Page 150 of Shades of Silver City

“I don’t understand,” I say.

Archer launches himself at Arlo, only to hit some sort of invisible wall. “I will kill you,” he hisses.

Arlo’s face morphs into a thing of darkness. The whites of his eyes darken until they’re nothing more than black shadows. His jaw cracks and stretches until his mouth is open impossibly wide, and he steps forward, inhaling Archer’s wavering gold soul-shade.

“Stop!” I screech. I lunge for Archer and rip him away from Arlo. We tumble backward. Archer’s head hits the cement with a resounding thwack. “Archer!

I frantically tap his cheek, trying to rouse him. His eyes stay shut, but luckily his breathing is steady.

“Don’t kill him, please,” I say desperately, glancing up at Arlo, whose face has returned to its regular, ethereal beauty. He stays rooted in place. I turn back to Archer, jostling his shoulder. “Please, Archer, wake up.”

“Reapers do not kill for the harvest; they can only harvest when souls are finished with their current body,” Arlo says. “He’s not dead.”

“You—”

“You’d be wise to remember the power you’re dealing with. We might not kill, but there are many other ways we can cause pain.”

“I will fucking end you, you bastard.” I jump to my feet.

“Your little hero over there—” Arlo jerks his chin toward Archer’s unconscious frame. “Have you ever stopped to consider his intentions? Perhaps he’s the most selfish of them all.”

I spit at him, but it’s a pathetic spittle that doesn’t even make it to his boots. Arlo gives me a mischievous grin.

“You fucking narcissist,” I spit. “You’re the selfish one, you—”

“I beg to differ.” He steps forward, leaning in until our faces are a mere hair’s-distance away. His warm breath caresses my face, and I grit my teeth. “You will not spit at me again.” At his words, an icy tingle courses through my veins. I jerk backward, almost tripping over my feet.

He’s trying to glamour me.

“You see me as a villain and Archer as a hero.” He pauses, staring deeply into my eyes. When I don’t reply, he chuckles.

“That is a dangerous, dangerous thing, little butterfly.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say through gritted teeth.

“A hero is someone who is unwavering in their beliefs. Someone who will stop at nothing to do what they believe is the right thing.”

I continue to glare, unsettled by the way Arlo’s deep black eyes bore into my soul. “Exactly. The right thing.”

“What they believe is the right thing,” he says. He lifts his brows, as if he’s trying to make a point. “Selfish.”

“And what’s your excuse? What you’re doing is no different. At least Archer has a good fucking heart and good intentions!” I yell.

“Good intentions for whom, exactly? Himself? By seeking vengeance for his junkie sister? His whore mother? To absolve his own guilt?”

I snarl, wanting to punch Arlo in his deceptively pretty face. Violence isn’t my go-to, but suddenly I’d love nothing more than to mark his face with bruises—so it matches the ugly inside of him.

“Nothing is more dangerous than a man seeking vengeance,” Arlo warns, his playful expression slipping into something more sinister.

“And what is it exactly that you’re doing? Filling the streets with a deadly drug so you can kill humans and feast on their souls?!” I scream. Arlo takes a step back. “For power? For control? You say a man seeking vengeance is the most dangerous, but a man craving power is the deadliest of all. At least vengeance is birthed from love, from passion. What’s power birthed from? Ego. The need to control. The desire to be better than others. You narcissistic asshole!”

Arlo’s eyes flash to Archer, then back to me. A line forms in the middle of his forehead. “That’s what he told you? I feast on human souls for power?”

“You’re despicable.”

He tuts at me, then resumes pacing slowly, like a predator circling its prey. “Little butterfly, let me ask you: when a human dies, where does a soul go?”

I blink, frowning at him as I ponder the trick behind his question. It’s Arlo. There’s obviously more to his words than it seems.

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