To a sane person that is the most logical explanation. So, I nod.
We find our way out in absolute silence. I know he’s worried. He thinks I’m unstable. He’s no doubt contemplating getting someone to come see me. A therapist perhaps. Someone I can tell all my feelings to and tell them about my boys.
I don’t want that. A stranger won’t understand. They’ll judge and pick apart the best years of my life.
No. I don’t want help. The only thing that will make me sleep at night is the complete annihilation of the Duval family. I will not be satisfied until I have a perfect collection of eyes.
But I must wait.
I need to let Marcus plan and assess. I need to be patient.
I don’t want to be patient. I don’t want to wait. This gnawing feeling consuming me from the inside isn’t getting smaller. It’s a cancer spreading from my center to claim every inch of me until I am sure to suffocate on it. Even as I understand, as the logical part of my brain reminds me this needs to be done right…
I want them dead!
I want them flayed alive with a hot knife and fork.
I want to hear them choking on their blood.
But I can’t push. I can do nothing but wait and swallow down gallons of murderous rage while they continue living their lives in blissful ignorance.
There is no memory of reaching Marcus’s bedroom. I simply blink and we’ve arrived and he’s pushing the door open. My gaze swings to the mirrors, searching for a change, searching to find that thing from below lurking in one of the corners.
It’s only the room and my face glowering back at me. Even my reflection meets my gaze with a hunger I fully understand.
Still, I allow myself to be led into the washroom. I let myself get placed on the edge of the tub while the water is adjusted. I watch Marcus move with purpose gathering towels and filling the rising basin with a generous amount of soap.
When he leaves, saying something about getting clothes, I push to my feet and move to the wall of mirrors facing the sinks.
I don’t see any shadows. Nothing moves. But I stare into my own face. Into the dark eyes I got from my mother and the riot of untamed curls that never stays confined to its braid.
“What do you want, Lenora?”
I think the words or they’re whispered into my head, but I don’t cower from them this time. I don’t blink. I barely feel a damn thing when I answer with the full weight of my venomous hatred.
“Blood.”
Chapter Eleven
Veyn
Victoryhasnevertastedso bitter.
So false.
Even while I let my lips curl with triumph, there is no joy to be had.
It was never supposed to be her.
It shouldn’t be her.
Yet she stands before me with her flushed skin warm from her shower, eyes focused and sure bearing into mine.
Such beauty, wasted.
There was once a time my temples overflowed with lavish gifts, sweet offerings, more virgins than I could devour in a lifetime. I was worshipped. Revered as a god.
Until my shrines were looted. Torn to the ground. My altars, destroyed in the name of progress. My essence, stolen and reconstructed beneath this tomb. This crumbling monstrosity built on the bones of the unfortunate.
