Page 20 of The Darkest Half

“Don’t you dare do that, Nik!” I howl. “Not you! After I just told you how you’re the only one—”

“Yeah, I get it!” He pushes into a stand and maneuvers around me. “But you don’t think I’m broken? You think I’m the only one out of us who’s untouched by this life?” He steps into my personal space and leans over, pushing his eyes into view, full of rage and resolve. “Well, you’re fucking wrooong! I’ve killed so many people, Izabel! Too many fucking people! With these hands!” He curls his hands into fists in front of him and grits his teeth. “And I’ve watched innocent people die! Just before I was shoved into this hole of a room with you, I watched a kind woman, who was my friend, die right in front of me! That bitch scattered Jackie’s brains right in front of me!” His face is so close our noses almost touch, but I remain still and steady, letting him get it all out. “And my mother…I betrayed my mother to that woman, and she was killed too—she begged me to help her, and I refused!”

He turns away from me in a whirlwind and paces the small room.

“You didn’t betray her.”

“HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT I DID OR DIDN’T DO?!” he roars, his face inches from mine again; it startles me, but still, I don’t flinch. “You weren’t there! How would you know?!”

“Because it’s who you are,” I tell him calmly. “And no matter what you’ve done or think you’ve done, you’re not broken by this life—you’re the strongest one of us all. You’re a human being. Behind that rough, tough, gritty, manwhore exterior, you’re…” I don’t want to say it, that he’s a ‘good’ person, and I don’t feel I need to. So, I’ll spare him the actual words and, in turn, his pride.

He turns away from me again and spears his fingers through the top of his hair.

Seconds that feel like hours pass in silence; the only sound is the constant footsteps moving down the hallway outside the door.

“Izzy,” he says, calmer now, though his voice heavy with dismay, “you want to know why my brother won’t come for either of us?” He turns and looks at me. “It’s not because he’ll compromise himself—”

“It’s because he knows that The Order will kill us whether he shows up or not,” I answer. “They won’t even give him a chance to free us—the second they know he’s here, they’ll kill us both.”

“Yeah,” he says, “so, if there’s anything you’ve ever wanted to get off your chest, now’s the time to do it.”

8

Fredrik

Years Ago – When I saw the light…

I was in a bar the night Seraphina walked into my life. I had just killed a man. A drug dealer. It was self-defense—against his own self-defense against me, of course—and his blood was still on my shirt. And on my hands, blood had begun to dry in the bed of my fingernails. I didn’t give a shit. I killed the guy and walked straight to the bar without first going home and cleaning up as I had always done. I was tired. So fucking tired. Not physically—I was tired.

A part of me hoped I’d get caught. That someone in the bar would see the blood and call the police. Then the rest of my life would be swept up in DNA evidence and court orders and arrest warrants and a trial and, ultimately, prison, where I’d be shanked in the showers and sent off to that world beyond the world we live and breathe and suffocate in.

But that’s not what happened. Not even close.

The bartender slid my glass across the bar and quickly noted the blood.

“I’d hate to see the other guy,” he said.

I didn’t say anything back, just shrugged and took the glass into my dirty, bloody fingers.

The bartender walked away, probably thinking I had been in a fight. Because no one in their right mind would come into a public place after having just committed murder, at least not without cleaning the evidence away first, right? But I wasn’t in my right mind—and really, who is if they’ve murdered someone, anyway?

The old man sitting next to me for twenty minutes finally glanced over, his deep-set eyes glazed.

“You got a sssmoke?” he asked, slurring.

I shook my head.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

He returned to his drink; I noticed a pack of cigarettes in the front pocket of his dress shirt.

As I took another drink, the sweet smell of perfume and woman wrapped my senses in a cocoon. A black-haired goddess sat down on the barstool on the other side of me, tapped her fingernails on the bar once, and the bartender walked over.

“Surprise me,” she told him.

I didn’t look at her; I wanted to but was still wrestling with the images of my sloppy murder an hour ago. I couldn’t be the everyday charming, polished devil in a suit always looking to satiate my sexual needs. I looked and probably smelled like I’d just rolled through a landfill.

The bartender brought her drink over; I downed mine and got up from the stool.

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