Page 87 of Blackwicket

“How did it feel to kill that man?” He lowered his head, and I turned my face away, not trusting myself, emotions fluctuating too rapidly to identify. “Did it excite you? Make you feel powerful?”

“Don’t.” I didn’t want to disturb this truth, the piece of my soul scorched black.

“How many people have you murdered with your magic? Go on, tell me every dirty secret. What’s it matter now? Get it off your chest before we both die with lies hanging between us.”

“No more than you.” I aimed a sharp stab of energy toward the familiar connection already forming, our power churning together, the same terrible magic of two broken monstrous people colliding in a struggle for the upper hand. I dug deep, the sensation exhilarating, like diving naked into cold water, and when I found the dark ruins of his Drudge, I took hold.

He sucked in a breath, then exhaled, the vibration turning to a lurid groan.

“That’s the way. Do you feel safe when you hold someone’s life in your hands? Call the curses up, devour me, leave my husk behind in this rotting house.”

My power retreated as though it had been scalded, anger losing its harsh shape and turning to shame. The sound the Inspector made was a mingling of relief and disappointment, and he finally loosened his hold on me.

“I don’tdothat,” I said, wresting away, creating space enough to notice the blackberry vines had stirred closer, growing toward the maelstrom of power we’d created.

They strangled their host plants, snapping the stems and branches supporting them, gorged with our anger andresentment, the suppressed desire to consume each other, no matter how depraved the need was.

“Your mother did. Your sister.”

“My mother never hurt anyone.” My head pounded.

“A child was murdered. Right downstairs in your parlor.”

I wanted to refute it as a lie, but it wasn’t. My hesitation was all he needed.

“The Blackwickets are murderers.” The accusation boomed through the tower, the thundering of a gavel. “You’re a killer, Eleanora.”

“I know!”

I screamed the confession, the edges of my magic decaying, building a curse. Inspector Harrow had finally broken me open, spilling out the most depraved parts of me for his amusement.

“I didn’t mean for him to die,” I shouted. There were no secrets worth defending anymore. “But I’m glad he did, and I would give that disgusting pig those cufflinks again!”

I laughed, hot tears on my cheeks, hoping the Inspector was getting everything he wanted out of me.

“I’m only sorry I didn’t get to watch him choke.” The admission was poisoned honey, and I savored every drop. “When I heard he’d died, I raised a glass and toasted the bastard’s departure.”

I had nothing to grab onto, to break, or throw to expend the remaining anger beating behind my sternum. So I bent double and screamed, and from my mouth boiled the red tinges of the curse I’d been plaiting with my fury. The house quaked as though beset by vicious winds, vines snapped, and Blackberry fruit burst, adding their tainted magic to the rest. Victor stood in the chaos, a creature carved in stone, having done the job he set out to do, no longer needing to provoke and manipulate me with magic, fear, or lust.

When the hungry, haunted flora had devoured the last echoes of my wail, I pressed a palm to my breast.

“Something else you should know, Inspector. My mother didn’t kill Thomas Nightglass. I did.”

“You?” Harrow narrowed his eyes.

“You wanted all my dirty secrets,” I said. “I murdered him.”

This confession affected the Inspector strangely, and he was suddenly annoyed, vexation plain in his tone.

“What did you have to do with it?”

“I showed him Dark Hall.” I stood straight, facing history as much as Inspector Harrow.

“For what purpose?”

“Because I was lonely, Inspector,” I said, impatient. “I ran around Dark Hall like it was a carnival ground, but I was alone. Thomas was my friend. He wanted to go, and I wanted to share it. The Fiend had never bothered me, I’d only encountered it once. It ignored me because I didn’t have any curses to feed it. But it noticed Thomas. We’d nearly gotten through the Narthex when it got hold of him, but I closed the portal, severed a portion of the Fiend in the process. I didn’t see him again until Grigori brought him.”

Do something, Isolde. Look at the boy. He’s dying!