The hall holds its breath, the weight of centuries pressing down as his fingers curl slowly around the arm of his chair.
“We have. All evidence suggests the Hand has betrayed us,” the Heart declares. His voice is ancient and slow, meant to convey his sentence clearly. “As such, Maxwell Henderson, the disgraced Hand, will face the full penalty of our law.”
The Head extends an arm, palm up. I remove one of my blades and lay the handle in his hand.
“Death.”
The crowd murmurs, looking on in shock and disbelief. Many have never witnessed an execution. Some are too young, fledglings among our kind, and others were brought in too late.
Let this be their lesson.
I grab Maxwell by the back of his neck and force him to his knees.
“He was my son,” Maxwell mutters to no one, as if tugging a single heartstring among our people might spare him his fate. “What would you have done?”
“Nothing.” The Head presses the pointed tip into Maxwell’s chest, piercing the flesh but not deeply. “At least you and your son will have something in common in the next life…”
Maxwell emits a loud, throaty scream as the Head speaks. It reverberates against the walls, and settlesuncomfortably across my skin, making the hair on my arms stand upright.
It’s a strange sensation. I’ve never felt it before.
“A great big fucking hole in your chest,” the Head finishes his final insult and thrusts the blade forward, while chuckling at his own dark remark.
Maxwell Henderson goes limp.
No one makes a sound as I retrieve my sword and return to my position a few steps behind the Head. Maybelle, most surprisingly of the lot, is silent. She has just witnessed a murder at the hands of her new husband, and yet she doesn’t move.
I was wrong about her. Perhaps she is cut from the same cloth as us.
Out of duty, I will stay for Maybelle and for Elias’s induction.
But as that sorry affair takes place, I don’t believe anyone is happy to sit through it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lilith
Three Days Later
The Rusty Hook is almost calm. Sure, I have a feeling of dread that’s building with every passing second as Dylan’s show nears its end, but it’s the first place I’ve been to in Midnite City, when it isn’t lit up like a Fourth of July night sky.
It shares some of the city’s typical ambience, with cheap neon strips set up to mimic the outside style, but other than those, the baris dimly lit.
A small crowd has formed in front of the knee-high stage, bobbing their heads and dancing to the music. The rest of the room is quiet. People can lean close together to whisper their conversations, instead of shouting to get their point across.
I kinda love it. And sitting at the table opposite Raymond Lincoln, my feelings of playing a spy in the Crawford house return, in full force.
“Are you absolutely sure you weren’t followed?” It’s the third time Raymond has asked this since his arrival, and that was no more than fifteen minutes ago.
He isn’t young, but he isn’t old either. His greying black hair confirms he has passed the first flush of youth. His gaunt face and thin body are signs that he hasn’t been taking good care of himself for at least a few months, and I have to wonder if this is the case.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m here to see a work friend play.” I point at Dylan, who is twanging his bass guitar on stage. “Now, please, go on.”
He scans the bar once more, suspiciously. After his inspection, he lights a cigarette and exhales the first puff of smoke with a sigh.
“They aren’t what they appear to be. The Crawford family, I mean.”
“You’ve said that already,” I urge him on. The uninhibited manner in which he shouted to me through my car window isn’t repeated tonight. Raymond iskeeping a sterner hold on himself, as though his view of me has shifted, and I’ve also become a candidate for his mistrust.
