Page 128 of Violent Possession

I could spit poetry or launch a missile into the room—the effect would be the same. The Japanese look alternately at me and at Griffin, who smiles like someone who has just received a baptism of blood.

And I know, at that instant, that I am foreverfucked. Because I’llnevercontrol this chaos again.

I can only keep him interested long enough to destroy who Ineedhim to before he destroys the whole world.

CHAPTER 8

J’ADOUBE

GRIFFIN

EIGHT HOURS EARLIER

The silence in Alexei’s apartment has weight. It’s expensive, bought with state-of-the-art soundproofing and the absence of normal life. And it’s driving me crazy.

I’ve spent the whole morning limping around this luxury mausoleum. Every time I close my eyes, I seehisbaths, his skin scrubbed raw—I dream about this shit. The image is so profane it erases the memory of the pain in my own arm. And to think his suicide plan was partly to get rid of this, or that Cain just didn’t see his arrogance.

Seraphim showed a different side of himself to each of us.

I look at my metal hand, polished and perfect. The gift from the man I should hate. I look at the city outside, the monster of concrete and light. I’m trapped between two demons. And I don’t know which one scares me more.

Fuck this. I need air.Realair, not this filtered stuff that circulates in here.

I put on my old clothes, ignore the Audi key on the coffee table, and leave. I take the service elevator, just out of habit.Walking through the streets of the neighborhood above is like walking in a margarine commercial—everything is clean, quiet, fake—so I go in theoppositedirection, limping, until I cross the invisible border and return to my world. Purgatory.

Here, the air smells of smoke, piss, and fried food. It’s my smell of home.

I stop in an alley, one of my old observation points, and light a cigarette. I lean against the cold, damp brick wall, and I finally feel like I can breathe. I stand there, just watching the flow of the street, letting the smoke fill my lungs and the truth of the conversation with Cain settle in my soul.

An old beggar, with a tattered coat and an empty look that has seen it all, approaches. He holds out a trembling, dirty hand.

“A cigarette, boy?”

I take the pack out of my pocket, take one out and put it in his hand. A ritual I’ve done a thousand times.

When his fingers close around the cigarette, he presses something small and hard into the palm of my hand. His eyes, once empty, meet mine for a fraction of a second.

“The guardian angel sent a message,” he whispers, his voice a scratchy throat. “There’s a dog that barks too much and attracts the hunter.”

And then he turns and walks away, blending back into the urban landscape, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.

I look at my hand. Along with my cigarette, there is a small, folded piece of paper. I open it. There is only one message written by hand, in a handwriting too beautiful to belong to anyone buthim.

East Pier. 8pm.

— A friend.

Seraphim.

The message is strange. A dog that barks too much? What’s at the East Pier at 8 pm?

I throw my cigarette on the ground and crush it with my boot. The nausea and confusion I felt only intensify.

If he wanted to kill me, he wouldn’t have signed asa friend, would he? Seraphim isn’t that cynical... I hope.

Hope is a treacherous bitch, and I learned not to trust it a long time ago. But the alternative—ignoring the message—is even worse. Ignoring Seraphim is like ignoring the sound of a rattle in the dark. Youdon’tdo it.

I turn and start walking back. East Pier. 8 pm. More than five hours to go. Is it a date? Or anexecution?