Page 85 of Each Their Own Devil

“It’s been a minute since you’ve been down here. Stay for a while.”

“I’m going to kill the Second,” Aleja blurted out. Since she had cut the Messenger’s heart from her chest, she had learned it was easier to just do things instead of worrying endlessly. Worry was infinite—until the thing happened, it was like being stuck in a maze of forking paths.

“Oh?” Bonnie asked softly, wiping her knife clean on a kitchen towel. “Do you mean this literally?”

“Yes.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I think so. My dagger still has the Third’s magic in it.”

“And why would you do such a thing, Lady of Wrath?” Bonnie asked, offering Aleja a piece of buttered bread topped with sheep’s cheese and honey, as if Aleja were a hungry child whose nonsense could be temporarily silenced with food.

“Because he told me to. I just couldn’t remember until now.”

They sat and ate, and Aleja told Bonnie all she knew, speculating on what she didn’t. When the conversation ended, Bonnie refused to let Aleja help with the dishes. Aleja leaned on the counter with her arms crossed as they talked, and Garm, who had briefly woken at the promise of food, had resumed his long nap by the fireplace.

“All right,” Bonnie finally said.

Aleja stopped chewing on the extra piece of cheese she had snatched from one of the boards Bonnie hadn’t cleared yet. “What do you mean ‘all right’?” she asked through a full mouth.

“I’m the oldest Dark Saint here,” Bonnie said. “I’ve seen more people come and go than I can count—Dark Saints and Knowing Ones alike. And I’ve watched the Second retreat, growquiet, except to dole out the occasional punishment. We’re Otherlanders, Aleja. By nature, we rebel. But you need to promise me something. When the Second goes, we don’t replace him—not with the Knowing One. Not with anyone. We govern another way. Jack, Taddeas’s husband, has been living in the foothill villages for years. He joins our Dark Saint meetings. We choose others, from both the mountain towns and the valleys. We no longer go to war just because a council of eight says so.”

Bonnie’s voice caught on the words “a council of eight.” They were down two Dark Saints—lust and pride—and if those roles weren’t fulfilled, the Hiding Place’s magic would become unstable again. Aleja was hoping Val could help with that, if she could convince him to speak with her.

“Nic is working on it,” she said, reaching for another piece of bread. It felt good to be stress eating again. “He’s already made a few trips to the human realm to scope out candidates.”

This was true. Aleja had gone with him, but she had been too distracted to feel inspired by any of the humans they observed from a distance. Bonnie didn’t press. After a moment, she put down her sponge and let her soapy arms fall to her sides.

“You haven’t heard from her, have you?”

Great, Aleja thought. From a difficult topic to an impossible one. “You know Violet would come to see you first.”

“Hm,” Bonnie breathed. “We’ll see. Go speak to Val. He’ll help you. Taddeas was here for breakfast this morning, complaining he couldn’t get Val out of his hair. Apparently, our Astraelis guest is extremely bored. Killing another god is exactly the sort of activity he needs.”

“You killed my mother,”Val said, his voice devoid of emotion.

“She was already dying; I needed her heart.”

Val no longer bothered to hide his hazel eye, which moved slowly beneath his tattered mask. He squinted at her suspiciously but said nothing. The only sounds were the Avisai grazing behind him and a Throne, which had mysteriously appeared several days earlier, covered in ash. When the Avisai had risen to strike the Throne down, it had rolled over, exposing its soft belly.

“No offense, Val, but it never seemed like you liked her very much.”

“I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m not upset. She—well, I suppose she cared for me in her own way, in the end, didn’t she?”

“She killed a god for you.”

“I figured out how to kill a god. She just provided the firepower.”

“That’s understood, Val. I came here to ask if you’d like to try to do it again.”

All in all, it took frighteningly little effort to convince Val to agree. The Dark Saints—especially Orla—were harder to sway. Their meeting was tense, the weight of betrayal and unspoken arguments heavy in the air.

“The Second lied to us. About the Avaddon. About everything. He knew what was coming and said nothing. He made us pawns in a game only he could understand,” Aleja said.

“And yet we won,” Orla said, her arms crossed. Her voice was as sharp as ever, but there was no venom in it. “Do we kill him just for that? For being who he’s always been?”

Nicolas stepped forward, his shadows trailing behind him like a cloak. “He didn’t just lie. He used us—manipulated us. He let us suffer, let the Saints break themselves apart, while he stayed safe in his cave. What kind of leader does that?”

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