The Master approached and placed a bucket of water at Mara’s feet. “I apologise for this atrocity, Mara. You appear to have caused quite a stir among the weaker members of the brotherhood.”
“It asked what I was. If I was a… demon.”
The Master sighed. “I implore you not to let your reputation grow your ego, Mara. Those around you seem to struggle to comprehend your skillset, deciding on the invention of a mysterious power rather than thinking with reason. You are a remarkable individual, it has to be said. But a demon? No. The demons of this world were cast away long ago.”
Once again, Mara understood very little of what the Master said. “What is a demon?”
“Agents of evil, sent from the depths of hell to torture and corrupt humankind.”
Mara thought of the Beast. Is that a demon? Mara sat forward, cupped his hands in the bucket, and slapped water into his face. The salty taste of blood returned.
“Regrettably, Mara,” the Master continued, “it has become increasingly clear that you no longer have a place here.”
Mara stopped with his hands back in the bucket. What? Where will I go? “I don’t want to go back to the Spring.”
“You will continue training elsewhere. I see great potential in you and do not wish to throw it away to the slums. I have a tutor in mind and believe you will benefit greatly from his expertise.”
A sleepless night. Silas held his blanket at his chin, sweating like he was hot, yet felt so cold. The image of the child in the chest wouldn’t leave him. He argued with himself, unable to settle on a conclusion. I should have tried to save her. Take her to a doctor. No. She was too far gone. It was kind to end the suffering.
His faith in humanity sat at an all-time low. All he’d ever dealt with since becoming an assassin was the scum of society. He’d meant it when he’d told Mara that they kill those that deserve to die, and they made the world a better place. What’s the use? There are far too many to kill. He thought of Mother in the cave. The one that didn’t deserve to die. A stupid idea to check Mara had it in him to kill.
The wound felt like something was crawling around inside it. He dug his fingernails in and winced at the pain, then rubbed at his fingertips to feel blood. Id
iot, give it a fucking chance to heal.
He stared into the dark corner of the room. Was something watching him from there? Mara? Is he here? He knew deep down he wasn’t. The part of him that had returned when he saw Mara at the cabin was gone again. A gaping hole, impossible to pinpoint its location. What the fuck is the matter with me?
He rubbed at his face, then pulled the blanket tight to his neck again. So cold. Is he laughing at me from over there? He swore there was a sniggering sound coming from the corner.
“Shut up,” he shouted. Then grabbed a boot and threw it at the corner. It thudded off the wall. His head pounded with the exertion. You stupid cunt. Just go to sleep.
As the daylight shone through the gaps in the shutters, noise from downstairs started up. The rearrangement of tables and chairs in the tavern. Ale. He rolled out of bed and pushed open the shutters. The light made his eyes sting and the headache grow sharp. In the corner of the room, his boot lay among the smashed bottle of cleaning alcohol he’d thrown over there three days ago when it had run out. You bloody idiot.
He retrieved the boot, along with the rest of his clothes strewn across the room. His head felt heavy, and the ache intensified as he struggled to get dressed. He panted a little when it was done and returned to the window to let the spits of rain cover his shaking hands, then rubbed it over his face. Ale. He made for the tavern.
Hours later, the hot and cold sweats, and the headache, were gone. The fuzziness of being drunk had replaced them nicely. The feeling of despair, however, was heightened. He looked across the empty tavern, at the man behind the bar, then back at the table. He ran a nail along the scratches in its surface. I can’t do this anymore. The child was the last straw.
He finished the ale in the mug and held it up to show the barman, who swiftly brought over another, silently holding out a hand for the coin in return.
“Shank yew,” Silas said, spitting as he slurred. He sipped from the fresh mug and let out a long breath. Lovely stuff.
He stroked at the wound. It was a little raw from digging at it earlier, but it didn’t really hurt that much. I couldn’t do it anymore if I wanted to anyway, not with this bloody leg. I’ll be too slow. He sat upright and composed himself, thinking through the words carefully before he said them. “Ow var do Sebens Elm frum ear?”
The barman frowned. “You what?”
“Sevens… Helm.” Silas burped up a little hot sick and swallowed it back down.
“What about it?”
“’ow far?”
“Half a day along the river.”
It had been a long time since he’d been to Sevens Helm. After finding Lucia in her bed with her throat cut, he’d vowed never to go back. Even at the request of the Shadows. All my fault. I should have kept my distance. I led them straight to her.
Lucia’s murder was likely retaliation for the deaths of the leading members of the Sevens Gang. All for the whore’s drug. All for the Shadows. He’d spilt a lot of blood for the Shadows in Sevens Helm during those months, all so the Shadows could gain control of the import and distribution of the Red Mist – the drug mainly peddled to whores so they could smoke their minds away. A simple existence, smoke, fuck, smoke. Albeit a miserable one, plagued by addiction. The vicious circle. He stared into the ale. Addiction.
I wonder if Favian still keeps the city? The man he’d spilt all that blood alongside. Silas had heard Favian had been given a permanent position in the city to retain control of the Red Mist.