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Chapter Ninety-Three

CARMINE

Luna is going to get the Ossidiana Knife herself, with no plans, no weapons but her own power, with her sweet scent as a beacon for every vampire in range.

“You can’t be serious,” I say.

“I am dead serious.” She picks up the orange skins and leftover wedges from the side table. “While you and your guys are busy taking out Charles, I’ll go get the knife. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“No.”

“Uh, yeah. And you’re either going to help me or you’re not.”

She turns and heads out. I reach for her, but she slips away.

“Luna. Stop.”

She freezes halfway to the door, leaving her back to me. Her shoulders drop with one hand still holding the orange leavings.

“Turn and face me.”

She does it. She has to. Her body is compelled in a way she cannot control, but it’s too late for the tears. They are already shed. Her eyes are swollen and red. Unless I tell her to wipe that defiant look off her face, her expressions and sobs are her own.

“You will not go into the labyrinth. You will not try to lay hands on that knife. You will not attempt to save my life in any way, nor will you ask anyone else to do so.”

This is the first time I have stood before her and used the thrall to command her to do something she didn’t want to.

There will be no confirmation. No laughter. No jokes. No fun.

I don’t have to ask her if she understands. She doesn’t need to.

Should I touch her and speak softly, so that her attitude will be brought to heel while her obedience remains false?

I take one step forward to close the gap between us, and she turns her face away, leaning back slightly—enough to tell me that another step won’t be welcome.

“Say something,” I demand.

“Something.” She’s not cracking a joke. She’s giving me absolute obedience that I don’t want.

“I don’t need your forgiveness.” I wait. She offers none. “You know it has to be this way.”

She neither agrees nor fights me. I may never know if I can impose acceptance on the thralled. Right now, any attempt could backfire.

“I know it has to be this way,” she repeats flatly.

She doesn’t know anything. I can impose calm on the body, but I cannot command the mind to understand.

There came a point where I broke her trust. It may have been when I told her my choices and didn’t make them hers, or when I ordered her not to save my life.

In storage, I own a clock that, more or less, rewinds time.

I’ve never used it. There was never a need.

If I had it in my hands right now, I would turn it back ten minutes, tell her some lie about the knife being a worthless trinket, and just leave this world one minute after separating her from the power that makes her a target.

“Of the two options I offered,” I say, “tell me your decision.”

The undergirding of this command is weak. She has to tell me her choice, but the choice is hers. I’m demanding a truthful statement about the color of the cheese the moon is made of.

“There is no such decision.”

“Then I will make it.” If this was a different time and she was a different woman, I would have removed her power whether she liked it or not. It is the safest, most permanent form of protection. But without her consent, it is an intolerable violation. “Nunzio will take you to the airport.”

“I want to see Serafina.”

“Why?”

“So we can talk about how much we both hate you.”

“You don’t hate me.”

“Is that an order?”

I sigh. This conversation is over.

“It’s not an order. It will take time to book a flight and call the Gargiulos.” I pause. She won’t look at me. “Nunzio will pick you up at the Citadel in one hour.”

She neither confirms nor denies the plan, but moves her foot, testing to see if she’s able, which I allow. She turns at the waist. Lifts her other foot. I don’t stop her from walking through the door.

I pat my pocket for the phone. It’s still in rice, or I’d be able to call anyone, do anything, pluck any piece of knowledge out of the air. Something has to be done, but I don’t know what. My imagination is failing me.

My deal with Amon is still good. My wife has to stay safe while he and I execute it. Then I will find another way to protect her. She will forgive me, because she will be alive.

“Luna!” There’s a shout from the street.

I rush to the window and look down. Luna is running into the street with her arm out. A yellow cab stops.

Her mother calls her name again, feeling around the front railing. She steps on to the sidewalk with her arms out as if she’s walking into an abyss. Luna goes to her. They fight, then discuss, before they get into the car together. It heads north.

Now I know what to do.

The window is sticky with years of disuse, but I manage to open it. Holding my clothes and the contents of my pockets in my consciousness, I fold into the liminal as a man and exit it as a raven, flying with only the coarsest reasoning as my guide.