Chapter Twenty Nine
Rosalie
When we get back to Azmaveth's manor, it's still dark outside. Marcella drives faster than Daniel did. More than once, I consider reminding her that though she's immortal, I'm not, and if she wraps the car around a tree, it's likely that only one of us will walk away unscathed. But I bite my tongue, too exhausted to engage in the type of banter that complaining would invite.
She leaves the car running in the circular driveway and hefts a backpack over her shoulder. She packed light this time, as most of the toiletries I need are available. Humans live here, too. Some clothes, a book or two, and my cell phone.
I didn't ask her to grab anything. It might be a peace offering, but it feels more like confirmation that I'll be here for a long while.
The front room is empty and the house silent. I expected Azmaveth to meet us despite the late hour. It's not like he needs to sleep.
"You can head upstairs," Marcella says, handing me the backpack. "I trust you know your way around well enough. I'm going to wake Daniel up so he can dump the car. Get some rest."
"Can't you do it in the morning?" I ask, trying not to sound like I'm pleading.
"I'll be busy in the morning. We don't know what time Theodore will be back, or the manner in which he'll be transported, or the state he'll be in."
I hesitate, kneading the shoulder strap of the bag. "Can I… Is it alright if I stay in your room? I can't be surrounded by… him."
Marcella doesn't soften. Not now, and as a general rule. Instead, she looks me up and down with narrowed eyes. "You'll have to forgive him for this to work."
"I know." And I do. And I will. "Let me be angry for one more night."
"It's almost daylight." She sighs, gesturing towards the stairs. "Mine is the room across from his. Make yourself comfortable."
The lack of Theo's presence almost makes up for the barren decor. Though the size and layout of Marcella's room is similar to Theo's, it has none of the personal touches. She's lived here for longer than I've been alive, but the walls are bare, and the desk is clear. Nagged by curiosity, I shuffle through a desk drawer and find a blank notepad beneath a black pen.
It's clean the way a hotel room is clean: impersonal, crisp, bordering on soulless. Even the bedding is bleached white and neatly tucked. The only indication that someone spends time here is the open window overlooking the driveway and the shelf beside it.
She doesn't have nearly as many books as Theo does, but the ones she has are well-worn. The edges are crinkled and rounded, the spines broken and pages a dull cream. I slide one out, spotting a flash of color behind it.
The rubber cupcake I got her for her birthday is nestled in the back, hidden behind pages of— monster erotica?
I shrug and replace the book, trying to match its position so she won't know I've been snooping.
Through the window, I watch Daniel climb into the stolen car, shoulders low, clothes crinkled and thrown on. Liam is probably old enough to be left alone for a few hours, especially if he's sleeping. Especially here, where any threats would be thwarted by a servant of Death.
If I didn't know what happened to his mother, I'd be better able to convince myself that Liam is safe.
It doesn't take long for Marcella to sweep through the door. Behind me, the desk chair scrapes against the floor. "Az is a better host than I am," she says, sitting. "I'm not as practiced in anticipating the needs of humans. If you need something, ask."
The fact that she thought to pack me a bag is proof enough that she's lying. Even when I was taken to Cora's house the first time, I wasn't missing any essentials. True, the clothes she picked for me were questionable, but she remembered the basic amenities. Toothbrush, comb, soap… She even thought to toss in a bottle of Tylenol.
Without turning to her, I blurt, "How many people have you killed?"
"I haven't kept count," she says, not missing a beat. "Not all of us are as soft-hearted as Theodore. And it's good we're not. Can you imagine a world where we're all so sentimental? Nothing would ever get done."
"Ten?" I ask.
She sniffs. "If you'd like to believe it's that low of a number, we can say ten."
"Twenty?"
"Now you're implying I'm ineffective."
"Hundreds?"
"That's closer to the truth. I'm not arrogant enough to claim thousands, but it's possible." She pauses. "I only kill people who deserve to die."
"How do you know who deserves to die?"
"I can read minds, Petunia. I know who's taking me home with the intent to hurt me— who would hurt me, if I wasn't strong enough to defend myself. If I'm a monster for ridding the world of other monsters, so be it."
With that reasoning, she could condemn anyone who she decides has—or will—wrong her. She could thin the population until it consists only of people who share her ideals, her morals. Is that not Morrigan's philosophy with a shinier coat of paint? Who has the power to check either of them?
Theo does. Or they think he does. Or they fear he does.
I don't say this aloud, but she hears it. The stolen car shrinks to a spot of light in the distance.
Though I don't plan on sleeping, I find myself settling onto the bed and slipping beneath the crisp white duvet. Marcella hunches over the desk with her back to me, staring at the wall like it'll grow a mouth and start whispering to her.
"You're worried," I realize. She doesn't often wear her emotions so plainly— or maybe I've come to know her well enough to notice them.
"Of course I'm worried. I'd be a fool if I wasn't. Actually, I'm a fool for not leaving you under Azmaveth's care and fleeing. I've made an enemy of two incredibly powerful beings, and both of them are keen to strike me down the moment they see me. And the worst part?" She glances at me over her shoulder and sighs. "I'm right. I know I'm right. But Theodore doesn't always see sense, as you're well aware of."
"He won't hurt you. He cares about you too much. Besides," I say through a stifled yawn, "that's what I'm here for, right?"
"Ever the optimist."
Because Theo can read minds, too. Because he'll react before either of us can get a word out. Unless…
The truth isn't always the truth, or it doesn't have to be. Marcella didn't offer me to Morrigan, just like Andrew never raised his voice at me. He was never violent. He never frightened me or exhausted me. He was troubled and sad, but I never hated him. Not even a little.
Marcella was worried when Theo disappeared. She brought me to Az because she didn't want to leave me alone. She was protecting me. She was keeping her promise. Because she cares about me the way Andrew cared about me. The way Theo cares about me.
A lie can become the truth if it's repeated enough. If it hurts less. If it should be the truth.
Birds chirping through the open window announces the arrival of morning. Overnight, a chill snuck in. Still half-asleep, I pull the duvet tight around myself and shrink into the space heated by my body. The bed smells wrong, and the sheets are too stiff, and I'm almost exhausted enough to ignore it. I almost let myself forget, if only to rest for a little while longer.
Sleep slips from my grasp. I groan awake, opening my eyes to find the desk chair abandoned. Marcella is probably already downstairs. I pull myself up and rummage through the backpack Marcella packed for me. The clothes she chose this time are more reasonable at least. My phone is wedged below them at the bottom, screen down. I exhale slowly and brace myself for the onslaught of notifications, but when I pick it up, there are no missed calls or worried texts. It's early, so Emily hasn't woken up to find me missing yet. I power it off and shove it back into the backpack.
Despite my stubbornness last time I was here, I comb my hair and change my clothes. A shower would be divine and a warm bath even better, but I haven't been told where the bathroom is, and if I wander, I risk running into Azmaveth. I'd rather confront him with Marcella by my side, so I stuff my belongings back into the bag and head into the hallway, planning on going directly downstairs.
Instead, movement in Theo's room across the hall steals my attention. My breath catches, but two terrified eyes widen when they meet mine. Liam freezes, clutching a piece of paper in his tiny fist.
"Okay," he says slowly, "you're definitely not supposed to be in there."
Instead of offering an explanation, I nod to the paper. "What's that?"
He shoves his fist behind his back. "Nothing."
"You said you promised not to take anything from Theo's room."
"And you said you'd tell me what happened after dinner."
Fair enough. "Does Marcella know you're here?"
At the sound of footsteps stomping up the stairs, he darts away, slipping down the hallway in the opposite direction.
"So that's a no," I mutter.
Marcella crests the stairs and cocks her head. "Hungry?"
I shake my head. The ache in my stomach can't be soothed by food.
"Tough. I had breakfast prepared for you before I sent the cooks away, and you're going to eat it. I don't need him to accuse me of starving you."
Breakfast is cold eggs and potatoes. Marcella sits across from me until I choke it down. She doesn't say a word, but her anxiety is palpable. She normally keeps her emotions tight, so the fact that she's worried makes me worried, but I do as she said before. I keep my shit together and narrow my eyes at her, warning her to do the same.
After I finish eating, we head to the sitting room to wait. Azmaveth arrives shortly after we do, taking a seat in the chair nearest the door. He doesn't say a word to either of us, though he gives Marcella a pointed look. Neither of them seem much in the mood for conversation.
Andrew and I used to sit in silence for hours on end. It started as a game, trying to get the other to speak first. We pinched and pushed and made silly faces, drew pictures and pantomimed. Then, it became a challenge. Do you know what I'm thinking? Right now, can you tell?
The first time he lost, he withdrew from me for three days. Not speaking, not sitting with us at lunch, not answering his phone. When Emily asked what his deal was, I was so frustrated that I told her the truth.
"He's such a drama queen," she said with an eye roll. "He'll get over it."
On the third day of his coldness, I cornered him after school. He'd been walking home instead of sitting next to me on the bus. When I demanded that he tell me what was going on, he grinned. A full-mouth grin, like it had been part of the game.
I understood, then. He didn't just need me. He needed me to need him. The silence was a way to seek reassurance that he, too, had power over me. Terrible power, and I realized it in that moment. His absence would torment me. It has tormented me.
And what of Theo's absence? A part of me, a tiny part, nags that I should be relieved. That I should've let him stay gone. He deserves to be punished, doesn't he? He deserves to suffer my absence.
But Andrew is still in there, or at least a part of him is. I've seen him in glimpses, in quiet moments and soft touches. If Theo is a monster… Especially if he's a monster, I can't abandon Andrew to him. I can't let Theo have him. I won't.
Even if Andrew was a bit of a monster, too.
I shove that thought down until it's smothered by other, easier truths. I loved him. I loved him.
The entrance is as dramatic as I anticipated and comes sooner than I thought. Though the sky is cloudless and bright, thunder groans overhead. Marcella is on her feet before the sound stops, positioning herself in front of me. Across the room, Azmaveth stands too, tilting his head to the side in an exaggerated motion, exposing his neck.
Darkness seeps through the floorboards, rising like smoke until it's as tall as my height while sitting. I swallow hard, bracing myself for Morrigan, but she doesn't show. When the inky black fades, Theo is on the floor alone, head pressed against hardwood, arms wrapped around himself, trembling. He looks…
He looks like hell, or like he just walked through it. His normally fluffed hair is plastered to his scalp, slick with sweat I didn't know he could produce. What I can see of his skin is pale enough to hint at the veins beneath. No, not veins. Streaks. Electricity swims below his skin, pulsing blue light. His clothes are intact, the same ones he left in, and there aren't any marks on his body.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes, not even me, the only one who needs to.
He lifts his head like a shoe falling from height. Slowly, anticipating the impact, an inevitability. When his eyes, jet-black and narrowed, meet mine, he snarls. The sound is animal, one I haven't heard from him before.
"Easy," Marcella says, throwing her arms wide like she'd grab him if he lunged for me. Like he'd lunge for me.
My ears begin ringing, a horrible high-pitched drone.
Marcella snorts a laugh. “Of course I’m real, you moron.”
His eyes dart to her, then around the room. He rolls into a sit, balancing on his shins. The lightning beneath his skin glows brighter, threatening the surface.
"I made you a promise, didn't I? This is me keeping that promise."
He curls his fingers against the floor.
"Well, we can discuss it properly when you calm the fuck down."
He looks at me again. It takes effort to hold his stare. Too late, I remember the still-yellowed skin on my temple.
Marcella says quietly, "You can hear her heart. She’s fine."
He starts to rise.
"I know." She yields a step as he reaches his full height. The backs of her knees press into my legs. "I know. I was short on options, as are you, so you’ll just have to trust me."
This, apparently, is the exact wrong thing to say. He takes half a step towards her, hand raised, lightning spilling from his fingertips—
"Get out," I whisper.
Theo freezes, but I'm not talking to him.
"Get out," I say again, louder, nudging Marcella and glaring at Azmaveth. "Both of you. Out."
Marcella doesn't turn to look at me. "Petunia, that's not a good—"
"He won't hurt me."
"He's not exactly himself right now."
An easy truth. He's more himself than he's ever been. I'm about to say as much, but Azmaveth straightens and, with a wary glance at Marcella, leaves the room.
Marcella lowers her arms. She opens her mouth, then decides not to worsen the situation by speaking. She withdraws in a side-step and then a scurry, following Azmaveth.
I don't know where they go. I can't bring myself to care. Not now, with Theo's hand in striking distance. The energy pouring from him raises the hair on my arms, but I hold firm.
"You killed him."
It's not what I meant to say, but seeing him in his truest state has forced me to truth as well. His eyes go wide, and for a second, I think I've succeeded in reaching him. In bringing him back.
Then he charges me.
His hands dig into the couch on either side of my head, arms caging me. His face is so close to mine that I can taste the accusation in his exhale. I force myself to meet his eyes and ferocity. I don't flinch when he bares his teeth.
The stink of burnt fabric wafts towards us. The energy seeping from his hands sears the cushion behind me but stops before it reaches my skin. The heat of it nips at my cheeks but doesn't hurt. A warning or a bluff, I can't decide.
"What game is this?" he hisses. "Your methods are uninspired and tedious. Or do you despise your own face so much that you must wear hers?"
My anger yields to pity. He's, as Emily would say, completely batshit. I slow my breathing and lock my muscles, going still beneath him. Playing a corpse, a non-threat, one who won't satiate his need for a fight. Because he does need a fight, evidenced by the quiver in his hands as they fold over fabric and the energy spilling from them, seeking flesh but banking at mine.
He raves on, "And this house. This house! Did you think to torment me further by recreating it? When I'm free from these chains, I'll drag you there and point out the flaws in your imitation. I'll show you every thread of carpet you've missed, and then I'll tear apart your body. Your body, not your soul or the ones you've stolen. You've forgotten how to feel pain, but I'll show you— I'll make you feel human again. And then I'll make you nothing. Like you never existed."
"Theo…" I reach for him, stopping just short of touching his chest. "Theo, you're not in chains."
He catches my wrist, and a flare of pain shoots up my arm, so similar to the agony when Uriel burned me. I wince and pull away, cradling the ruined skin with my other hand. His eyes go wide as he watches mine tear.
"You're not real," he says.
"Get off of me."
He does, sliding down without touching me again until he's kneeling before me. His hands hover over the tops of my thighs, then curl into fists. He presses them into his eyes hard enough to hurt. "You won't trick me again."
My fingers find his hair, then his scalp. It's damp and dirty, but he relaxes as I untangle his curls. The lightning under his skin dims to a barely noticeable shimmer. He goes limp under my touch, resting his hands on my knees and his forehead on his hands. Then, he begins to weep.
The sobs shake his entire body, hiccuping through him like he can't contain the sorrow he's been forced to conceal. A pathetic whimper slips from him between trembling exhales. The air around my knees grows humid with his tears.
This, I think, is the easiest truth of all: that I can soothe him, that I can save him. That he deserves to be saved.
Once he wears himself out, I tug on his hair to get his attention. He drags his eyes to my face. His skin isn't swollen and pink the way a human's might've been after such a fit. The only evidence of his despair is the black of his irises fading to a washed-out grey.
"You're going to listen to me now," I say.
He swallows hard and nods. With my fingers still buried in his hair, the movement pulls at his scalp.
"You killed Andrew."
His jaw tenses, but he nods again.
"You took his— you have his soul."
"Yes," he croaks. "I promised him—"
I tighten my grip in his hair, silencing him. "He was half of me, and you stole that. You stole something from me, and it's not coming back, not ever. I wish," my voice cracks, "that it was him here instead of you, because he would never…" I clear my throat. "I thought about leaving you to be punished forever. You deserve it. You know that."
"Yes," he whispers.
"And instead, I gave up my soul to bring you here. Understand?"
He blinks.
"My soul," I repeat, "for your freedom. Morrigan won't bother you for the rest of my natural life." I shove him away, the contact suddenly more blistering than when he burned me. "You're done with the rebellion. There is no more rebellion. For the rest of my life, if you don't move against her, she will leave us alone."
He stares at his hands. "That's a rotten deal."
And it sounds so much like him, like the version of him I know and wish I didn't, that I shoot to my feet and shove past him. He catches my ankle, gentle enough not to trip me.
"Thank you," he says.
"I didn't do it for you." I kick until he releases me, then soften my tone. "But… I'm glad you're alright."
"Your wrist," he says. "How badly…"
"I'm fine," I say despite the pulsing ache and blistering flesh. "After I leave this room, I'm going to tell Marcella and Azmaveth that they're safe from you. That you won't hurt them. Are you going to make me a liar?"
He shakes his head like a scolded child, staring at the floor. A despicable thrill crashes through me, a thirst for power I didn't know I possessed.
He'll be arrogant and impassive again before the day's out, but for now, for just a few minutes, he's as human as I am.
I lower myself beside him and tilt up his chin with my index finger. Whatever happened to him in the week he was away shattered his confidence and maybe his sanity. He has an eternity to recover.
Would an eternity be long enough for me to forgive him?
"I hate you," I whisper, watching his throat work as he swallows. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
A lie can become the truth if it's repeated enough, so I repeat it. Over and over, until my mouth goes dry, and then to myself. It echoes in my head like a promise already broken. I don't need an eternity. This moment is enough.