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“Oh.” His brother’s eyes widen as his smirk grows. “Oh, this is the luncheon woman?” He nods toward me.

My partner’s face darkens. “Say another word.”

“I was simply observing—” his brother retorts “—we should probably exchange proper introductions.”

“Do not.” His warning is cold.

“Olive.” I say swiftly.

“Oh? What a delectable name to match such a tasty fruit,” The Slaying Sickle replies, stepping closer to me. The brothers’ heads shoot toward him with matching glares. “Shut it!” the brothers state in unison.

“Touchy, touchy,” The Sickle replies, then slowly extends a hand toward me. Gesturing for me to place mine in his. “Lazarus, my lady.” Then he bows forward, keeping eye contact. Before I may place my hand within his, my mysterious partner slaps Lazarus’s outstretched hand.

“Do not touch her,” he seethes through his teeth.

“Possessive,” Lazarus jests, forcing my partner’s face to turn red.

I should not find their bickering grounding. I should not find anything about this room grounding. There is a dead murderer on a table, his severed head upon the floor, and three dangerous men standing before me in impossible color. Yet for the first time in years, the world is not gray.

It is horrific. It is bloody. It is alive. And I have no idea whether that makes me blessed or damned. My arm begins to tremble. He notices everything.

“Olive,” he says again, quieter this time.

My eyes burn.

“I wanted to be the one,” I explained.

“I know,” he replies.

“No, you do not, and who are you to tell me anything when I do not even know your name?” My emotions have clearly taken over, and I pray to the gods I can regain control. This is something that rarely happens, but with this overwhelming scenario, it is hard to pull the reins on my feelings.

His voice drops. “My name is Edward, and this is my brother, Alcott. I know—well, we know—what it is to have choice taken from you.”

The words settle between us. Heavy. True. I hate that they reach me. I lower the pistol half an inch. Only half.

The Slaying Sickle looks at Jack’s head, then at me, appearing genuinely stricken beneath the blood and fury. “I did not mean to take anything from you, love.”

My words are sharp. “Do not call me love.”

He nods once. A rare moment of obedience from a man.

Lazarus raises a fist to his lips, clearing his throat. “I did not mean to take anything from you,” he says again. “I only saw him breathing and could not bear it.” His words sound considerate.

And, unfortunately, I understand them, though I wish I did not. My gaze drops to Jack’s body. Dead. Finally dead. And yet the ache remains. That is the cruelest part of vengeance, I think. The monster can die, and still the dead do not return. Delphi does not return. My girls do not return. My mother does not return. The world simply bleeds color back into itself and expects me to know what to do with it. I inhale shakily.

Then raise my chin. “Fine.”

Alcott tilts his head. “Fine?”

“If he is dead, then we use what remains,” I explain, but anger is still coiling in my abdomen.

Edward’s expression tightens. “Use?”

I look at each of them in turn. The Slaying Sickle, grief still burning in his eyes. Alcott, fascinated and far too pleased by chaos. Edward, my secret companion, my darling stranger, standing before me at last.

“We make certain the city knows who ended him,” I say. “And we make certain every woman he killed is named before his name is remembered.”

Silence.