Page 18 of Even Robots Die
“Please, leave me hanging and don’t finish your explanation,” I answer Brice sarcastically.
It’s not lost on me that the table in the dining room is big enough to sit twelve people and that he decided to sit on the opposite side of where my breakfast was served.
He wants me here as much as I want to stay.
I’m just a means to an end, even if so far I have no clue how he expects me to find a solution to his problem.
“I’ll show you after breakfast,” he tells me in an ominous tone. He then ignores me and proceeds to eat his toast.
In silence.
I don’t know what is wrong with that man and his silence, but it’s slowly—who am I kidding, not slowly at all—grating on my nerves.
I keep my eyes on my plate and eat my buttered toast and croissant, trying to avoid sneaking glances at the tall asshole sitting on the other side of the table.
If he wasn’t meticulously eating his toast and drinking his coffee, he could easily pass for a statue. You know, the ones in the museums from the Greek gods era.
I don’t know if it’s a bat thing, but it for sure leans into the Vampire myth that made them out to be unbreathing creatures.
11
Brice
Ican barely breathe.
I’ve been in the same room as Florentine for less than ten minutes and already I want to do everything in my power to rile her up.
I don’t know why.
I have no specific reason for it other than the fact that she turns a deep crimson when she gets furious and I like the sight of it.
And knowing that I don’t feel much lately, just that is enough to be a feat in itself. And yes, I don’t care if it makes me look childish, it feels like forever since I’ve actually had urges of that kind. Of any kind, truly.
I’m not hungry. I don’t even feel like eating my toast or drinking my coffee, but I have to keep my mouth busy or else I’m gonna say something that’s going to make her mad and as much as I would love to see her get ramped again, that’s not why I did all of this.
When she finally finishes her croissant and licks her fingers, I stand and walk to the door.
My toast is half eaten and I’m pretty sure there is still some coffee in my cup, but I don’t care right now.
All that matters is the ‘plan’.
It’s all I’ve been following ever since I ran away from Notre Dame.
I need structure. Without structure, my mind will crumble and I will start seeing my hands wrapped around a very long sword with Elhyor’s hands on the blade, bleeding, as he uses brute strength to prevent me from piercing his heart with the sword.
Not a lot of people know how to kill a dragon. But I did, I do, and they used it against me. They used it against him.
Because I was just a tool to them, and I can’t even get revenge because they’re all dead.
The team that rescued me made sure of it before they even knew what happened to me.
They couldn’t know, though. None of them got the special treatment I got while here. The only one who has an inkling of an idea is Gabriel, but I heard that they managed to stitch back his wings. Not that it fixed everything. He was here in the hands of the bastard who used to be Michaël—the previous one, not the one that just died by the hand of none other than my own daughter, Cassiopé—and he had time to do much more damage than he did to me.
The man is hardly a shell of himself now. He spends all his time buried in books. From what I understand, it’s not much of a change for the former archangel of knowledge, but it’s all he does now. Interacting with people is causing him panic attacks and, other than his son, no one has been able to visit with him for more than twenty minutes at a time.
At least I can function normally.
Or as normally as my situation can permit, which means I don’t freak out or go crazy as long as I don’t see or hear Elhyor.
