“Who was head Raven Hand before you?” The reporter in me is lapping this up, but then I remember that there is no story here other than Ed’s.
“Victor Rue. He was head Raven for many years. He was ruthless, devoted—everything you would expect from a leader.”
He knows what I’m about to ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“So, how did you become the new leader?”
In a blink, the charm, the charisma that has you wanting to eat out of the palm of his hand, is gone, and all that remains is the stone-cold stare of a killer.
“I killed him.”
CHAPTER TEN
He has flesh,yes, breathes oxygen, and talks and thinks just like a human, but looking into his icy eyes, knowing he murdered his way to power, reminds me of the man he truly is.
The enchanter is gone.
The devil remains.
“You think I’m a monster,” Valdemar says, placing his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers.
“I know you’re a monster,” I reply.
“The world needs monsters.” His voice is so cold, I can almost feel it in the air.
“How do you work that one out?”
“Because sometimes things need to be done. Horrible things that most people don’t have the guts for. They won’t get their hands dirty, so someone else has to.” He unclasps his hands at this, as if showing me just how sullied they are.
“That’s how you justify killing someone to gain power?” I lean forwards, my hackles raised.
“I don’t kill to gain power.” His words slice through the air as if he’s brandishing a knife.
“You just said you killed Victor Rue to become head Raven Hand.”
“Ever the journalist.” He smirks. “You’re putting words in my mouth. I never said I killed him for that reason.”
“It was just a bonus, then?”
Valdemar places a hand flat on the table. “Consider this. You have a dog who’s been loyal and faithful to you his whole life. He stayed by your side and listened to all your problems without judging you, without betraying you, until one day your dog doesn’t remember who you are anymore and starts shitting in his bed and pissing on the floor. And your dog looks at everyone who visits with large begging eyes and a low whimper to be put out of his misery, but they don’t listen, don’t act; they don’t want to get blood on their hands, murder on their conscience. So, your dog turns to you, his loyal friend, his faithful servant. And he asks you to do this one last thing for him. Is it easier to say yes or to say no?”
“You’re saying Victor Rue was ill?” I probe.
“His body was strong and able. His mind was not.”
“You think that justifies killing him?” I can’t keep my voice neutral, something else I know as a journalist. Keep your own views under wraps; don’t let them know what you think about what they’re telling you, even if you think it’s the most heinous thing you’ve ever heard.
“These decisions don’t come easily. To kill someone you don’t care about is easy, but to kill someone you admire and respect is impossible.”
“And barbaric,” I add.
“You’re telling me you wouldn’t put your dog out of his misery? Wouldn’t save him from sitting in his own shit and wandering out into the road in the middle of the night because he has no idea where he is?” Valdemar asks.
“There are places that will care for people,” I argue, but he sneers at this.
“All they do is mop up the shit and lock them up for their own safety. Is that really how you would want to spend the last of your days?”
“It doesn’t matter how you justify it, it’s still murder. You still have blood on your hands.” I motion with my eyes towards his hands.
