Page 160 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

One night, Riley is reading quietly in the dry cradle of his bathtub when he hears soft sounds from above. Too heavy to be the footfalls of a bird or the playful crash-landing of the bats that fly around here in high summer.

It’s a person.

His ears awaken to seek the heartbeat.

He knows it’s her before she ever opens the steel door.

Riley comes down to meet her. The bars remain locked in place.

Only Troy knows the code for those, no one else.

Céliane has grown a lot. Her features have sharpened, and she’s developed a keen sense of innate style. He estimates she’s now in her mid-twenties. She’s carrying a backpack, and she’s armed.

Guns, knives, he smells them on her, tastes gunpowder.

‘Mon trésor,’ she whispers, staring at him. Riley gets the sense of being scented from afar and read. She’d said a long time ago that he was like her, that they were the same, but he never understood it until she’s right there and like recognises like. ‘What have they done to you?’

Riley steps forward. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Céliane.’

She gives a fragile smile. ‘You remember my name?’

‘Of course I remember you,’ he says, stopping when the bars are close enough to touch. ‘You’re the only woman I ever met.’

Her green eyes fill with tears. ‘I am sorry I could not get you out sooner.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘No, it is not. It never will be. But Jean-Marie, I’m here now. I have amassed power, money, technology and support. I have someone working to free your brother although…’ She sighs, inclining her head. ‘It is complicated. I could not have done it before, but I can now. I’ve come to take you home.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because home is where you belong. This is not your home,’ she tells him. ‘That man is not your family. This prison is not—’

‘It’s what I need.’ He swallows. ‘I n-need to be locked up.’

Her expression runs cold. ‘And who told you that?’

‘It’s what I know.’

‘Your aura is… fragmented,’ she whispers, gaze roaming over him as if reading something he cannot see. ‘I know how it feels to suffer growing up with your outsides not matching your insides, but what we have is a gift.’

‘It’s not a gift for me,’ he admits. ‘It’s torture. I hate it. I hate what I am.’

She grips the bars. ‘I waited too long.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It matters to me, you are family.’

‘Why do you want me?’

‘Because you are my sister’s first-born son.’

‘You want to use me to rule?’

‘Again,’ she says sternly, ‘I wonder who told you that.’

‘Was he wrong?’