Page 93 of Wicked Salvation
“All this destruction, this chaos, the pain, the blood. Do you regret it?”
The silence stretches.
“No.”
Tyne smiles, rueful. “Then neither does she.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” she says. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Like you terrify her. Like you’re the only real thing in a world made of glass.” She looks at something out in the distance, beyond me. “Even the day you showed up to my class to break the window to scare her—that was overkill by the way—she was listless until she saw you.”
“I don’t get your point.”
“If neither of you regret it, there’s nothing to be upset about.” Her eyes flick back to mine. “Do you rememberLes Misérables? Javert spends the whole novel chasing Valjean. This man who broke parole, who did something wrong. He obsesses over him. He tells himself it’s justice. That it matters. But the truth is, it becomes personal. It eats him. He can’t let go.”
“And?”
“And when Javert finally realizes Valjean’s not the villain he thought... it breaks him. Because his whole identity was built on vengeance.”
I watch the smoke from the joint twist in the air like a ghost.
“You’re saying I’m Javert?”
“No. I’m saying don’t become him. You’ve done what you came to do. Let it be done.” She gives me a knowing look. “Let yourself choose something else other than bitterness.”
“Bitterness? You’re calling me bitter?” I hiss.
She nods fervently. “Yes, you’re being a bitter bitch.” Then with a tight smile she says, “Give her a second chance. It’s her first time being a human.” She touches my chest. “It’s your first time too. Both of you deserve that much.”
I let my head fall back against the cool stone.
The sky is bruised as the sun starts to set. Purple and gold start to streak across it.
My chest aches. It’s not pain. It’s pressure.
Like there’s something growing there. Something terrifying.
Hope.
“I don’t know if she’ll forgive me,” I mutter.
“Then ask her.”
I close my eyes.
“And if she still chooses Silas?”
Tyne gives me a wicked smile. “Kill him.”
XX
EDEN
Iwake up drowning.
Not in water, but in sweat—in heat, in something suffocating and sickly that clings to my skin like guilt. The hours in the shower last night did nothing to help the rotting feeling I felt seeping into my bones.
My sheets are tangled around my ankles. My nightgown sticks to me like a second skin, and my throat feels as if somebody hollowed it out with a paring knife. The morning light filtering through the curtains is soft and golden, but it makes my head ache.
