33
“A diabolist’s appeal is arguably their most dangerous quality.”
I head in the direction of the townhouse on legs that feel leaden. After speaking to Gabriel, the solitary walk no longer seems dangerous. This is the Reaches—if the Prophet doesn’t want me harmed, I won’t be.
I know Slade will be furious I defied his order to stay put outside the Citadel, but I don’t care.
I need to compose myself. To think. If what Gabriel said is true, then Slade’s death would cure me of the Bloodrot.
If Gabriel dies, Slade will make me a diabolist, yet I might not survive the process.
Killing Gabriel is definitely riskier. Despite all the planning that’s gone into it, there’s no guarantee of success.
Killing Slade, though, would see me become the Prophet’s partner.
Logically, I know which one should be worse.
Illogically, part of me recoils from the idea of harming Slade, even if it did cure me.
I don’t know if it’s the foolish part or the human one.
Perhaps they’re the same thing.
My thoughts continue to plague me as I return to the townhouse, strip my ruined dress off, and lock myself in the bathroom.
Standing beneath the warm cascade of water, I begin to painstakingly scrub the dried blood from my skin.
In the dark, it’s impossible to tell whether I’ve gotten it all, so I tiptoe across the room to flick on the light.
When I catch a glimpse of myself in the ornate gilt mirror, I freeze.
I knew the Bloodrot had ravaged my arms—they’ve looked ghastly for a while, so that’s no surprise—but I’m not prepared to see the discoloration blooming across my clavicle, the skin of my shoulders, the base of my throat.
My breath seems to snag in my lungs. By all logic, this makes sense.
I’ve killed two more people. Still, it’s uniquely horrible to see my impending death represented in such an obvious way.
I don’t feel like I’m dying. In fact, I don’t feel different at all. But what if that’s the thing about madness? What if you can’t tell once it has you in its grip?
The quiet is punctured by the distant creak of the front door opening. I know it has to be Slade, and my sudden apprehension has nothing to do with the reprimand I’m sure to receive. Either way, I can’t avoid him. I throw on an oversize shirt, turn off the light, and stalk down the hallway.
Slade is just inside the front entrance when I see him. His spine is curved, his head bowed. One hand is braced against the wall. He must hear my approach, because he turns around, and that’s when I really see him. His face is sharper than ever, and he seems…hollow. Hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed.
“Did you find Ceri and Emeric?” I ask.
“I did. They’re going to stay a while longer.” He huffs a sharp exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And then I emerged to find you gone. How is it that you love to be given orders and yet can’t seem to follow a single one?”
“People were starting to give me strange looks,” I lie. “I figured you’d know where to find me.”
“Next time I tell you to do something, I expect you to comply.”
“It’s nice of you to worry about me.”
Slade makes an irritated sound in the back of his throat, stepping away from the door and into the silver wash of moonlight streaming through the window. He’s deathly pale, like a man with a wasting illness.
Something tightens in the cage of my chest. I’m a fool. I’m a fool, and I’m going to make the fool’s choice. For so long, killing has come as naturally as breathing, but this time I know I would hesitate. I wouldn’t be able to do it. Not to him. “You need to feed.”
Slade tips his head back and shutters his eyes. “Yes. Tonight was…tempting.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. So many sinners in one place, and he couldn’t touch a single one. “Surely you must be used to temptation by now.”
He laughs without humor. “Indeed. It keeps getting more difficult, feeling myself grow weaker with you so near. Already I’m drawn to you in the most deranged, carnal way.
” His eyes are open again, fixed unblinkingly on me.
This time he makes no effort to hide his unrestrained hunger—his fingers curl against the wall as if he’s trying to claw through it.
I can see tendons straining beneath the tattooed skin of his hands.
I swallow. I can do this. I’ve navigated his compulsion before. I can give him what he needs without revealing too much.
I reach up and firmly grab his lapel, yanking him toward me. Whether he wants to comply or is weary enough that he has no choice, I’m not sure, but he lets me lead him the few paces to the sofa.
“Sit,” I tell him, and he sinks onto it as though he’d been awaiting my permission. I can see the striated veins in his neck, tinged gray from the onyx blood that moves through them. Like this, in the near dark, it’s never been so clear that he isn’t quite human. I steel myself. “Use me.”
The cut of his gaze to my face is immediate and deadly. Disbelieving and severe. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
He gives a prolonged exhale as his teeth come together. “Don’t,” he whispers, “tempt me.”
I shiver. “You’ll need to be at your full strength tomorrow.”
“Then we can wait until tomorrow.” His voice is firm.
“No. Now.” I drop to my knees in front of him, my heart beating furiously in my ears. “I want you to use me.”
“That is a very, very dangerous thing to say. I’m liable to take advantage of it in a number of ways.”
Something inside me must be broken, because this only causes my need to spike. Am I terrible for wanting this? Is it sick of me to yearn for it?
“Then do it,” I whisper. “I want to confess my sins. And then I want you to make me repent.”
It’s a clear challenge, and Slade rises to it.
His nostrils flare, his tattooed throat shifting.
Desire exists like a physical thing between us.
Then, finally, he leans forward and lays a hand against the side of my neck, fingers hooking just beneath my ear, thumb ghosting across my bruised cheek.
His touch is cool, and the world narrows, orbiting the place where our skin makes contact.
Anticipation thrums in my veins, accompanied by something far less innocent.
Slade’s eyes scan my face. Gauging. Ravenous.
I feel my own pulse throbbing beneath his fingers.
The draw he exudes is nearly unbearable. Like this, kneeling before him, I might be a supplicant at the feet of my chosen god. A brutal, terrible god, and yet I’ll exalt him all the same.
His spine curves as he lowers his face to mine. His lips are at my ear, his voice a lyrical croon, and I’m senseless of the rest of the world. “Tell me something terrible.”
The thought of denying him is inconceivable.
And so I begin to list my sins.
As promised, my past indiscretions are many.
They spill out of me in no particular order; I simply relay them as they come to mind, knowing it’s best to add detail.
The violence I’ve carried out for Gabriel is at the forefront of my memory, but older misdeeds rear their heads with little prompting.
Those, I realize, are the ones that feel more wicked, for no one paid for them. They were indubitably my own doing.
Slade doesn’t ask questions, nor does he ask for clarification.
He lets me speak, his lips slightly parted, and not once do I falter.
Our eyes lock, dark warring with light, and I’d rather die than look away.
I can feel it happening—the exchange of energy.
I don’t feel weakened as he draws from me, but lighter, even as my mind spins and reality hovers just out of reach.
It’s a sort of release. A catharsis. I expel what he takes in, and it’s not a transfer but mutualism.
I wonder if this is what veneration feels like.
I wonder if this what people are looking for when they pray.
Still, I’m aware enough that I stop just short of revealing my greatest sins. The ones I don’t dare speak aloud even to a man who kills as easily as he breathes.
Eventually Slade draws back from me, still limned by shadows but clear-eyed.
It should be impossible, the way color has already found its way back into his face.
He no longer looks as drawn, that careful calculation back in his movements, and there’s a feral quality about him that wasn’t there before.
I’ve always liked the high of danger, and the way Slade’s looking at me right now might be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever encountered.
“How does it work?” I ask as he lets his hand fall. My voice sounds strange now that I’m no longer confessing.
“The exchange?” He shrugs. “I don’t know.
Something within regular humans is primed to give, and something within diabolists is able to take.
Needs to take. I’m sure you know the story, though, about how the Savior dredged my kind up from the depths of hell to shoulder the sins of his beloved children.
To make them easier to bear.” Slade’s smile is mocking.
“A sort of apology, you might say, for the Bloodrot. But no creature with hell in its veins can be trusted—”
“—and it wasn’t long before the Savior realized his mistake,” I finish, remembering the line well.
“Yes. In recompense, he told humanity how we could be killed.”
And he let them be cleansed of the Bloodrot if they were successful, I think but don’t say aloud. “That’s a pretty serious mistake for a deity who’s meant to be infallible.”
Slade shrugs again, beginning to unbutton his shirt, and my stomach clenches. “It’s just a myth. Everything needs a genesis, right?” He braces as if to rise, and I’m abruptly, profoundly desperate for him not to go anywhere.
“What, no absolution?” I ask, thrusting out a hand to grip his thigh. His mouth twists.
“Would you like to be absolved?”
I’m still on my knees. My legs are starting to ache, but since I’m between his, I can’t bring myself to care. “It may be a bit late for that.”