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Alcott looks delighted. “A proper campaign.”
“A war,” Lazarus corrects.
Olive stops pacing. “Yes.”
The word lands like a blade driven into wood, our upcoming war against the Collector. Against the elite men who own half the city and against every debt I have spent my life repaying. My chest tighten but not with panic this time instead it has been swapped with something far more dangerous. Hope.
Lazarus clasps his hands behind his back. “Then that gives us more time to plan properly and intelligently.”
Alcott raises his brows. “You do intelligent?”
Lazarus slowly smiles. “When properly motivated.”
Olive glances towards me. “And are you properly motivated, Edward?”
I should say no and remind her that distance is safer and desiring her is a liability instead. I look at the prisoner, the putrid man who called me dog. The shadow of my entire life sitting behind his words, then I look at Olive.
“Yes,” I say.
Her expression softens by the smallest measure. It is enough to feel it like a wound.
Lazarus stands from the stool and gestures toward the prisoner. “And what shall we do with him?”
The man’s eyes widen. For the first time, his confidence truly breaks.
Olive does not look at him, “find out everything he knows.”
Alcott’s smile turns bright. “Oh, good.”
“Then?” Lazarus asks.
Olive’s gaze lifts to mine. I understand the question beneath it. Justice? Practicality? The Collector would punish weakness, highlight hesitation as failure. He would tell me a man like this deserves whatever use can be carved from him. For once, I ask what serves us.
“Then we decide together,” I say.
Together. The word settles strangely in my mouth and a faint smile touches Olives lips again.
“Together,” she repeats. The prisoner begins to struggle. None of us move to comfort him. Outside, the farmer’s pigs grunt softly in the dark and Lazarus glances toward the sound and winces.
“Right. I should mention, Mr. Newton becomes rather impatient after midnight.”
Alcott looks interested. “Mr. Newton?”
“The largest pig.”
“You named the pig?” Alcott raises an eyebrow.
Lazarus gestures with his hands. “He has a presence. Olive, love. May I ask you—”
Olive closes her eyes as though praying for patience as she interrupts him, “I cannot have patience with you any longer, Laz! You’re antics are infuriating! I’m still angered by you taking my kill.”
“Did she just nickname me Laz?” He nearly squeals with glee.
I almost smile. Almost. For the first time in years, standing in a bloodstained barn beside my brother, a madman with a sickle, and the woman The Collector wants to own, I do not feel entirely alone. Terrified? Yes. Doomed? Possibly. But not alone and that may be the most dangerous feeling of all.
22. The Man Who Became the Hunt - Olive
Come Undone
