Page 71 of Lovely Violent Things

“Technically,” I say, uncapping the disinfectant, “I only discovered the mine on a map. I found the cellar access to the mine this morning while you and the team of feds cataloged the library.”

She nods absently. She’s still partially under the influence of the Rohypnol Devyn used to subdue her, but her logical mind can’t stop analyzing, processing.

The digital mapping software the FBI use to search the town and surrounding area doesn’t incorporate the old mines that were sealed off nearly a hundred years ago. One shaft of the mine which leads right to Landry’s mansion, and that can be viewed on the old maps in the library. A convenient way to stay hidden for years. Devyn had her very own meditation cave for her and her higher men.

“You knew where to find them,” she says, referring to the victims, the accusation more assertive in her voice now.

“I knew where to look,” I admit. “Potentially.”

“You were prolonging the case.”

“Yes.” I set the rubbing alcohol on the floor and brace my hands on her thighs. “And I won’t feel bad about that. For wanting to be with you, to have more time. Those people are lost, but they don’t need to be found, Halen. You knew that at the ravine.”

She searches my face, trying to see past the mask of a killer in her pursuit for truth.

“Did you know it was Devyn?”

I hesitate. “No. Not for sure. I suspected everyone in this town, as I’m sure you did.”

She lowers her head, drawing the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Figuring it out sooner wouldn’t have changed the outcome.”

“Logically, probably not.” I grab the cloth. “But it would have prevented a deeper connection to her, that feeling of betrayal.”

She looks away, trying not to feel the hurt. “That’s enough.”

I make a sound of agreement. Then, rising to my feet, I head toward the clawfoot tub and twist the brass handle. Water pours from the faucet spout, and I wet the cloth before I switch the lever to the overhead shower and draw the opaque curtain closed.

When I kneel before her on the stool, I say, “Give me your arm.”

Halen delays, clearing her hair from her face, before she finally relents. “I’m not broken,” she says, thrusting her arm from beneath the blanket. “You don’t need to stitch me back together.”

Her words strike deeper than any physical wound, her anger a mix of regret and humility. She allowed herself to trust and was betrayed, but she lays the blame on herself.

“I don’t want to fix you,” I say, taking her wrist in hand, a deviant enticed by the feel of rope burn on her delicate skin. “My motivation to mend your wound is entirely selfish.”

Steam thickens the room, the flickering lowlight of the candle flame softening the darkness between us.

Her swallow drags along the fine column of her throat as I stretch out her arm. My gaze drops to the crude gash torn into her flesh. The first two words of the scripted tattoo have been bitten away, destroyed.

A burn hotter than the searing flames of the underworld coils my viscera.

“She wasn’t…herself.” The hardness in her tone tempers, her words meant to diffuse my climbing fury at the woman who Halen still feels a kinship with.

“She tried to eatyou,” I remind her, finding her hazel eyes amid the faint lighting. “Devyn is intelligent. Despite the fact I may hold a mote of respect for her devotion to the teachers and not the hacks, she made a choice to blatantly misconstrue a dogma for her own selfish reasons.”

“Kallum…”

I take her weary use of my name as a request to drop the matter.

“Hmm.” With delicate pressure, I begin cleaning her wound. For now, I’ll give her the time she needs to find her balance. But my clemency is temporary.

Halen demanded I spare Alister in his office, and I obeyed without question, regardless of the fact I was seconds from tearing his still-beating heart from his chest. She couldn’t live with herself if I ended Devyn, so for my muse, I let the priestess live. I let her flee into the night, taking our secrets with her. She’s still a threat.

Anything my muse asks of me, I do willingly. That’s how the muse works, after all. We must surrender to it, our incarnate force of inspiration, our guiding intuition.

But there will be a moment to come when I can’t surrender. When the ask is too high, the sacrifice one I won’t be able to make.

While her thoughts churn deeper, keeping her mind busy, I use the damp cloth to sanitize the gashed flesh. Then I sterilize the needle in the open flame of the candle before I thread the eye, prepping to stitch her wound.

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