My own posture shifts, mirroring his sudden tension but for different reasons. I stand up smoothly, deliberately folding my napkin in that same calm manner. “Perhaps you are right.” I reply. “Perhaps it is time we both stop pretending.”
Taylor’s eyes lock onto mine. How many times has he played this over in his head? How many times has he imagined this? In his dreams, did I play the surprised fool? Did I always try to bluster my way out? Or did I choose violence? Did I choose to try and fight my way to freedom? Does my calm acceptance of my fate ruin the neat little template he had for how this would all go down?
He opens his mouth, and then the coffee hits.
It’s subtle at first. A tightening in his jaw, a slight pause in his breathing. But then his hand starts to shake, violently. He clutches the edge of the table, his knuckles white. His face, once a mask of weary defiance, crumples under the onslaught. Sweat beads on his forehead, his eyes roll back slightly, and his body goes rigid, then collapses.
He slams his face down onto the scarred wood of the table with a sickening thud, his body stilling almost instantly. The coffee cup falls, spilling its contentsand it drip, drip, drips onto the stark white tablecloth like a stain that cannot be washed out.
Silence. The sudden, absolute quiet of the moment is almost as loud as the commotion that follows.
Heads turn, faces pale, murmurs ripple through the cafe patrons. Men in nondescript dark suits, faces grim and impassive, move with unnerving speed from the surrounding tables and the shadows beyond, falling into place around us like practiced automatons.
I can see them; all the demons, all the Esau mercenaries suddenly appear, suddenly come out to play.
A gun points right at my head. Before it can go off, a man barrels into the would-be assassin.
I stand mute, still, silent as a statue, and watch as the chaos unfolds around me. They call me the kingmaker but the truth is, I’m far more than that. Far fucking greater. The Esau as they are now have no idea what I am, what place I have carved for myself in this world.
I am not the kingmaker. I am the fucking king himself.
I lean down, grabbing the remnants of the croissant and wipe the smear of someone’s blood off it before I pop the delicate pastry into my mouth.
Calm is the impression I give off but chaos, chaos is where I’ve always excelled. Chaos is where I do best.
2 years and 10 months until auction
My back is against the wall, knees drawn to my chest, chin tucked. Waiting.
Another cycle of waiting.
Waiting for them to decide my fate.
For the interminable hours to drag into days.
For the moment when the lights flicker, promising release, but knowing only that release is a carefully constructed cage.
My fingers trace the phantom shape of the knife hidden under my clothes. It’s a blunt thing, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still a knife.
How I managed to steal it, I don’t know. Maybe they’ve grown lax about my captivity. Maybe they’ve mistaken my placidity for acceptance of my fate. It doesn’t really matter what the reasons are, it’s their stupidity that’s given me this chance. Perhaps this is God’s will, god’s one show of favour to me. If it is, if this is an act of mercy granted to me by the divine himself, then I’d be a fool not to take it. A fool and a sinner too.
The waiting has been the worst part. The waiting always is.
Lying here, breathing shallowly, listening to the faint hum of the room fade, counting the seconds until the lights dimmed. Every tick of the clock has been a nail in my coffin.
But tonight? I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t let myself get caught in that purgatory. I needed to act, I needed to do something.
I shut my eyes and I can see him, Magnus Blake, sitting high above me in his grand, gilded home. He thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s broken me, that he’s got the upper hand. And maybe, maybe this will hurt him. Just a little.
The thought is a grim, bitter spike of something almost like satisfaction.
Taking away what they took from me. This here is my tiny, poisonous revenge, and it makes me smile because it’s the only power I have left.
Power over death. Power over him.
The lights go out, and the sudden darkness is a relief and a shield. My heart thuds against my ribs, loud and frantic. Does the camera still see? I don’t have the mental capacity to dwell on that, to ponder it.
It’s my birthday. At least, it was two weeks ago. They did nothing to celebrate that fact, but this here feels like a little gift, a little party for myself. If luck goes my way, it’ll be the last one I have on this earth.
