Tommy unzips the suitcase with a loud shriek, teeth parting before she kicks it open. An explosion of clothing follows, innards ripped out whilst she searches for her target. Charlie yelps at seeing his belongings go flying, and the pile grows ridiculous. The last thing inside is a wrapped parcel, twine cinched hastily around it. Tommy tears into it, shredding paper, and then something drops to the floor, the glass dome shattering.
What’s left rolls forward over uneven bumps of stone before coming to a stop at my foot. A candle. About a quarter has been used, with the rim melted and the wick charred, whilst its twin currently sits on my dresser. The past two days fall into place like dominoes, and the pattern of it almost kills me.
It’s him. The bastard in dorm 4A.
There’s a brief breath of wind, an invisible hand suddenly at my back, clutching my shirt as I turn.Calm down. But there’s no way in hell that’s happening, and Tommy lets go. Charlie hasn’t moved from the corner, a trapped rat hoping it’ll eat him before something infinitely worse and feline comes along. He can’t meet my gaze, darting between the candle and the door, but I don’t give a fuck about his cowardice.
I’m eyeing the expensive riding gloves he wears.
Last night, leather had been silk, and the night before’s claimed wool.
I step toward him, nod once at his hands. “Take the gloves off. Now.”
“Get out of my room. Before I call security.”
As if they’d even make it here before I was finished with him. “Do it.”
Recognising the futility of his threat, he recoils and then tries to leave. Four strides, and I’m slamming him back into the corner. His head snaps back on a moan, one hand trapped behind him. The other raises to grab my throat, but I catch it and twist his fingers until he’s whining. I have him by the jaw, and he makes my job so easy because he tries to snatch his hand back—whilst I’m gripping the edge of a glove.
It slides off effortlessly. I use his realisation as a chance to snatch his other hand; he jerks, but I go from jaw to throat, pinning him with a forearm and tearing leather free. Both hit the floor, and the room goes silent. In this light, his pale hands are a canvas. Four angry cuts run diagonally, lifting skin. They’re frantic. Desperate.
Hers.
Francesca gorged himthroughfabric. I picture her small, clever hands, how hard they had to have fought to mark him like this. Through the gloves. Through her poisoned daze. The room tilts, and I steady it by taking his throat in hand. Thisthing, this pathetic rat, attacked her. His eyes bulge, lips moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying over the static in my ears.
“You choked her.” My voice doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me. “You put your hands right here.” I dig my fingers into the hollow of his throat.
He flails, clawing uselessly at my sleeves. “I don’t know what you’re?—”
I ram his skull into the wall, and the sound of his teeth clacking stokes a vicious fire inside me. He goes glassy, still claiming oblivion, but it’s drowned by a second impact. Her name falls from his lips in a whimper, and I see red. He wheezes another lie, and I answer with my fist. Thick, warm blood drips over my knuckles. My signet ring bites into skin, branding him; the first useful thing it’s done for me.
He sways sideways to the floor as his knees buckle under him. I mount his chest, slapping away his defensive hands as he coughs synthetic citrus into my face. That smell takes me back to last night, and I hit him for it. Fist after fist, I pour it into his face. Something inside his nose relocates. I hate how much thatclicksatisfies me.
Charlie sobs a word that might beplease.
His plea becomes a fucking trigger, one that I want him to suffer for. The part of me that loves silence takes a seat, and the part that looks like my father stands up. To look into the mirror would show mehim,but I don’t fight off the resemblance because Charlie put hishandsonFrancesca’s throat.
All I can see is her, half-naked on her room floor, struggling to fight him off. I want him choking on his own blood, begging me the way she never could because he stole her voice. The ring digs channels into his skin until it tears and blood—both his and mine—drips down onto his jacket. I’m cataloguing everything as I land each blow: one eye is already shut, his cheeks swell grotesquely. More blood bubbles, teeth flashing pink. Enjoyment unspools within my chest until it burns.
“Please—I,khhhh, I didn’t—” He’s still trying to speak through his split lip. “I jus’, I was—fuck—following instruc…tions.”
‘Instructions’ knocks something loose in my anger. I go still on his chest, fists parked on either side of his head. Panting, I rasp the question, “The fuck are you saying?”
“Candles. Jus’ scare… her. Told me where to be. Wh-hen.” He tilts his head to breathe better, whining when his broken nose objects. “So sh-shorry.”
Try as I might to ignore it, his apology forces one possibility to the forefront of my mind. There’s a chance I’m battering a fucking puppet. My stomach drops even as I keep heaving. No,what the fuck?This was supposed to be linear. Find the bastard who hurt her, find Godwyn’s traitor, and cut the head off the snake.
Rage pushes me to finish this, but I steady myself and ask, “Who gave the instruction?”
His eyes roll, and I slap him back into consciousness. “Dunno, was jus’… passed on to me. Said she’d—that she’d… fight a little. To be careful.” He winces. “You… weren’t supposed to be here. Not here.”
“That’s not good enough. Explain.”
“Dunno—I swear! That’s jus’ what Ed said, and… that he’s the last in line. L-lastchance.He was always—always there for her… always saves her… then you came.”
Always saves her.
Her knight in shining armour. Sir Incest-a-lot. Against my wishes, my mind plays the film. Gabriel attacks her, and who comes to bury the body?Edmund. The trees play the song from her nightmares, and who shows up at the cottage to comfort her?Edmund.
