12
“Many believe diabolists are demons given human form. Others suspect they were once regular people cursed for their transgressions against the Savior. Older translations of the holy book claim the very first diabolist was an apostle of the Savior whose transgressions could not be forgiven.”
For a split second I’m astonished enough that I stop struggling.
“You are not taking me to your house.” The sentence feels strange in my mouth; I can’t reconcile what I know of the Warden with the concept of a home. For some reason I’d pictured him as a nomad flitting from street to street in the Trench, never sleeping, always on the hunt.
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, as though I’m the one being absurd. “If you’ll recall, we just decided to kill my brother together. You can’t go back to wherever it is you were living. If Gabriel suspects you’re plotting against him, he’ll have you killed within the week.”
“I’m a good liar,” I protest.
“No,” the Warden says calmly. “You’re not.”
I grind my teeth. If only he knew. “Surely Gabriel will be more suspicious if I disappear.”
“You don’t need to worry about him while you’re with me. In any case, I like to keep a close eye on those with whom I’m doing business.”
“I would hardly say our arrangement counts as business. It’s murder.”
He cuts me a sideways glance. “Doesn’t that form the basis of your entire occupation? My brother points the gun, and you pull the trigger?”
I glare at him. “I’ll stay in the Trench, then, somewhere nearby. That’s as close as you’re going to get me.”
“Ah, little sinner.” The words are dangerously soft, and his grip on my arm turns almost painful. “When I make a deal, I set the parameters. You’ll be exactly where I want you.”
My stomach flips over. This is one of the many ways in which the two brothers differ: Gabriel wants you to want to please him.
He allows room for the illusion of choice even when there is none.
Though he expects his orders to be followed, he wants first and foremost to be liked and respected.
The Warden, meanwhile, doesn’t care whether you want to appease him—only that you do.
Whatever. The Warden is the foolish one for inviting me in. His home will teach me about him. Give me a better understanding of who he is and what he cares about.
He obviously isn’t inclined to engage in further conversation as he leads me deeper into the Trench.
Decrepit buildings rise around us, the bricks blackened with age, the windows dark and clouded.
It smells like smoke; the kind that lingers in the wake of a long-dead fire.
We pass what I assume is a pile of discarded concrete blocks—that is, until I catch sight of a cracked torso, its head laying a few paces away beside a square pedestal. Once a statue of the Savior, no doubt.
Every so often a car trundles by, circular headlights blinding and rusted metal grille flashing beneath the moon.
If the Warden is worried about being spotted, he gives no indication of it, though he visibly relaxes as we approach an abandoned plaza.
It’s set amid what might once have been a commercial space, if the storefront-like architecture around the perimeter is any indication.
I vaguely know the story of how the Trench came to be: First the wealthy moved out of the area, settling at a higher altitude once the surrounding forest was cleared.
Businesses followed shortly after, and the working class had little choice but to do the same.
The Trench became a place for the downtrodden and those who couldn’t afford to leave. For a time, anarchy reigned.
Then, about five years ago, the Warden came.
A powerful, unseen presence who brought with him some semblance of order.
Businesses returned, but this time they belonged to criminals.
Bars and brothels flourished. Sinners roamed the streets.
The Trench became a bustling underworld of sorts, all of it overseen by the Warden.
There was disorder, but never too much. After all, he was known for his rules, fucked-up though his moral framework might be.
Any shady business dealings or unwarranted violence invoked his wrath.
That was enough of a deterrent, because the rumor has always been this: Nobody who learns the Warden’s identity lives to tell the tale.
A shiver ripples through me, and I become hyperaware of the hand at my elbow.
I can hardly fathom that the man beside me is the subject of so much fear.
He’s so…young. Intimidating in a sense, I suppose, but otherwise relatively unassuming.
I can’t let myself be swayed by anything he says or does.
His handsome face is a weapon. His mouth is made to shape lies.
“Here,” the Warden says brusquely, leading me through the plaza and toward a large fountain.
It’s empty save for a thin layer of brownish sludge, and in the center an expressionless stone woman upends a large pot.
Once I suspect water might have spilled forth from it, but now the woman appears locked in her ineffectual task.
It takes me a moment to realize the fountain isn’t what he’s indicating.
Beneath a narrow stone arch just beyond it, a path leads up to an enormous brick house.
Time has turned the exterior walls more gray than russet, and foliage creeps across them in dark tendrils.
Worn stone forms pillars at the front of the house and carves accents around the multitude of windows.
The grounds are terribly overgrown, grass and weeds creeping up to knee height, but I find this doesn’t surprise me.
I can’t picture the Warden keeping a gardener, and he doesn’t strike me as the type to care what the neighbors think.
Which, incidentally, there are none. It’s an insular spot of quiet chaos.
“This part of the Trench is still abandoned,” I say. “Why?”
The Warden’s hand slips down to my hip, maneuvering me so that I’m walking in front of him. I stiffen, and he notices, bringing us both to a halt. I turn to find his face mere inches from mine.
For a heartbeat, I’m speechless—or maybe he is. His shrewd gaze manages to evoke both heat and ice, and his grip on my waist tightens. To my dismay, his proximity has one hell of an effect on my body. I press my thighs more firmly together. From the look on his face, I think he notices.
“That’s what I want,” he murmurs, a fiendish lilt to his mouth.
I disentangle myself none too gently. “Excuse me?”
“You asked why this part of the Trench remains abandoned. It’s because I want it that way. What did you think I was referring to?”
“How should I know? Half of what you say is nonsensical.” I keep walking—of my own accord, this time—as I follow the narrow path leading up to the house. “How did you do it? Take control of the Trench, I mean.”
“Ah. A combination of my persuasive nature and money. My family was very well-off, you see, and my father died when I was very young. I hardly knew him. Once I pried my inheritance from my mother’s hands, I had more funds than I knew what to do with.”
At the Warden’s mention of his family, I remember what Gabriel told me about their mother. “Is that why you killed her? For the money?”
We’re nearing the steps leading up to the house, but I don’t get the chance to ascend them. The Warden yanks me around so that we’re face-to-face once more, his movements whip-quick, his expression lethal.
“Is that what my brother told you?” he demands. Ice crystallizes in his voice, making my skin crawl.
“Gabriel didn’t tell me why you did it.” I don’t miss his lack of denial.
“Does the reason matter?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“Because,” the Warden says sardonically, “if someone can kill the first person to ever love them, then surely there is no sin they would not commit.”
“Are you quoting the holy book at me, or is that a fact?”
I frame the question as a joke, but it isn’t.
Not really. I was forced to read the book enough times to remember the quote about how killing a parent is one of the worst ways the sin of violence can manifest. This applies twofold to matricide—how could you harm the woman who gave you the gift of life?
I never liked those lessons. Respect should be earned, I decided as I got older, and not a matter of blood. Not every mother made life feel like a gift. Some delivered you kicking and screaming into hell on earth.
I don’t know what the Warden’s mother was like, of course. But if her two sons are any indication, I suspect she was all kinds of fucked-up.
“Both,” is the Warden’s eventual reply. “No more questions.”
“Did she deserve it?”
A pause follows. Emotions I can’t decipher flicker across the Warden’s face, resentment foremost among them. “Yes. Yes, she deserved it. Is that all you wanted to know?”
“For now. Thank you for your indulgence, Sir Warden.”
He scoffs at my mocking tone. “I told you my name. Use it.”
“You don’t use mine.”
The look he gives me is so withering, it’s a miracle I don’t turn to dust. “Call me by my name, Talin.”
I don’t dignify that with a response as he guides me up the crumbling steps to the front door.
Just as with Tuonela’s, it’s unlocked, and I find myself hurled into the past. The Warden’s house is nearly as sparse as Gabriel’s, though considerably more dated.
Where the Prophet’s home always struck me as a pointed choice in pursuit of minimalism, this place is…
strange. There’s no other descriptor for it.
What little furniture the Warden owns is placed in seemingly random locations, as if by someone who has never actually used a room before.
The grand front foyer is barren, but I can see into the room adjacent where a single chair sits in the middle of the space.
A dining table is shoved up against the wall, evidently not in use.
There isn’t a stitch of color to be seen.
A long hallway stretches away from the door, shadows coagulating in such a way that I can’t see where it leads.
The house must be even bigger than it looked from outside.
“Is this where you bring all your victims?” My question fills the foyer as I rotate, taking it in. I’m not sure my offhand tone succeeds at concealing my unease.
Slade shuts the door behind us. The snick of the latch echoes ominously through the space. “Only the luckiest ones.”
“Why is it so…?”
“Empty?” he supplies.
“Sure.”
“I don’t spend much time in this wing of the house. This is how it was when I moved in.”
“Who lived here before you?”
He tsks several times. “I told you to stop asking questions.”
For some reason, the way he says that—so nonchalantly, and yet with blatant avoidance—has me wondering if he killed the previous occupants.
“You’re such a—”
He holds up a finger. Although his expression remains mild, the action is a warning. “Do you really want to finish that thought?”
I’m about to retort that yes, I fully intend to, but my attention locks on his hand as he folds his forefinger back down.
There are words there, inked along the side toward the webbing that separates his thumb joint.
Ad respirandum est pati, the scrawled letters declare, and though I recognize an ancient language when I see it, I don’t know enough to translate.
He clears his throat pointedly, indicating the stairwell. “Let’s get you upstairs and to bed. You were unsteady on your feet the whole way here.”
“I was not,” I argue, then realize my error: I’m still meant to be in a post-confession haze.
Luckily, the Warden appears unperturbed.
I let him walk behind me as I climb the stairs, all too aware of his proximity, feeling the press of his attention on the back of my neck.
If I did stumble on the walk here, it was only because I’d been trying to angle my body as far from his as possible.
He ushers me into a room at the end of the hall. It’s twice the size of my entire apartment, and nicely furnished, which is perplexing after what I saw of the main floor. A deep-burgundy quilt covers the large bed, and everything smells vaguely of cleaning solution.
“Were you expecting me?” I ask, my voice dry. If not me, then someone.
The Warden is contoured by the shadows in the doorframe, the singular obstacle between me and the hallway.
I feel suddenly, indubitably trapped. He’s undone his jacket, and I’m struck by a vivid memory of the way he looked after I shot him.
How dried blood crusted the front of his shirt, black as onyx.
How it sluiced between his fingers like melted tar.
It isn’t lost on me that I remain virtually untouched despite it all.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says. “All the bedrooms are like this.”
“Do you have…staff?”
“Of course not. I know how to clean.”
“How domestic of you.” I trail my fingertips over the quilt. “Does everyone get this kind of hospitality, or am I your prisoner here?”
One corner of that damnably perfect mouth quirks. The look he gives me says what he doesn’t need to: that I’m foolish if I have to ask. “Gaining my trust is not so easily done.”
Cold spreads down my neck into my limbs. Have I flown one cage only to be trapped in another? “I left the Prophet to come find you. How is that not enough?”
“Ah, but that only makes me trust you less. You claim to have been loyal to Gabriel, yet you changed allegiances so easily.” He arches a brow.
“I respect it, and yet I know better than to think you won’t do the same to me.
So you see, this is not a partnership. You were my brother’s creature, and now”—the Warden backs out of the room, that devious half smile still ghosting his features—“you are mine.”
The door slams in his wake, leaving me in absolute silence.