Then St. Silas barked out a laugh, jarring Hargreaves, raising the hair at the nape of his neck.
Even facing death, Bramwell was more fearless than his father.
“What will you tell me next, Hargreaves? That onlyyouhave the antidote but require something in exchange for it?”
“The red diary.” Hargreaves locked the image of the small child away into the recesses of his mind, instead looking unblinkingly at the man before him. “Yourancestor’sred diary.”
St. Silas was motionless, the gun unwavering in his hand, the vicious laughter still in his eyes. At this revelation, the Al-Sayer boy froze, still on his knees, still trying to reach for Hargreaves’s discarded sword.
“Then we shall drop all pretenses,” St. Silas murmured, inclining his head in a mock bow. “Why is it that you want the Avon diary?”
Hargreaves stepped forward once more, but halted as the gun moved from his chest to his head. He raised his palms like a priest granting a blessing right there in the cold wasteland of the meadow. “To help you, Bramwell. I promised you that I would bring you back from the demons twelve years ago, and I will. But I cannot do so without the Avon diary.”
“Your notion ofhelpingis quite skewed, my lord. Do you poison all those you desire to help?” St. Silas’s smooth voice, so similar to that of his father, continued to carry hints of savage amusement.
The Al-Sayer boy had finally reached the sword, slicing the rope around his ankle in one fluid motion. Freed, he did not hesitate to press the poisoned tip against Hargreaves’s own collar.
“Shall I run him through, Saint?” the Al-Sayer boy spat.
Hargreaves’s face remained mild, although he felt the first inklings of apprehension settle in his chest. “I would not do that—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” St. Silas cut him off. “The antidote.I do not doubt, however, that I can procure it very easily in Golborne, so your existence is entirely useless to me.” He turned away from him, locking his pistol. “Run him through, Rami.”
Although it was the Al-Sayer boy who was holding the blade firmly against his skin, Hargreaves didn’t lift his gaze from St. Silas. “Have the demons ever told you how to break your indenture?”
A sudden stiffening to St. Silas’s back.
“You do not know,” Hargreaves continued, undeterred. “That is why you are searching for Percy’s ghost. You wish to ask him what it was he traded his son for all those years ago, so that you may trade it back for your freedom. Am I not right?”
“Of course you are right. You were there, after all.” St. Silas unlocked his pistol again, but kept it aimed at the blood-splattered snow. “And I venture to guess that you knowexactlywhat object it was that you sold me for. AmInot right?”
“I am surprised you did not come to me sooner, Bramwell. You know that as your godfather, I would’ve given you the information you sought unhesitatingly.”
“What a fool I would be to return to the man who would, it seems, go past selling me to outright killing me.” St. Silas released another cold laugh. “After all, look at where we are now. Poisoned, with only a week to live.”
“What has happened today was done out of necessity, as was the case twelve years ago.” Hargreaves did not allow the emotion of bartering off the young Bramwell to overtake his voice now. “But you were never alone. We had allowed that servant-boy—Theodore Daye, was it?—to accompany you.”
“Ah, yes. Theo and I were the first real taste of humancurrency.The Wake then found it had a ferocious appetite for it.” If St. Silas’s look had been vicious before, it was past malevolent now. “I hear your business is flourishing, my lord.”
What would be the difference,Hargreaves thought,if the prisoners rotted in Newtorn Prison or rotted with the demons? At least with the latter, their sentence would be magnanimously reduced.
“I am surprised you know so much of the goings-on of the Wake. We do try to keep our…business tightly sealed, especially from the disreputable Saint.”
The Saint raised his brows mockingly. “If that is the case, I highly suggest you shoot Orley in the face, for he has been most obliging in trading your secrets with me.”
Hargreaves did not let his growing irritation show. He knew Orley had no allegiances to anyone, not even to the gang he ruled, and was as likely to work with a person as to slit his throat. Still, he had served his purpose.
“You are very right: Orley is unhinged. But for the right price, he is still willing to be of service. For example”—Hargreaves knew he was going to take special delight in this revelation—“he has been controlling poor Theodore for a very long time. Upon my instructions, Orley sent Theodore to appear before your Miss Al-Sayer, claiming to possess the ability to bring forth Percy’s ghost.”
Hargreaves marked the blazing fury that hardened St. Silas’s dark eyes. “Let me guess—to lure me here to find the red diary for you?”
Hargreaves released a long, almost apologetic exhalation of breath. “Percy’s ghost was never coming to save you.”
With interest, Hargreaves looked for any show of dismay in Bramwell’s face. There was none; only a jeering indifference. Hargreaves shifted, halting when the pistol focused on his chest.
“And yet,” St. Silas continued, “you still fail to mention why you have such a fascinating obsession with the Avon diary. It leaves one almost…in sympathy for all your efforts over the years.”
It was Hargreaves’s turn to bark out a laugh.
