Page 108 of A Requiem of Fire and Ice

“We only use knives when we’re desperate,” he said one evening when I killed the man who touched me in a way I wish not to remember. “To think, after all the training I had given you, your mother’s emotional tug made you like knives more. You’d best get out of the habit soon and disconnect yourself from each kill with a gun.”

The memory hits hard, and sharp pain sparks across my temple, splintering through my mind. Then, heat flushes across my forehead, and when I open my eyes, Prince Reen is poking me again.

I slap his hand away.

Enough with the poking, dude!

It weirds me out because I enjoy it when he does it.

We exit the car and walk down the street. The shooting range is across the road. As we wait for the lights to turn green, I notice pairs of eyes gawking at us. Although we have roamed freely, we have had fewer encounters, but that doesn’t stop the staring and sneaky photos in the distance.

“From our encounter on the rooftop, I noticed you were an excellent shot,’ Prince Reen says. “I want to know if it’s a fluke or if you have some talent in you.”

I smile. “I prefer sharp, pointy things.”

“Still,” he says, “you nearly got me.”

“Is that what made you not kill me? Did the thought of dying turn you on?”

He eyes me with an arched brow. “No. It was you doing the unexpected. Still, I would have killed you. What changed my mind was when you panicked. The fear in your eyes wasn’t over me killing you, and since then, it made me curious about your secrets.”

We walk across the road. Elemny swarm on either side, crowding the street, unless they notice Prince Reen. They side-step and keep their distance, as if he’s a constant threat to society that everyone needs to fear.

His eyes narrow at every elemny passing by and cringing away from him. It’s annoying me, and so I do the unexpected. Stepping closer to him, I take his hand. My smile softens at the constant tapping of his thumb. He does that frequently, and initially, I assumed it was when he was lost in thought. Now, I reckon it’s a coping mechanism.

“What will we do when we get to the practice range? And why do we have a gun range when guns are illegal?” I ask.

“Even if it’s not legalised, elemny are curious about their power.’ Prince Reen smirks. “And we’re going to have a little healthy fun competition. Whoever loses has to do as the other says.”

“Are there any rules?”

“Nothing sexual or unflattering—like running down the street naked.”

I nod. “Cool.”

We enter the shooting range. A unique experience compared to the interrogation rooms. For one, there is no screaming, panicked, desperate elemny wanting their freedom. The sounds of gunshots cause me to jump back and eye the three men aiming their pistols at the paper targets.

Looking away from the gun range, there’s a rage centre. Two women with sledgehammers break everything in the room. Plates shatter, littering the ground among torn photos, broken furniture, and ripped clothing. Their faces contort in pain, and one of the women’s mascaras smears black lines underneath her eyes.

“They’re likely here because their lovers are tethered to another, or they cheated on them,” Prince Reen says.

“What about loss?”

“They wouldn’t be here.” He frowns. “They would seek revenge, mourn, or drink their way to the end of a bottle. They wouldn’t come here to relieve their anger over someone they loved.”

“You could be wrong,” I say.

Prince Reen shrugs. “I’m never wrong.”

I breathe a laugh at his cockiness.

The man working here shows us the gun range. As we enter, the three men shooting put down their guns and leave—they dart wary looks at Prince Reen, flinching when he moves past them. Yet, Prince Reen doesn’t bat an eyelash.

When we were walking here, it didn’t seem to bother him that everyone around him feared him. It’s bothering me, though.

“Pick your poison,” the man says.

I focus on the knives and guns behind clear glass and hanging in a display case. The man unlocks it with his master key and slides the door to the side.