6
—The Prophet’s Modern Translation of the Holy Book
“Answer the question.” Slade slams me against the wall again, this time with enough force that the breath hisses out of my lungs. He doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.
I drive the heel of my palm into his chest, sending him stumbling back. “Seems you already know exactly what it is.”
I’m not afraid of you, my stony expression tells him.
His says, You should be.
That earlier grin has become a veritable baring of teeth. Humorless. Dangerous. “I assure you,” he grinds out, “I am very familiar with the Markovich crest.”
Before I can react, he wrenches the pendant from my neck with a sharp snap. The sound of it clattering to the floor is too loud against the low, distant hum of the patrons next door, and I’m acutely aware that nobody would hear what happened in this room.
I raise my brows. “Really? That was childish, even for a man like you.”
“Be thankful I broke your necklace and not your neck.”
“You ought to know better than to threaten me.”
He makes a sound in his throat that might be a laugh but reminds me of nails scraping metal. “Do you truly think I fear Gabriel?” he asks softly, surprising me by using the Prophet’s given name. “What was your plan? To seduce me, then kill me? Did you really think it would be that easy?”
The series of questions throws me even more. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the one who found me.”
“Because you wanted me to, I expect.”
I can’t help my scoff. “Haven’t you heard? Egotism is a sin. I don’t have a clue who you are.”
“Deceit is a sin too,” Slade retorts.
I don’t know what he did to anger Gabriel so much that he thinks I’m here to kill him, but I don’t particularly care. Since there’s no way to prove him wrong without showing my hand, I go for the second-best option.
I do try to kill him.
He’s too close for me to shoot him with any degree of accuracy, so I opt for the knife in my coat. Killing with a blade is messy, but I’m adept at finding the crucial artery. If you do it right, fifteen seconds is all it takes for someone to go from shocked to unconscious to dead.
I can’t tell whether I hesitate or Slade moves too fast. Too fast for me to stab him, certainly, but also just too fast in general.
I can’t make sense of the way he twists his body out of my knife’s path.
His evasion spurs me on, though, and adrenaline dilutes the stab of unease from moments prior.
I no longer care who Slade is, or why he thinks I was sent to him.
I don’t care that I’d briefly known the feel of his lips on my skin, the heat of his breath at my ear.
This is what I’d needed. A chance to kill someone who deserves it. A fight with someone who will fight back. I’m not exceptionally skilled in combat, and my size puts me at a disadvantage, which is why I’m accustomed to fighting dirty.
Do what it takes, Gabriel told me once, shortly after I began working for him. Pick the maneuver that seems underhanded. Minimum effort, maximum impact.
“You really are a fool,” I growl at Slade, who now stands a handful of steps to my right. Mutinous heat has spread across my cheeks. “What makes you think the Prophet would spare someone like you a single thought?”
Slade’s chest rises, then falls. Too steady.
His stance radiates nonchalance, as if my attack barely lifted his heart rate.
His expression is as cold as his eyes. “Feigning ignorance, are we? It’s not the tactic I would have chosen.
Unfortunately, now that Gabriel knows of this place, I’m left with two options.
” He holds up his index and middle fingers.
“Burn it down”—he folds one of his fingers—“or kill you. And I’m not keen on destroying my investments, you understand. ”
Then he lunges.
It’s immediately, horribly clear that I’m going to lose this. All at once Slade pins me to the wall again, his grip bracketing the wrist of my dominant arm. I try to pull free, but he’s far too strong, and the knife dangles uselessly from my fingers. His other hand snaps to my throat.
“Get the fuck away from me,” I snarl, braced for him to cut off my airway, but he only traces a finger along the tendon at the side of my neck. My traitor flesh pebbles at his touch, yet this time I strain away from it. “Gabriel knows nothing of this place, okay? I came here of my own accord.”
Slade ignores me, his finger gliding to the top of my sternum. “A pity,” he murmurs, lips scarcely moving, and I know the words aren’t directed at me.
He’s already anticipating my death.
I hunch my shoulders, willing myself to appear cowed. Then, just as I feel his grip tighten, I knee him in the groin. It’s clear he didn’t anticipate the strike, and I spin to the side as he doubles over.
“You know what your problem is?” I push away from the wall, narrowing my eyes. “You’re overconfident.”
Slade recovers with a predatory shake of his head. “I have reason to be.”
“Does it get tiring, pretending to be such a smug fucking bastard?”
“No.” The reply comes whip-quick. “And for the record, I’m not pretending.”
I lash out with the knife again, intending to make a swift, clean cut at once through his carotid and jugular. He barely dodges it, coming away with a slash through the collar of his jacket and a small nick under his ear. A thin line of blood trickles a haphazard path onto his collarbone.
The blood is black, a strange sheen to it. Like oil slick.
The world screeches to a halt around me.
You will know a diabolist by their blood. My mother’s words suddenly echo in my mind. A warning, intended to frighten children into submission. Not human, but a creature of sin.
No. There’s no fucking way. Even as I watch the slow seep of onyx blood into the fabric of his shirt, I’m convinced there has to be another explanation.
Slade smiles. “Is there a problem?”
He’s goading me. He doubtless saw the shift in my face and knows what I’m thinking.
It can’t be true, and yet it all aligns. The inexplicable agility. The sense that he wears some veneer of humanity, and how I was drawn to him despite my better judgment. The way he’d asked, Is there nothing you’d like to share with me?
Had he wanted my confession? Had he known I was a sinner because he could sense it? It’s nothing short of absurd. But I’ve seen how others react to him—how even the bouncer was unnerved by his presence here, in this place he referred to as his investment.
All at once I know who he is. Worse, I know what he is.
I speak through my teeth. “I didn’t think your kind were real.”
Slade tilts his head, the artificial light gilding the curve of his neck. “And what do you think now?”
“I think the rumors about the Warden of the Trench being a diabolist are true, assuming we ignore the fact that you’re supposed to be extinct.”
The amusement on his face grows more pronounced. “Despite your Prophet’s claims to the contrary, his attempt to kill me didn’t quite take.”
“He tried to kill you?” I echo, right before the pieces fit into place. “Wait. Were you the last diabolist?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“So Gabriel is a liar.” A thrill ripples through me. I’d always suspected the story was bullshit, but now I have indubitable proof. Too bad that proof is probably three seconds away from murdering me.
“Of course he’s a liar,” Slade says scathingly, as if this should be obvious. “He always has been.”
My throat burns with more questions that I shove down. “I have no love for Gabriel—” I begin, but Slade flicks the words away.
“I’m not interested in your lies either. The only reason you’re not dead yet, little sinner, is that it would be a pity to kill you before you confessed to me. You see, I can always tell who the truly bad ones are. The ones who sin without remorse. I can taste it.”
I tense. Though I suspected as much, it’s worse to hear him say it—that he’s toying with me because he wants to feed.
I don’t know what that entails. I don’t know if the stories my mother told me are true.
I watch as Slade wipes at the blood on his neck, leaving a tar-like smear.
Fear and fury make my voice an incoherent snarl in my chest. I try to force it into sharp assertion, but it comes out hoarse and soft.
“You don’t know a damned thing about me. ”
But he’s right: I am one of the bad ones. I do whatever terrible deeds Gabriel assigns me and rarely feel guilty about it. I’m no longer sure if it’s inherent, that quality, or if I somehow conditioned myself to be that way. What I do know, though, is that I won’t submit to confession. I can’t.
His gaze tracks the minute changes in my face. Those unnerving eyes are inscrutable, like a calm pool of frigid water. Prime for drowning, and not in the metaphorical, peaceful way. No—drowning in Slade’s eyes, I suspect, would leave someone thrashing as they hurtled toward suffocation.
“Why do you think you caught my attention?” he asks, brushing a tendril of hair away from my face. His touch is delicate, like a hesitant lover’s, but I know it’s intended to terrorize. “Did you think it was purely physical? That I chose you because I thought you lovely to look at?”
The words are mocking, but his voice takes on a melodic quality. My throat constricts. I can feel it: the desire to tell him whatever he wants to hear. To give in. To speak of things I promised myself I would never, ever say aloud.
Yes. Yes, in my careless idiocy, that’s exactly what I’d thought. I was so caught up in my own manipulative plans that I hadn’t bothered wondering at his.
I drop my gaze, trying to avoid his allure, and focus instead on the ink that wraps around his throat.
In this light it’s impossible to tell what the design is.
The art disappears beneath the collar of his jacket, and a moronic part of me wonders what lies beneath.
What quotes and symbols might possibly hold enough meaning to a man like this, that he would ink them into his skin forever?
I swear I can feel my tongue beginning to loosen, and I clamp down on it. Absolutely not. My will, Gabriel always says, is the strongest thing about me. Far too many people have tried to break it, and none have yet succeeded. I am adamant that this man won’t either.
But perhaps I’ll let him think he can.
I draw my brows together in feigned confusion, relaxing my body in increments. Just enough for him to notice, but not enough for it to seem unnatural. I hope.
“That’s it,” the Warden—I refuse to think of him as Slade anymore, if that’s even his real name—croons, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
It isn’t a punitory action, but a featherlight touch, as if to reassure.
I have to give it to him; the act is convincing.
I wonder how many times he’s practiced it.
“I don’t…” I begin, then falter as if trying to hold the words in. The Warden leans forward, tucking my hair behind my ear and bringing his lips very, very close. Gooseflesh breaks out across my skin. I slide one of my hands into my unzipped jacket.
“Tell me all your terrible secrets,” he whispers.
For a clouded fraction of a second, I want to. I want to give him whatever he asks for and speak until my voice goes hoarse. I want to please him, to keep him close, and to know what he looks like when he smiles for real.
Instead, I shoot him.
The Warden hisses a breath through clenched teeth, a hand snapping to his stomach where the barrel of my gun hovers an inch from his shirt.
Blood spurts ink-dark from the wound, slicking his fingers as he attempts to stem the flow, but I keep my focus on his face.
Watch the way his nostrils flare and his jaw twitches as he fights to conceal his pain. His eyes are hardened steel.
I like it, watching him hurt. Knowing I fooled him, this man who fancies himself so powerful.
“Interesting,” I say. “Not invincible, then. Someone ought to make a note of that.”
His sharp exhale might be annoyance but could well be agony. He sinks to his knees, scrabbling at the place where the bullet entered his flesh. Blood drips onto the floor, black and viscous.
“Clever,” he grits out as I track a semicircle around his hunched form. “I’ll admit, I haven’t gotten that reaction before.”
“I’m sure it won’t be the last time.” I inch toward the door. “Some people aren’t fond of manipulation.”
I realize the irony even as I say it, but it’s too late. The Warden pauses, his shoulders quivering.
Then he throws back his head and laughs.
It shakes his whole body, and though the action makes him wince, he seems unable to help himself.
There’s a manic edge to the sound. He keeps his free hand braced against the floor, fingertips leaving bloody smears on the wood.
I’m momentarily frozen in bewilderment. My gun is still pointed at him, but if he notices, he doesn’t care.
As his amusement dies, he staggers to his feet, wiping his hands on his now-tattered shirt.
His lovely face is contorted in a rictus grin.
Impossibly, the blood has already stopped oozing from his abdomen.
He still looks uncomfortable, but he’s clearly no longer in pain.
With a final grunt, he flicks something to the ground.
It hits the wood with a soft metallic clink before rolling to a stop beside my boot. I recognize the tiny object at once.
It’s a bullet. A spent, blood-smeared bullet. That’s why he appeared so preoccupied with the wound at his core: He hadn’t simply been trying to stop the bleeding but had dug the projectile out of his flesh with his bare hands.
There’s no way he should be walking toward me, stiff and pale but otherwise unharmed. My shot should’ve punctured the major artery running through the digestive tract. He should be dying, or at the very least, bleeding a hell of a lot.
But the Warden only clicks his tongue. “Diabolists heal very quickly,” he advises me. “You might want to make a note of that.”
A thousand curses spring to my tongue, but I’m not sticking around to exchange barbs. Praying diabolists don’t regain mobility nearly as fast as their skin stitches back together, I launch myself out the door and run like hell itself is on my heels.
Though not before shooting him a second time, just to be sure.