Page 49 of The Darkest Half

“You need me for what exactly?”

Vonnegut cocks his head to one side; then, he motions a hand at Victor. “Isn’t it obvious? Look at you. Look at me. You’re my double. You were trained the same as I was. We were separated at birth, taken to two different countries, and raised by The Order to be assassins. But at a very young age, I showed promise in another area: leadership. And so, they began to train me for succession.”

Vonnegut stands—Victor tightens his grip on his gun, and Lysandra raises hers on Victor. Vonnegut leaves his gun on the chair, perhaps an act of truce and goodwill.

“The leader of The Order at the time personally chose me,” Vonnegut continues. “He wanted me to rule in his stead after he died—and he had lived longer than any leader before him, so he knew he was already on borrowed time. And so, he began to…groom me, per se. Leaders usually die within ten years of taking the seat at the head of the international table—it’s a dangerous job, as you are well aware. But he had controlled The Order for thirty-eight years before he finally died.” He motions a hand at Victor again. “Anyway, the fact that I had an identical twin, who just happened to be the most skilled assassin The Order had seen in decades, well, it was all just too perfect to ignore.”

“What is your name?” Victor asks, disregarding everything Vonnegut said—I know Victor better than anyone. While although he doesn’t seem interested in the information, he’s simply filing it away for future use.

Vonnegut smiles but doesn’t answer.

“Leader of The Order has been known as Vonnegut long before you could have succeeded the one before you,” Victor points out.

“Yes. You don’t miss anything, do you?” He slides his hands into his pockets. “The name I remember as a boy was Benedict, but that was such a long time ago.” He makes a displeased face. “And such an odd name, so I’m pleased to be rid of it.”

I think Benedict Cumberbatch would have something to say about that! Yeah, I’ve definitely lost my mind; I’m thinking about actors in a time like this?

“Vonnegut is truly the only name I know.” He shrugs his shoulders as if to brush the whole thing off as inconsequential. “The Vonnegut before me wanted me not only because I was a born leader but because my twin was a born assassin and just happened to look exactly like me. If anything ever happened to me, you would be my replacement.”

“And because I look like you,” Victor speaks up with acid in his voice, “you need me as a decoy for those more deadly situations that you’re too much of a coward to participate in yourself.”

Vonnegut shrugs once more; the arrogant smile never leaves his mouth.

“I won’t deny it,” he admits. “I wasn’t much cut out to be an assassin.” He laughs suddenly, and I take immediate offense before he reveals what’s so damn funny. “I was much better at it than our useless brother, Niklas Fleischer, of course, but you get the idea.”

I must be psychic.

I hear a sharp thwap! and Vonnegut collapses onto the floor.

“D-Don’t even t-think about it, you crazy b-bitch!” James Woodard is standing behind Lysandra, a gun now in his hand. Right after Victor had shot Vonnegut, James must’ve grabbed it from the dead man on the floor next to where he had been standing the whole time.

“P-Put the gun on the f-floor and k-kick it out of the way.”

Lysandra does as she’s told, the look in her eyes menacing and vengeful. Once the gun is out of reach, James releases a long, deep breath he’s probably been holding since before Victor burst through those doors.

Vonnegut doesn’t whimper or cry out or even as much as moan against the pain I know that he feels from the bullet wound in his thigh, but he does show discomfort in his expression. He presses his hand against the bleeding wound; crimson stains the shiny floor beneath him.

“I deserved that,” he says. “I’m not too proud to admit it. But you didn’t kill me. And that’s quite interesting, don’t you think?”

“Victor?”

“Wait, love, please…”

I don’t have the energy to argue, but I need to…tell him...

I…

24

Victor

It takes longer to notice than it should have, but Izabel is no longer conscious. I am panicking inside, but I cannot let Vonnegut or Lysandra know just how much. However, it is no use trying to hide it entirely because they know how I feel about her. And my brother.

“We can help her,” Vonnegut says, struggling to get to his feet despite the gunshot wound.

He attempts to stand and nearly falls, so Lysandra rushes to give him aide.

“Get away from me.” He shoves her aside; she appears shocked by his refusal.

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