11 #2
“And you wanted that.”
Amusement plays at the edges of the Warden’s mouth. “I needed that. My behavior up until that point had been…unrestrained.”
“I remember,” I say without thinking. A rampage, people had called it. A diabolist on the loose, feeding indiscriminately and leaving a slew of confused citizens in his wake, each of them claiming to have seen the devil.
The Warden seems to enjoy this. He taps ash onto the floor, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I kept my end of the deal. Ensured that even those in the Trench didn’t know my true name. In the meantime, however, my brother was weaving quite a compelling mythos for himself.”
“And you just let him?”
“It made little difference to me. Besides, there was nothing to be done about it.”
“But he made everyone believe you really were the devil. He told them he killed you.”
“Infuriating? Perhaps.” The Warden shrugs.
“Laughable? Undoubtedly. For all intents and purposes, though, Slade Markovich was dead. Oh, I’ve retaliated plenty.
I made the Trench a haven for sinners. Offered every vice the Regiment had banned.
I knew it drove Gabriel mad. For the most part, I was content to be the villain. ”
“But something’s changed,” I say, undeterred.
“Very astute.”
“You’re trapped in a stalemate. You can’t kill Gabriel because he’s always surrounded by the Regiment’s protection, and he can’t kill you, because you’re… Well.” I make a circular gesture with one hand.
“A monster?” the Warden purrs.
“I was going to say difficult to trap.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“You and I can help each other,” I say. “You see it too, don’t you?”
I hold my breath as the Warden leans forward, steepling the tips of his fingers beneath his chin. Those unnervingly pale eyes glitter as he speaks around the cigarette. “What possible use could I have for someone like you?”
“We both want Gabriel dead.” I level my gaze at him, reholstering my gun in what I hope is a show of good faith. “And I know how to get to him.”
He laughs. Not quite as loudly as when I’d shot him, but in a way that’s breathy, genuine. It transforms his face, as if some taut cord within him has slackened. “Combining impiety and violence? You really are trouble, little sinner. I’m almost impressed.”
“It’s the truth.” I’ve been slowly approaching the bar as we talk, and I finally reach it, slamming a palm down to punctuate the last word.
My voice is a snarl. “I met Gabriel three years ago after my entire life burned to ash. He tore me from the wreckage, and I’ve been trapped ever since.
Do you know what it’s like to rely on Gabriel for everything?
To do his bidding, be his executioner, only to be rewarded with certain death?
You said it yourself—I’m a sinner. Nothing more. And I want out.”
The last few sentences are imbued with unconcealed aggression. I need the Warden to believe me. Need him to feel the forceful sincerity in my words.
He doesn’t seem affected by my speech. Rather, he looks disdainful, hooking a finger in the collar of his shirt and stretching his neck as he considers. “Not good enough.”
I’m dumbstruck. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t make deals based on feelings. They’re easily manipulated, you see.”
“I suppose you would know.”
He makes no attempt to deny it. When he speaks again, the words are cajoling. “What do you want, little sinner?”
“I just told you,” I grit out.
“No, no. I’m not asking about your immediate goal. What is it that you want?”
I’m not sure how to respond, particularly with those glittering eyes trapping me in place. What do I yearn for above all else? The answer comes easily: freedom from Gabriel. But it’s not the Prophet I’m truly running from, is it? It’s what he asks of me.
I understand, then, what the Warden is really asking.
“I want to live,” I say hoarsely. “I don’t want to keep sinning for Gabriel. I don’t want the Bloodrot to take my mind and my life. I just want to live.”
The Warden surveys me with some measure of satisfaction. I hate him, for drawing out my weakness when I have little choice but to reveal it. “Very good. Is that how you’ve managed to survive this long? Through sheer force of will?”
“I’ve survived this long because I’m not afraid to do whatever it takes.”
He takes another infuriatingly long drag from his cigarette. “Yes, well, that’s not a particularly unique trait. At least not in these parts.”
I’ve had enough—I snatch the cigarette from his fingers. He watches, expressionless, as I grind it into the floor with the toe of my shoe. When he looks up again, the light is behind him, carving hollows in his cheeks. He suddenly looks less like the devil and more like the undead.
“I don’t doubt that three years at Gabriel’s side is enough to make someone hate him,” the Warden says. “But it’s also enough to make them love him, the way a dog loves the master who collars it.”
“I do not love Gabriel.” I spit the words like I’m trying to expel them. “I want him dead, and I’m not foolish enough to think I can do it myself. I have information. I can take you to him. I know when and where he’ll be least protected.”
“And where’s that?”
“I’m not saying anything more until we have a deal.”
“Stubbornness doesn’t bode well for your presumed interest in staying alive.”
“If you kill me, you’ll have no idea where to go.” I glare at him, wishing I still held my gun. I have to believe the Warden doesn’t want to kill me. That I was right, and he sees me as some kind of challenge. That, if nothing else, he’ll keep me alive for his own personal entertainment.
Better not to think about what might happen when he gets bored.
“I won’t deny my intrigue.” He rises, and I back away from the bar, regretting it when he begins to pace slow circles around me. His proximity raises the hair on my arms. “However, I don’t make deals until I know a little more about the person making the proposition.”
“I’m not confessing to you.”
He shrugs. The circles grow smaller, bringing him ever closer. His movements are fluid, controlled. There’s no indication he was shot point-blank in the torso yesterday. “All right. Then no deal.”
I grind my teeth. The last thing I want is my tongue loosened in his presence. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, and I’ve done a great number of things that can be used against me. Still, I’ve managed to resist his allure before.
“Fine,” I hiss. “You can take my confession. Once. But only so I can prove I’m telling the truth. After that, so long as we’re working together, you don’t feed again. Do I make myself clear?”
The Warden draws to a smooth halt. “Crystal.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise, little sinner.”
“Stop calling me that.”
He’s less than two steps away from me now, and he lowers his voice. “But I do so love the way it brings your anger to the surface. It makes your draw that much stronger.”
“Just do it,” I grit. “The whole slow, seductive act is making me nauseous.”
“Forgive me for wanting to savor the moment.” He leans close and tucks a few loose hairs behind my ear, his fingers cool and careful. “Now, tell me something terrible.”
I barely hear his coaxing words, too focused on blocking him out.
His voice, I determine, is the most dangerous thing about him—you can’t help but want to comply with his orders.
I try to notice other details, like the intricate stitching on the front of his jacket or the fact that he smells vaguely herbal.
I’ve no clue how I find his scent appealing when he’s been chain-smoking.
Maybe it’s another of his diabolist tricks.
Another way to make you want to be near him.
“I’m not getting on my knees.” I aim for derision, but the rasp in my voice ruins the effect.
The Warden’s eyes flash. “You don’t need to. Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“I’ll have you on your knees eventually.”
That surprises a scoff out of me. “In your fucking dreams.”
“Let’s table the discussion until later. Now: something terrible, if you will.”