8 #2
“I’ve been sitting with the instructions I gave you for much of the last twenty-four hours,” he continues finally, haltingly.
“I appealed to the Savior for guidance. And yet, that I felt the need to reflect so deeply in the first place should have been answer enough. You may have damned your soul, but that doesn’t make you unworthy of some consideration. ”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say.
Gabriel either doesn’t notice my wry tone or ignores it.
“I know how you feel about the Solemn Apostles, even if I don’t quite understand it.
I see how the mere mention of them draws out your aggression—as it’s doing now,” he adds, and I make a concerted effort to relax my face.
“There was no reason for me to involve you in the assignment. I only thought you would be better equipped to deal with the Trench, since you tend to be more…discreet.”
I’m not sure that’s true. Yannick and Darva are meant to be ghosts, just as I am.
Rather than feeling mollified by Gabriel’s speech, I tense further.
He’s never factored my past into assignments before.
Never so much as considered how anything he asks me to do might affect me.
As far as he’s concerned, I’m a tool. A hell-bound girl with the disposition of an attack dog who can’t help but take orders from the man holding her leash.
Undeterred by my lack of response, Gabriel goes on.
“You no longer need to be involved. Yannick and Darva can handle any of my concerns relating to the Apostles—or whatever group might be posing as them. It’s not cause to flee.
” He scrutinizes me. “Unless you discovered something of note? Something that upset you?”
“I don’t get upset,” I tell him flatly. At least not where he can see, and not in the way he seems to be implying. “I went into the Trench just like you asked, but I didn’t learn anything about the Apostles.”
“What is it, then, that makes you feel you need to leave?”
Apprehension grips me, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Gabriel always seems to be able to wrangle the truth out of me, but this time I know I can’t give it to him. “I saw what awaits me if the Bloodrot spreads any farther. It made me realize I need to move on.”
“You’ve always known what awaits you,” he counters. “You’ve seen it before.”
“This time was different.”
There’s a long beat of silence. A strange look clouds Gabriel’s face, and his incisive gaze narrows. “You met him.”
He offers no clarification, but I don’t require it. There’s only one person he could be talking about. My lips part as I try to force words through my dry mouth. “I don’t—”
“The Warden,” Gabriel asserts. “You crossed paths with the Warden of the Trench.”
It’s not a question. He has me cornered. Even now, with me standing and him seated, I feel at a disadvantage. “I didn’t mean to. I thought the Warden was nothing more than a story—that is, until he tried to kill me. He’s certain to try again, which is why I have to go.”
Gabriel’s expression doesn’t soften. “You would leave Valestadt before you came to me for help?”
“Even the Regiment can’t control the Warden. That’s what everyone says, right?”
“It’s complicated,” he allows. “I must admit, I’m surprised. I would have thought you’d try to fight before you ran.”
“There’s no point,” I say hotly, all at once feeling defensive. “It’s not like he can be beaten.”
Gabriel’s perpetual facade of calm has melted away, leaving him stark and cold. It’s a version of the Prophet I rarely see. When he speaks, his voice is whip-harsh. “So you know what he is.”
Too late, I realize what he’s doing. This conversation is a game. A way for Gabriel to gauge what I know.
And I’ve stepped right into the trap.
“You don’t only fear the Warden, do you?” Gabriel murmurs. Behind him, the stoic Regiment agent advances. “You also fancy yourself in danger from me. Because he told you what he is, and you understood what it meant.”
I inhale through my nose, forcing myself to think clearly. There’s no point denying it. “He’s a diabolist. The one you were meant to have killed before you became the Prophet.”
Gabriel seems to consider his reply, gripping the chair’s armrest in an uncommon display of tension. “Yes, the Warden is a diabolist. Yes, he lived when he ought to have died.” A pause. “The Regiment was losing support. People were afraid. I gave them a common enemy, and then I destroyed it.”
“Except that you didn’t,” I whisper. “The reason you never contracted the Bloodrot is because you never killed anyone, did you? It was all a ruse. But the Regiment backed your story and let people believe what they wanted to believe.”
“As I said, it’s complicated.” Each syllable is terse, too harsh in the mouth of a man who usually speaks in honeyed words. It’s a warning I can’t quite bring myself to heed.
“Was the Warden truly the last diabolist, or was that another lie?” I step forward and grip the back of the chair facing Gabriel’s, if only to do something with my shaking hands. “And since you know where he is, why is he still at large?”
Gabriel is silent for a beat. When he finally answers, his voice is calm once more. “The Regiment and I believed the Warden dead for a short while. When I discovered that wasn’t the case, I offered him a deal: He could willfully banish himself to the Trench, and I would leave him in peace.”
“And he accepted.”
“Yes. I thought he would be clever enough to lie low—I never expected him to build an empire, so to speak. By the time rumors of the Warden surfaced, trapping him was…difficult. We couldn’t draw him out into the open.”
“Because then everyone would know you had lied.”
Gabriel ignores this. “The Warden has his group of devoted loyalists, and he always sees us coming. His power lies in his ability to manipulate others.”
The same could be said about the man before me now. At the same time, I recall the pull of the Warden’s influence. My desire to speak truth in the presence of his disconcertingly lovely face.
“That power, though, is not a gift,” Gabriel continues.
“It’s a curse. The Warden turned his back on the Savior long ago, and what remains is evil and madness.
Provoking him could compromise everything I’ve fought to build.
And what I’ve built helps people, Talin.
They need a Prophet, don’t you see? They need hope. Unification. A sense of safety.”
I fight to keep my expression placid. Gabriel might be a hypocrite of the highest degree, but I understand what he’s saying. His logic makes sense.
It just also makes me sick.
“What about the people in the Trench?” I ask. “Aren’t you worried about them?”
Gabriel crosses his legs, seeming to relax now that we’re not speaking of the Warden directly.
“No. The way Valestadt is divided, at least the sinners and criminals are grouped together. If we tried to clean up the Trench, forcing them to spread out, they’d infiltrate the city.
All of that sin.” He shudders. “Since the Bloodrot is rampant in those parts, its occupants will be dead soon enough.”
I give a jerky nod, not trusting myself to reply. Why had I expected him to care about sinners? The Regiment excels at not giving a fuck about anyone they don’t consider worth saving.
“The Warden knows I work for you.” I’m keen to change the subject before my fury boils over. “He saw the pendant and thought you sent me after him.”
Gabriel stills. “But he let you get away nonetheless.”
“I escaped.”
“No. If he wanted you dead, you would be. Everything the Warden does is calculated. He allowed you to leave—likely as a way to send me a warning. A message that he can take what belongs to me, should he so choose.”
This revelation doesn’t please me. “Surely he’s better off avoiding you and the Regiment as much as possible.”
Gabriel glances at the door. Toward the agent still tensed mid-approach, then back to me. He releases a delicate sigh, the lines of his mouth tightening.
That’s when the pieces finally click together. Why Slade struck me as so familiar, with his angular face and cold blue eyes. A few shades lighter than I’m accustomed to, perhaps, but recognizable nonetheless.
Because they were Gabriel’s eyes.
The absurdity of it all is too great. I take an unsteady step back, gripped by the sudden urge to laugh. If I wasn’t fucked before, I certainly am now.
“The Warden is your brother.”