Page 48 of A Vocation of Violence
“Be careful of the word ‘monster,’” Night Horse warned, his voice somber.
I straightened, sobering at the thought that Night Horse might feel defensive of Jorah. Though the man fancied himself Night Horse’s boss in the Syndicate, I always had the notion it was because Night Horse allowed it. And their recent tensions had raised some of my own.
Night Horse was not a leader of men, but an observer of them.
“Why? You don’t think the word applies to Jorah?” I asked.
“Because, Fiona,” he said, lowering his voice as if to cradle the weight of history, “words have power. They can turn men into monsters, make innocents appear as demons. Even babes turn into baby monsters, needing to be slaughtered before they grow into adult monsters. Such words exist in every language, borne upon the tongues of conquerors. They are legion. They are why I stand before you tribeless. Why some soldier thought my infant son needed to die before he could become a brave.”
I closed my eyes, and several monstrous words rose unbidden to the forefront of my mind. Words that would never wash away, no matter how hard I tried to cleanse my thoughtsof them. Words made by other men to oppress and condemn. I wished they didn’t live in me.
But they did.
The silence between us grew dense, laden with the unspoken. In the dim light of Night Horse’s quarters, our eyes met, and a tacit communion passed between us—a shared understanding born from the ashes of loss.
The words of monsters remained suspended in the air between us, a chilling reminder of the brutality that haunted our pasts. I looked into Night Horse’s eyes and saw the same pain that lay buried within my own heart.
We were both survivors, forged in the same fires of anguish and loss.
“Why must empires crush families?” I whispered, as if saying it out loud would make the memories more bearable. “My father and brothers…your wife and child. A million other souls lost, or worse…left behind with the memories of the brutal things we do to each other.”
For a moment, we sat in silence, united by the weight of our shared grief. Then, with an unexpected intensity, Night Horse stared deeply into my eyes.
“I still don’t know how you look at me,” he said, his voice less steady than I’d ever heard it. “Mine was the blade that bled your priest. I know he had gone mad with God, but he was once someone you loved.” His eyes held a darkness I’d never seen before, the shadows of regret etched deep within them.
I steeled myself against the resurgence of sorrow, the memory of Aidan’s descent into zealotry—a wound that would never heal.
And yet, as a year had gone since the night that Aidan had forced Night Horse’s hand, the memory had lost most of its teeth and claws to the truths that were uncovered. “You have nothing to atone for,” I assured him, almost meaning it with my wholeself. “That man ceased to be the Aidan I knew long before your blade found him. We shall speak no more of it.”
Seeking respite from the heaviness, I ventured a question to steer us clear of the shadows. “Are you planning to remain in London long? Bound to Jorah and the Syndicate’s designs?” It was something I’d often wondered and never had the guts to ask.
He shrugged, an elegant lift of his broad shoulders. “To be truthful, I never anticipated surviving this long.” A wistful smile touched his lips. “Not for lack of trying. With the admiral I spent a few years circumnavigating the globe, and a life at sea was enough to wash the American stink off me. My time with the Syndicate has been…lucrative, as you can see.” He motioned to the finery of our surroundings, far surpassing my comfortable, upper-middle-class rowhouse on Tite Street.
“Are you settled here, then?” I queried.
His gaze went to the window, open to allow cool air to flow over the warmth of the fireplace. A contrast I found delicious on my skin.
“I don’t think I’m capable of settling. I am never comfortable, no matter how fine my trappings. I will always be looking for an enemy. I will always return home expecting to find ashes. It is why I would not marry again. I’m too close to a beast to walk this path with a woman, especially a woman of worth.”
“How do your people measure worthiness if not by virginity or piety?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “What is a woman of worth to you?”
“You.”
My breath caught, his words igniting something deep within me.
He studied me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. “To me, Fiona, you are like an eclipse. Rare. The earth stands still to see but must quickly move on. Your intellect and empathy transfix me. You remind me that I am a man. That youare a woman.” He paused, his gaze never leaving mine. “I have worn my weight in chains, Fiona, but you remind me that I was born free. That I used to be like a wolf who could scent entire stories on the breeze. Now I fear I am becoming like Europeans—blind in a windstorm.”
The raw honesty of his words stirred something within me, and I felt an unexpected longing for him. Night Horse seemed to sense it too.
He drew closer, his voice dropping to a fervent hush. “We are animals, Fiona. Cloaked in decorum, we feign civility. Yet strip away civilization’s veil, and we will bare our teeth over what is ours. I would not presume to own you, to claim you, but I find the instinct to bare my teeth when other men are near.”
The weight of his confession hung between us, and in that moment, I saw the man beneath the myth—the soul that yearned for the freedom of open skies and the unfettered howl of the wild.
“I often think of the time I paid for your kiss,” he admitted, a tinge of vulnerability lacing his voice. “I find myself craving more.”
His confession rendered me speechless, astonishment warring with an arousal that took root deep within my core.
“If Jorah lives in your heart, I’ll never speak of this again…” He trailed off, leaving the possibility suspended in the charged atmosphere.
