His laugh takes me by surprise, his cool, sober expression gone for a fleeting second. “No, she isn’t my girlfriend.” He delivers each word slowly and purposefully, so there can be no doubt about his answer. “She’s Jupiter Prospero’s.”
I wouldn’t be able to call myself a journalist if I didn’t know who Jupiter Prospero is—Valdemar’s right-hand man and the guy who’s been babysitting the Raven Hands for the last ten years.
“Why does she come and visit you? Is she a Raven Hand?”
I seem to have lost my head, my journalist training forgotten. I know to only ask one question at a time; otherwise, the previous questions remain unanswered. But Jacinta has annoyed me, and I need to know who I’m up against. Valdemar is caged—for the time being at least—but Jacinta is out there on the other side. She knows what I look like and that Valdemar has replaced her visits with mine, and she was pretty pissed off about it.
“There’s no such thing as a female Raven Hand.” He’s serious now, the previous bout of laughter having dissolved.
I furrow my brow. “Really?”
“Why are you so shocked by this? It’s common knowledge that all Raven Hands are men.” This is true, yet still, I can’t quite grasp this “no women allowed” rule.
“I know that. It just seems a little archaic.”
“The Raven Hands were established centuries ago.”
I wait a beat, wondering if I’m in for a history lesson, but he doesn’t elaborate, so I push on.
“Times change, people change, things move on. You’re telling me the Raven Hands haven’t moved into the twenty-first century?”
“I’ve tried, over the years, to make changes. I allow women into our meetings and to attend all social events, something that would never have happened fifteen years ago, but it’s not as simple as you think.”
“Why not?” I try not to scoff at this. It feels like itshouldbe simple.
“It just isn’t.” He emphasises thes, almost making it sound like azbetween his teeth, and once again I sense his reluctance to elaborate.
“Then explain it to me.”
Lowering his arms, he glances to his right before answering. “The Raven Hands were established hundreds of years ago by a man named General Vankirk who was fed up with the lawlessness ravaging Amontillado, so he took it upon himself to clean the city up by whatever means he felt necessary. But it was no easy feat, and he soon realised he couldn’t do the job alone, so he enlisted the help of like-minded men. Vankirk was well-known for the large raven tattooed on the back of his left hand, and his recruits became known as Raven Hands.”
“I thought it was a men’s club,” I say.
“On the surface.” Valdemar squints as if he’s testing me.
“You’re telling me the Raven Hands aren’t a men’s club and are, in fact, a vigilante group?”
“Something like that.” There’s a wryness to Valdemar’s voice that I pick up on but ignore for now.
“So, this Vankirk guy gets a bunch of his mates together and decides to fight the bad guys? Not the most original of origin stories.” I can’t hide my smirk. This is kid stuff. Men playing at being boys.
“Not just anyone.” He’s so severe, his face lacking any emotion other than complete concentration on what he’s saying, and I wonder if this is because he’s been locked away for ten years and has only had the scum of the earth to converse with.
“Who, then? Are people chosen?” I hate that he’s got me squirming on the hook in his fathomless waters, wondering when the beast will bite.
“You don’t choose to be a Raven Hand. You become one.”
An eerie silence settles on my shoulders, making me shiver.
“You’ve lost me.” I’m floating now in open water, nothing to grab onto.
“Raven Hands are different from other people. We possess things others do not.” His eyes sharpen as if he’s trying to tell me something without saying the words.
“You’re saying you’re special?” I hate this guessing game, but I’m used to it, being a journalist.
“Gifted is the term I prefer to use.” His voice has a silky quality now, as if he’s spinning this tale for me with the finest yarn.
The room swirls, the other visitors and inmates merging into a morbid mass of body parts.
