22 #3
“Diabolist though he may be, Emeric subscribes to the theory of the Savior’s plan.
The idea that Savior and nature are one and the same, and everything—everyone—has its role.
” Slade’s mouth twists wryly. “And you’re correct: I don’t agree.
I’ve seen enough chaos that I don’t believe in careful design.
Nature is full of randomness. I think it more likely that we’re some fucked-up mutation. ”
I know what he means. His worldview doesn’t differ much from my own. “How can Emeric believe—”
“You’ll have to ask him about it. I’m not much for philosophizing.
You asked if I truly left to protect him and Ceri, and the answer is yes.
It wasn’t safe for me to stay. After Ceri joined us, and once she and Emeric became a couple, I knew I had to go.
Three diabolists in one area is dangerous.
Especially when one of those diabolists is me. ”
“Because you risk being recognized by those who’ve confessed before,” I say, remembering what Ceri told me.
“That, and you risk drawing the attention of the Regiment. Once I heard the rumors of my rampage, I knew Gabriel was looking for me. I didn’t want to lead him to my friends.”
“Would they have been killed?”
Slade inclines his chin. “Quietly, but yes. Without a doubt.”
I think of Gabriel’s plan to kill Slade and wonder what method he plans to use. Whether it’ll be done quietly. The walls of my throat seem to tighten. “But you decided not to explain this to Emeric and Ceri before you left.”
Slade’s face hardens. “Emeric would have tried to stop me. Better that they knew nothing if the Regiment came sniffing around. Diabolists look like regular people until someone sees us in action, and unless the Regiment had some reason to be interested in Emeric and Ceri, I knew they would be fine. Me, though—I was a liability.”
I’m momentarily silent. I can’t reconcile such a selfless act with the man before me. “That really was the only reason, then.”
Slade tilts his head, a smirk lifting one cheek. “Is it so hard to believe I could care for someone apart from myself?”
“Yes,” I say, recalcitrant. “Why come here at all? Why tell Ceri and Emeric about our plan? If you were worried about putting them in danger before, I can’t imagine now is any better.”
I track Slade’s movements as he crosses to the nearby dresser, picking up a decorative candlestick and turning it over it in hands. He’s looking at it, not me, when he finally answers.
“This time my brother isn’t searching for me. This time, no matter what happens, he can’t use the full force of the Regiment to retaliate.”
“Because you’re supposed to be dead.”
“Right. There’s a reason I want Emeric’s advice and not his direct involvement.” Slade sets the candlestick down. “Of course, if this all goes wrong, I can’t risk you crawling back to Gabriel with my friends’ names in your mouth.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Ah, little sinner. I think we both know you’d do anything to save yourself.”
I draw my knees up to my chest, perching on the edge of the bed like a small child. “So this is your game, is it? We succeed in killing Gabriel, and you make me a diabolist.” So he claims, anyway. “We fail, and you kill me instead.”
“What other choice do I have?”
“Is that what you were thinking about on the train? Ending my life?”
Slade’s smile holds malice. “I think we both know that’s not what I was thinking about.”
Damn him for turning me on after admitting his intentions to murder me. And what the hell is wrong with me, that I’ve allowed it to happen?
The worst part is that I understand him. If our roles were reversed, I’d make the same choice.
“You think you can do it?” I ask as I rise from the bed. “Kill me, I mean.”
He watches me approach. “Of course I do. You seem to keep mistaking me for a man who cares.”
“You care about Emeric and Ceri,” I point out.
“That’s different.”
I shrug. “Whatever you say.”
I’m standing directly before him now, the full extent of the Bloodrot’s effects displayed in the dim orange light.
It’s an effort to keep my chin high, my gaze lifted, but I let him look.
And he does—his face is unreadable as he scans my legs, my waist, the unimpressive swell of my chest. His pulse flutters in his throat.
Then, as if guided by instinct, he touches me.
His lips part as he trails a finger along the curve of my collarbone, no doubt tracing one of the Bloodrot’s lightning-strike paths.
He might as well have wrenched aside my sternum and reached between my ribs to squeeze the air from my very lungs.
Nobody has ever touched me like this. With pure, unconcerned interest. I’ve bared myself to people before, and the most I’ve dared hope for is indifference.
The absence of disgust. Other sinners are willing to overlook the Bloodrot, of course, but none have ever made a point of touching it, let alone with appreciation.
As if I’m something miraculous, rather than tainted.
“Why won’t you confess to me?” he murmurs.
“Because I don’t want to.”
“I bet I could make you.”
“I’m sure you could.” My voice is placid. “But you won’t.”
He drops his hand, making a sound in his throat that might be a chuckle. “Always testing me, aren’t you, little sinner?”
Instead of answering, I step over to the door, pointedly wrenching it open. I can still feel his phantom touch along my clavicle. Our eyes lock, and Slade grins again. This time, I think, it’s a promise.
“Good night,” I tell him as he passes me.
His only response is a mocking salute, and then he’s swallowed by the dark.