I sense the defensiveness in her tone. I decide I’ll talk to her later and try to approach the subject slightly more sensitively than Mal just did.
“What do you want to do?” I ask her. “I think we’re all on the same page, right? That so long as the Prophet is alive, he’s a danger to you. We have to take him out.”
She bites her lip, and I’m shocked as tears come to her eyes. Anger fills me. Does she care about that bastard?
“Do you have a problem with that, Ophelia?”
She closes her eyes for a moment. “It’s not that I don’t want you to. I suppose I’m just scared.”
“What of?” Roman leans forward. “Once he’s gone, he can’t haunt you anymore.”
“That’s just it,” she says. “He can haunt memore, don’t you see?”
“How come?” I ask.
“Because what if his powers are real? I mean, the only alternative is that I’m crazy, and I don’t want to believe that. If they’re real, then if he dies, he can haunt me.Willhaunt me. With hisgoddamnspirit hounding me, I’ll never be free.”
The way she says goddamn is so cute, it almost makes me smile, but not quite because her words cause my heart to ache.
I don’t immediately discount her worry that the Prophet might hold some strange powers, because the three of us believe similar shit. Why dismiss her fears when we practice our own rituals that would seem strange to so many?
“The thing is,” I say carefully, “if he’s dead, then you are safe physically, yes?”
She nods once.
“And if he’s dead, and it’s only his spirit haunting you, then we have ways to deal with that.”
I’m sure Roman can find a way to lessen his influence on her psyche. At least we wouldn’t be worried about that fucker turning up and kidnapping her or some nefarious shit.
I believe good wins over evil, and we might do some fucked up shit, but ultimately if it comes to a battle between us and the Prophet, we’re definitely on the side of good.
I want to see him torn apart, burnt to ashes and scattered to the corners of the earth. Over the top, maybe, but I don’t care. The rage I feel is unhealthy. The moment I wake up, it’s there. Anger. Hatred, even. Burning in my stomach, setting fire to my soul.
Losing Ophelia had been a big deal to me as a child, because it had left me lost at a time in my life when there was little good. That fucker took mybest friend. He tore her from my life, and now he’s still haunting her.
Maybe I’m telling myself that we’re getting rid of the Prophet for Ophelia’s sake, but there’s a little part of me that’s aware I’m also doing it for myself.
Needing to move, I stand. The violence simmering under my skin scares me. I’ve always liked to fight. Being beaten up helps calm me, and I get how fucked up that is, but this is something else. It’s as if I’m on the edge of totally losing my shit.
“Cain?” Mal’s voice is a warning. Low and serious. “Are you okay?”
“I want to be there now, dealing with this bastard.” I clench my fists at my side. “I can’t cope with him still being in this world and breathing. He deserves something worse than death.”
For an insane moment, I imagine bringing him back here and keeping him prisoner. Torturing him would be fun. Making his every fucking living moment hell would be cathartic. But one glance at Ophelia tells me it would be a terrible idea. It would drive her crazy, and she’d lose her mind if he was held captive here.
Still, the idea gives me a little moment of happiness. Maybe I need to meditate, but not the way Roman does, trying to get in touch with his ancestors. Maybe I just need to sit and imagine the Prophet going through the fires of hell. It might make me happy, if nothing else.
Malachi stares at me as he talks. “I think we all need to take some deep breaths. Maybe get a good night’s sleep, calm the fuck down, and make a rational plan. If we do this without those things in place, we risk it all going wrong.”
Ophelia speaks, her voice grounding me in a way nothing else can. “Yes, there are innocent children in the cult. I won’t see them being hurt.”
We fall silent for a beat, and Ophelia moves her legs under her and yawns. I really look at her, taking her in. She’s exhausted. Her face is drawn, and she’s pale.
“We ought to head to bed.” I glance down the hallway. “How are we going to do this? All together, or maybe not, what with your friend here?”
“Christ,” Roman mutters.
I turn to him, thinking he’s talking about what I said, but he’s rubbing his jaw, his face a map of pain.
