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His gaze drops to my split lip. “She hit you?”

“Several times.”

“Good.”

My smile widens. “I thought so.”

Alcott rises beneath my skin, demanding the body back with such force my vision blurs. Very well.

The work is done. For now.

I let him come forward. The world softens at the edges. My smile fades into Alcott’s horror, he gasps, one hand flying to his bleeding mouth. His eyes find Olive in Edward’s arms, then Lazarus, then the blood on his own knuckles.

“Oh,” Alcott whispers. Lazarus watches him carefully. Olive lifts her head from Edward’s chest, her eyes are swollen, face wet, but inside them, something glows. Dangerous and alive.

“I did not deserve it,” she says again.

This time, her voice does not shake. Alcott’s face crumples.

“No,” he whispers. “You did not, darling.”

I sink back into the dark behind his eyes, satisfied. Let them comfort her now. They can bring tea and biscuits and soft blankets and all the tender, useless things humans require after battle. I have done what I came to do. I found the coal beneath the ash and I struck it. Olive, our beautiful, ruined Widow, has begun to burn.

44. True Anger Released – Lazarus

Anything > Human

I do not get angry often. I perform anger beautifully, of course. A raised voice here, a dramatic threat there. A blade pressed delicately beneath some deserving bastard’s chin while I discuss the philosophical failings of his existence. But true anger? No, true anger is quieter. It sits behind the ribs and waits, it does not drink, it does not laugh, it does not make speeches. It watches for the exact place to cut. Tonight, it follows Alcott down the corridor. No.

Not Alcott, but Darkness moves beneath his skin like a shadow refusing to obey candlelight. I can tell by the way he walks. Alcott has elegance whereas Darkness has intention. Alcott drifts through a room as though contemplating its construction, but Darkness enters as though he has already decided where the bodies will fall.

He knows I am behind him, but he does not turn and that makes my anger colder. The conservatory remains behind us, full of broken breathing, wet earth, and Olive’s voice saying the words none of us had been able to carve from her. I did not deserve it. A miracle, perhaps, but miracles do not excuse the hand that shoves someone toward the altar. Darkness opens the library door and steps inside and I follow closely. He stops near the fireplace, his back to me, Alcott’s pale hair catching the low lamplight.

“You are upset,” he says.

I close the door.

Softly I state, “Yes.”

“How novel.”

“Do not.”

He turns then, there is blood at the corner of his mouth from where Olive struck him. His eyes glitter, pleased and wild and far too alive.

“She needed it.”

My anger moves with me. “Do not tell me what she needed.”

His smile widens. “Someone had to.”

“No.” My voice stays even, that should give Darkness enough warning. “Someone had to remind her she did not deserve what happened. To give her rage somewhere to go. Someone had to ask the question. Fine.” I step closer. “But you enjoyed it.”

The smile flickers in the corner of his lips, I step closer still. “You enjoyed having the sharp object in your hands, pushing until she hit you. Enjoyed being the thing she could break against because it let you feel useful and cruel at the same time.”

Darkness studies me. “You see me so clearly, Sickle.”

“I wish I did not.”