32
“How did he destroy the last of the diabolists? The event is shrouded in mystery, though there are those who claim to have seen a great light blaze forth in the sky on the night it occurred. Of one thing everyone is certain: When the last diabolist fell, the Prophet had the Savior at his back.”
I sit there, in the shadows, watching people walk to and from the reception.
It feels right, somehow. I’m accustomed to this: being a cautious spectator. Watching things happen without really being a part of them. And in truth, I don’t want to be part of them. I’m not like these people, with their buttoned-up jackets and demeanors. I’m not even like their hired sinners.
Or maybe I am, and I just don’t want to acknowledge it. Maybe handing my reins to the Prophet himself makes me the worst of them all.
I hate that I’m worried about tomorrow. I hate that I’m worried not only about losing my chance to escape the Bloodrot, but about Slade himself. If he fails—if he dies—then my hopes of becoming a diabolist die with him.
The prospect of his death nauseates me. I shouldn’t care about Slade outside the context of what he can offer me. He’s just a man, and I’m a woman who knows better than to listen to her foolish heart.
I’m dragged from my thoughts by the sound of light footfalls behind me, and I straighten, reaching for my concealed knife.
The glow of the lanterns doesn’t stretch this far, but I can make out a tall silhouette as it approaches me.
My blade is in my hand, my heart in my throat.
I narrow my eyes only to relax a moment later.
Because I know that silhouette—though I can’t fathom why or how Slade is returning from that direction.
“Where the hell were you?” I demand as he nears.
“Hello, my lamb.”
The sound of the pet name snatches the breath from my lungs. The voice is soft, familiar. Not so much a greeting as a declaration. I oscillate between relief and horror and am still reeling when Gabriel finally reaches me.
The Prophet looks so like Slade with his dark suit and darker hair. Every line of his face is as handsome as I remember, the details etched in the forefront of my mind. He’s alone, unprotected, unconcerned. One side of his mouth lifts to form a shape that isn’t quite a smile.
Perhaps I should be afraid. I’m not though.
Not right now, when it’s only the two of us beneath the moonlit sky.
Perhaps he should be afraid. After all, I’m here to see him killed, whether he knows it or not.
I could do it now, if I moved fast enough.
Could put my knife through his chest the way I did Vanya’s and watch the light leave his eyes.
But only a short distance away, the courtyard is filled with people who would die before they let harm come to their prophet.
Any gray-clad agent would gladly bear the Bloodrot at the cost of taking my life.
That, and I can only assume Gabriel’s own guard is somewhere nearby, watching.
Listening. Perhaps I’m the target of an unseen gun, a finger poised over the trigger in anticipation of my making the wrong move.
“Gabriel,” I rasp. I can only imagine how chaotic I must look, my dress torn and my hair escaping from its knot. The bruising on my face and the blood that coats my hands and arms.
Although he must notice every detail, Gabriel doesn’t ask what happened. The way he’s looking at me though…it’s a look I’ve never seen before.
The moment stretches between us, and I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where to start.
A small eternity passes before Gabriel merely says, “I didn’t see you cross the bridge.”
So he was waiting. Of course he was. I wonder what he thought, what he suspected, when Slade and I didn’t show. I can’t tell if this is confrontation or reconciliation—whether he’s here to accuse or commend.
“We thought that might be a little conspicuous,” I lie. “Since, you know, we’re not supposed to be here, and someone might realize Slade isn’t Felix Astor.”
The skin around Gabriel’s eyes tightens at the mention of his brother. “Did you really think I wouldn’t have accounted for that?”
Of course he would have. I change the subject, keenly aware that I don’t have long before Slade returns. “What’s your plan, tomorrow at the Sanctum? How do you intend to kill him?”
“You don’t need to be worried about tomorrow. I have everything under control.”
I am worried about it though. It’s the only thing I’m worried about just now. I hate that he refuses to let me in, when I want to be able to tell Slade exactly what he’s up against. Gabriel’s schemes can be complex.
But I also know that his control only extends so far and even a Prophet can’t anticipate everything.
I expect him to say more. Instead, his body language softens, his face overtaken by uncertainty that seems at odds with the man I’ve come to know.
“I wish you had called me again,” he says eventually, an almost whisper. “I was…distressed, not knowing your plans.”
“I’m sorry.” I’m stunned into apologizing. “I meant to, but I couldn’t find the right time.”
I wonder if he can sense my lies the way I can sense his. If he somehow knows exactly what distracted me from dialing his number.
My hands in Slade’s hair. His tongue in my mouth.
Gabriel exhales heavily. “I was surprised, you know, when one of my men brought word of your presence here. I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind.
That you’d chosen him.” The Prophet takes a step closer, the line of his mouth thinning as his tone grows more urgent.
“I thought perhaps you’d fallen victim to his charms and that I’d lost you for good. So tell me, Talin: Have I lost you?”
I shake my head, trapped by his gaze. I hate moments like this—moments in which I understand, for the barest fraction of a moment, why people are willing to worship him.
“No. Of course you haven’t lost me.” I meet him where he stands, leaving less than an arm’s length between us.
He towers above me, the ivory of his skin turned translucent by the moon.
I swallow my pride and forge ahead. “It was strange, being away from you, but I never forgot the purpose of it. You never lost my loyalty.”
This, I decide, is how I test the theory I can scarcely bring myself to believe. This is where I find out whether Gabriel sees me as something more than a possession. This is where I discover whether I’ve trapped him the way he’s trapped me.
At my words, there’s a minute change in the Prophet’s face. I watch as he tries to suppress it, but he doesn’t quite succeed. “You’re meant to be at my side. Thinking of you at my brother’s… It sickens me.”
Mingled shock and triumph surge through my veins. “I’m only there for you,” I insist, the words acrid in my mouth.
There’s a long moment of silence, and then Gabriel gives a slow nod. “You’re done.”
I don’t understand. “Done what?”
“The task I assigned to you. You delivered my brother to the Reaches as I requested, which means you’ve upheld your side of the agreement.
I admit, I didn’t think you would be successful, but you’ve proven me wrong.
I won’t have you in danger a moment longer.
In fact, I’ll have you escorted back to Valestadt at once. ”
“What?” Not only is this entirely unexpected, but I can’t leave. Not now. My head spins as I cast about for a reply. “If I disappear, Slade will suspect something is amiss. He might try to leave as well.”
“That’s no longer your concern. My agents will ensure he doesn’t go anywhere.”
“I want to see this through,” I say adamantly. “You can’t send me home now. I want to be here when it happens.” I want to watch you die. I want to escape this twisted thing between us and stop wondering why I’ve never been able to hate you the way I should.
Gabriel cants his head to the side, those cobalt eyes softening a bit. “I see your time with my brother has truly caused you to resent him.”
“Did you expect anything less?” I fire back. “He’s just as you described. Conceited. Brash. Heartless. If it wasn’t already clear to me why you wanted him dead, it is now.”
“And yet he tends to excel at winning people over.”
I give a wry smile. “My opinion is not easily swayed.”
“I very much hope that’s true.” Gabriel extends a hand, and I stiffen as he brushes a thumb over my temple. It comes away with flakes of scarlet on it. “What has he been making you do, my lamb?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Although Gabriel’s touch is gentle, something about it feels threatening. This is the way it’s always been with him: everything subtly communicated, nothing stated outright. “Let me stay. Let me finish what I’ve started. Please.”
Gabriel appears to consider that as he searches the planes of my face, some internal battle being waged behind his eyes.
For once, I have no idea where his thoughts are.
When he finally speaks, the words are quiet, halting, almost as if he can’t quite believe he’s saying them.
“What if I could give you something better than freedom?”
I scrutinize him, perplexed. What else could he possibly offer me? What could be more valuable than independence? “I don’t follow.”
“I don’t want you to go. But I also want you to be with me willingly.” He takes my gloved hand in his, lowering his voice even further. His expression is serious. “What if I could take the Bloodrot away? What if I told you there was a cure?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.” Still, I’m unable to control how breathless I sound.
Becoming a diabolist is one thing, but a cure?
That’s everything I’ve ever hoped for. A way to undo all I’ve done and become the woman I might have been all along.
Someone untainted and unremarkable. Someone that little girl catching bugs in the yard wouldn’t run from.
Gabriel’s lips turn up, though the rest of his features remain fixed.
He’s clearly uncomfortable sharing this information, but something compels him to do so anyway.
“It’s complicated, but yes, a cure exists.
Imagine the kind of life you could lead, Talin, if you got the chance to start over.
A life free of sin. A life by my side—this time as my equal. ”
My hope turns to horror at the picture he paints.
Now I know he’s trying to manipulate me.
The Prophet doesn’t consider anyone his equal.
What he wants is to feel the way he does without resenting himself.
For someone like him, caring about a hired sinner is unconscionable.
But caring about a woman who’s been saved? That’s something he can accept.
To Gabriel, I realize, a sinner is someone who bears the marks of the Bloodrot. It has nothing to do with who they are at their core.
It’s too late for me to change who I’ve become. A cure won’t take away everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve done. I’ll humor Gabriel though. I’ll do whatever it takes to find out what he knows.
“I want that,” I say. My body has gone numb; I no longer feel his hands clasped around mine. “You know how badly I want that. What do I need to do?”
“Nothing more than you’re doing already.” He releases me. “You see, the cure to the Bloodrot requires only one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
Gabriel lifts a brow. “The death of a diabolist.”
It takes a moment for the words to register. My lips part, but no sound escapes them. When I do speak, it’s to merely say, “How?”
“We don’t quite understand it ourselves,” he admits. “But I assure you it’s the truth. Our scholars have been working on it for some time.”
I almost can’t fathom it. Accepting that diabolists existed was hard enough, but this?
Learning how they fit into this world of sin and salvation?
I want to deem it impossible. On the other hand, if a diabolist is made stronger through sin, who’s to say their death couldn’t cleanse someone of it?
Both involve an inexplicable exchange. It makes me wonder if the stories I was told as a child held more truth than I’d realized.
“So you—the Regiment—have killed diabolists before,” I surmise.
Gabriel doesn’t answer, but I don’t need him to.
I’ve often wondered what the Regiment’s scholars do, especially for an institution so opposed to technological progress.
I suppose I have my answer, at least in part: They’ve been looking for a cure.
And apparently, they’ve found one. Is that why the Regiment’s key players never seem to be afflicted with the Bloodrot?
Have they been conducting these experiments in secret for years?
Worse, have they been purposefully withholding their discoveries from the public? Letting people die when their lives could have been saved? Fear, after all, is power. If people fear sin, if they fear the Bloodrot, they worship their Prophet with greater fervor.
Then again, if the cure is what Gabriel claims it is, how could he tell the public that?
“You kill a diabolist; you get a new life.” Gabriel’s tone becomes urgent again. “A better one.”
I tense as it all hits me. “It’s not enough that you or your agents kill Slade, then. It has to be me.”
“You only need to strike the final blow.”
“So I have to be there. At the Sanctum.”
Gabriel nods. A cool wind rushes between us, rustling his dark hair. “Yes. I can involve you when the time is right. I can make it easy for you. I just need you to trust me. Can you trust me, Talin?”
It’s an absurd question. Even if I could trust him, I wouldn’t. I’m done giving others control over my life. I can do this on my own.
But because I need him to let me stay, I give him my most grateful smile. “Of course.”