection to your aether, the harder it fought to defend its host.
The effect was akin to being boiled alive. It was rather unpleasant.
“You know, I just don’t believe you,” I mused quietly, setting the parchment back down.
Our little discussion break was over.
“No. Mercy. Please, mercy—” Skielg begged, bloodshot eyes growing wide again as my hand hovered over the hilt of a dagger. “I’m tellin’ yous, I’ve never seen ’er—she’s not even ’is type!”
I arched a brow. “Whose type?”
Skielg swallowed hard, his lips thinning into a straight line before glancing back to my bloodied blades. I watched the gears turn in his head as the flesh trader finally seemed to realize that he’d been wrong. He had no protections here.
I was not so honor bound as men like him were led to believe, allowing them to sleep at night.
It was beginning to dawn on this pathetic excuse for a man that not only was he not leaving this cell any time soon, but after the confessions that had spilled from his foul mouth tonight, the likelihood of him leaving alive was slim to none.
But there are worse fates than death, and men like Skielg knew that all too well.
“My…My primary employer, sir. Main buyer, an’ all that. Big boss man don’t go for the younger things like that, ’e likes ’em a bit older, of a proper age, I swear—”
I scoffed. As if that would save him now.
“That so? And what else does the big boss man like, Selwyn? Give me details, and perhaps I’ll go easy on you. Give me a name, and maybe I’ll grant you some of that mercy you’re begging for.”
“Bit of everything,” Skielg panted, the mop of straw-colored hair plastered to his sweat-slick brow.
“So long as they’re of breedin’ range. But they pay me extra for certain girls, ya know?
The ones for ’is personal collection. Folks say it’s ’coz of his dead wife er some shit, but he pays real good for the older ones with long brown hair ’n pretty brown eyes. ”
Ice entered my veins as my fingers curled into fists.
“What. The fuck. Did you just say?”
“He likes…the ones with…” Skielg attempted to repeat himself, but the Shadows around his neck were writhing now, tendrils starting to force their way down his throat, taking my wrath and acting on their own accord. “Brown…hair…”
Flickers of imagery passed through my mind now, unbidden and entirely unwelcome in the desecrated darkness of this space.
Visions of her were sickening to recall within these blood-stained walls.
Memories of curls of chestnut and mahogany splayed against my sheets, of bare skin and freckles, of swooning sighs—
“Name the fucking buyer,” I snarled. “Now, Skielg.”
“Errikson,” Skielg wailed, growing panicked when a jagged blade met my palm once more. “Arturo Errikson, head of the stonemasons’ guild. Covers ’is tracks well, but I swear to ya, I swear it’s ’im.”
Again, that wouldn’t save him. I shoved my blade into the man’s guts, avoiding vital organs.
“How many?” I hissed.
“W-what?”
“How many of these specific women have you stolen from Sophrosyne, you disgusting son of a bitch?”
“Only jus’ started workin’ with Arturo this year. Ten, maybe twenty? Thirty at most.”
Thirty at most. Unlikely odds in a sea of thousands, and yet the mere chance she could’ve been a target of this vile fiend, this pathetic excuse for a man and his master…
Something primordial had awakened in my blood. A dark and ancient urge took hold of my hands before I even took my next breath. No matter how deep I tried to keep this power buried, the instinct was effortless.
Destroy him.
I ripped the dagger up and left, the serrated edge rending through his weak flesh with ease, tearing his insides to viscera and gore. The initial blow wouldn’t have been fatal, not if I was careful with the withdrawal.
I had no interest in being careful.
Agonized, choking, garbled wails poured from his throat as I let my Shadows act on their own volition, closing my eyes as sound gave way to silence.
The heavy, umbral iron door slammed shut behind me as I turned my back on the brutal scene and strode back into the dark corridor. As I passed my lieutenants, I grit my teeth and kept walking without another word. Hans attempted to trail from behind.
“No luck, then?” he asked. “Shall I call for Fen? Fetch us a cleric?
“Don’t bother,” I growled, fury still coating my vision in shades of blood and gore. “He’s already dead.”
“Shit. Alright, c’mon, Deering,” Jeremiah called from several paces behind. “Let’s get to work.”
This wasn’t the first time my lieutenants had to bury a body on my behalf, and it sure as shit wouldn’t be the last. But I needed to get the fuck out of here before I did something I’d regret, considering there were suspects remaining who still drew breath.
They called you in for Skielg. Your work is done.
“Wait,” I bit out as Hans began to turn, catching him by the shoulder. “Give me the book.”
In silent understanding, Hans reached into his coat and handed me the small, black leatherbound journal that only a few in our cadre knew existed. Fishing a pen from my own pocket, I furiously scratched out the details I’d discovered: a list of names and last known locations.
“Find them,” I demanded. “Find them all. Tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
I was still seething by the time I made it back to the townhouse, shucking off my blood-stained shirt, removing my belt, and kicking off my trousers the moment my front door slammed shut.
I left a gruesome trail of clothes behind me on my way to the bathing suite, in desperate need of hot water and a vigorous scrub-down.
I didn’t want any trace of that fucker left on my body, especially not if I wanted to see Arken tonight. I was supposed to have met her at her apartment over an hour ago.
Fuck.
Arken…
I hated—fucking hated—that the events of this afternoon had gotten under my skin like this, wyrming their way so deep that now her very name summoned nausea in my gut.
Some of that was due to what the flesh trader had revealed about Arturo and his preferences, yes. Most of it was due to the unbearable weight of my own self-loathing.
I killed a man today. I sent Skielg’s blackened soul into the Abyss without a second thought, yet again breaking my sworn oath to the Elder Guard, to Sophrosyne, and to the Convocation of the Nineteen.
While it was hardly the first time, nobody—save for Jeremiah and Hans—knew the details of the dark things I did from the Shadows in this city. I respected the Aetherborne’s authority, and would lay down my life in defense of most of their ideals…But some evils could not be suffered to survive.
Even High General Demitrovic and I were aligned in knowing that a lifelong sentence was far too kind for certain bastards—the rapists, the child abusers, the flesh traders of this world.
We knew that even rotting in a cell for the rest of their days, they were a mouth to be fed—an utter waste of resources better spent elsewhere.
And so my superior officers kept their backs turned on the details, but they knew.
They knew that somewhere in the Shadows, I was leaving a trail of bodies bleeding out, a feast for crows.
And the realm was made safer for it.
So no, this hadn’t been the first time I’d taken a life…but it had been a while.
If my memory served me, it had been well over a year now—and maybe that was what I was struggling to stomach.
It was the first time I had killed a criminal since meeting her.
Make no mistake, I had spilled plenty of blood.
Plenty of pain had still been dealt by my hand in the dark of night since entering Arken’s brilliant orbit, but as I’m sure even my lieutenants had noticed, I was calmer now, steadier since meeting her.
I was less erratic. Less prone to the violent outbursts that made our lives more difficult.
And there was another critical difference between this body and those I’d buried in the past…
I hadn’t killed Selwyn Skielg to protect Sophrosyne.
I had killed him to protect her.
Breaking your sworn oath to the gods in defense of getting your cock wet? Disgusting.
No. That voice didn’t belong to me. Fuck that. Arken was so much more than just some girl I’d been fucking senseless for a few days.
But what would she say if she knew what I had done?
Arken, a woman who valued life on a much deeper level than most and believed in the very best of humanity.
Arken, whose innocence and Light somehow managed to coexist with her darkness, whose expression of authenticity, vulnerability and joy was unlike anything I’d ever known?
Arken, who still somehow believed I was worthy of her time.
Because she didn’t know. I kept it well hidden.
Arken saw so much of me, more than any other—but she still didn’t know who, or what I really was.
She had no idea what manner of monster truly lurked beneath my skin, what fed on those Shadows that left her so transfixed.
I knew Arken had some semblance of an idea that my work took me to dark places—but I doubt she knew I was a butcher.
That I killed, and that I enjoyed it. She didn’t know why I enjoyed it, either. And she never would.
But I knew.
I had always known, from the very beginning, that Arken Asher was divinity, and I was damned.
If you were a better man, you would stay home tonight, I thought to myself, roughly rubbing myself down with a towel after stepping out of the tub, letting the bloodied water circle the drain.
If you were a better man, you’d give her some excuse.
You would stay away. You wouldn’t dare touch her with these filthy, blood-stained hands.
I was not a better man.
That much was obvious.