“So what, Fox? Am I meant to think she’s this wonderful woman now, because of something she did selfishly all those years ago? Am I meant to forgive her for everything she’s done – for killing my sister?”
“No, no, Briony, that’s not what I’m saying. I just want you to understand. I want you to know the truth – all of it.”
“What truth?” I say, pressing the cloth against the first of his wounds and making him hiss. I clean it gently, and once againhis body stiffens beneath my fingers. He doesn’t speak again until I remove the cloth from the wound.
“After everything that happened,” he continues, “I couldn’t stay in Onyx. I couldn’t go back to Slate. I didn’t belong in Iron or Granite. I was an immortal, a shadow weaver, a boy from Slate, a killer, a monster. I didn’t belong anywhere.”
“So they sent you to the academy?” I say.
“Yes. Yes. That’s right. They sent me to the academy to teach. It was both a blessing and a curse. I think I found my calling in teaching – even though, fuck, the students piss me off daily.”
I smile and press the cloth against the next wound, cleaning away the grime and dried blood from his flesh. I wonder for a moment if that blood is his – or the blood of the creatures he has drunk from.
“But there were conditions, Briony. Conditions to my teaching. Conditions that never bothered me before – until I met you. Until I understood what was going on.”
“Until you met me? What conditions, Fox?”
“They wanted me to find students from Slate, Granite, and Iron with abilities, with magic, who could shadow weave, Briony.”
“Yes, that’s why you teach the class, Fox.”
“Exactly. And I thought it was just a ruse. I’ve taught all these years, Briony, and we’ve never found anyone. I thought it was just a way of keeping the masses happy, keeping them hopeful. This pretense that magic was possible among those without shadow weaver blood. But all those years I taught, all those classes I taught, there was not one –not one– student who showed ability.”
“I know all this already, Fox,” I say as I carefully clean another of the wounds, seeing clearly where a demon has dug its claws into the professor’s flesh. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because deep down in my heart, Briony – my useless, cold, broken heart – I knew the truth. I knew the real reason they had me searching for students.”
“What was that reason, Fox?”
“To eliminate them, Briony.” I grip his shoulder and turn him around so that he’s facing me. “I think I always knew that, even if I never wanted to admit it to myself. Because time passed and I never had to make that decision. I never had to face that reality, because there were never any students to report. No one I was sending to their death. And then you came along, Briony.”
“You didn’t tell her about me, Fox. Not until I asked you to.” I search his face for the truth.
“No, Briony. I never told her. I never told her until you asked me to – although I suspect she knew all along. That’s why she tortured you in the maze – to try and get the truth out of you.”
I nod. I think he’s right.
“So you see, you think I’m this good man, this true man, this man who was manipulated by an evil woman. But you’re wrong. I was a murderer. I killed people for their blood. And I was prepared to sacrifice more to keep myself alive.”
“Fox,” I say, “are you telling me the truth? Was there really no other student before me?”
“No. You were the first, Briony.”
“Then you don’t know. You don’t know what you would have done. Maybe you would have kept them safe like you tried to keep me safe. Like you’re trying to keep me safe now.”
His gaze falls to the floor in shame. “I don’t know, Briony. I just don’t know.”
“Fox,” I say. “Fox, look at me. You’re not a monster. You never were. It’s what she did to you. I mean, you’re a vampire that doesn’t even drink human blood anymore, even when I’ve offered you my throat numerous times.”
His eyes flash red. “Don’t mention your throat, Briony,” he says, lisping all of a sudden.
“Oh, you mean this throat?” I say, tipping my head back and running my fingers down my neck.
He growls. “Briony.” His voice is a warning.
“But you liked it, right? It tasted good,” I say, pressing my fingers against the artery that traces up my neck.
“More than good.” He growls again.
