by Bane, Lucian
“But that was nice of him,” she insisted, like kindness was the exception to any and every rule. “He was nice to Mr. Thibodeaux.”
“He broke the law. A serious one.”
Isadore regarded Ruin again, seeming unsure of what to be perplexed over. “Why did you do that?”
Caliber sighed. “Because—”
“Can I answer for myself,” Ruin eyed Caliber who jerked both hands up, surrendering the floor to speak. Ruin looked at Isadore now. “I did it because…” Ruin suddenly realized the answer wasn’t one he wanted to say to anybody but her. Caliber waited with head down and Ruin held Isadore’s desperate gaze. “I did it for you.”
“Krísi̱ diakópti̱,” Caliber said, “oldest sin in the damn book I do believe, most deceptive too. Breaking a law for the wrong kind of love is punishable by death.”
“You did that? For me?”
For the first time, Ruin didn’t entirely loathe the fact he’d committed wrong judging. “Yes,” he finally said, holding her gaze. But every fiber inside him said that the confession should have been made against her lips.
“You did… a bad judgement for me?”
The briefest moment of respite from guilt came to an abrupt end at hearing it out loud. All the negative instincts came flooding back. Or were they positive instincts? Whatever it was, it brought a feeling that said he’d done wrong. Made him feel it. He lowered his head, unable to look at her anymore.
Isadore went back to mopping and the sudden silence served as an embellishment for the crime. Yes, it was definitely a crime and he had no business feeling anything but sick over it. Which he did now. “I’m ready to make it right,” Ruin said.
“Oh,” Isadore muttered, stalking to the sink. “Make it right, sure.”
Only, everything in her tone said sure, make it very wrong. But worse was what that would do to him and her and the ground he’d seemed to gain in understanding her. He suddenly wondered if that was even part of the job description for him. It seemed to be. “Give me my powers back,” Ruin said. “I’m ready.”
“He’s ready, give him his powers,” Isadore echoed, sloshing her mop.
Ruin watched her, feeling more lost than ever. His powers would help him know how to feel, help him understand what to do.
“Scriber,” Caliber called.
“You know what, I’ll help,” Isadore said, appearing next to Caliber, nodding at Mr. Thibodeaux.
“What?” Ruin shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” She pinned him with an obstinate gaze. “I’m his only family, it’s only right I help send him on his way.” She shoved up her sleeves. “I’m ready.”
“What are you ready for? I’m not dismantling his body parts.”
“Whatever you’re doing, I’m helping, I can help. I’ve killed mice, I can do this.” She eyed him and Caliber. “A lot of mice.” As though that qualified her to do a human now.
“This isn’t a scientific exper—”
“Now,” Caliber held up his hand. “Maybe she can—”
“No, she can’t,” Ruin cut in, his anger shooting up. “She can mop, that’s what she can do, she can mop the floor. Where he laid.”
“Okay, deal,” Caliber said.
“No deal!” Isadore said. “That’s not a job, I want a real job not some stupid job, I’m his family, I’m the only family he has, I want a job!” she screamed, commanding their attention before calming herself with palms up. “Just…give me a job,” she whispered, sounding more fragile and desperate than Ruin had ever heard.
Caliber snapped and pointed at the onyx statue. “Good idea, Scriber.”
“I can?” Isadore eyed the being. “You’d let me?”
“Let her what!” Ruin demanded, pissed.
“He said I can help lift the barrier,” Isadore gasped happily. “I can do that.”
Scriber moved into place on the right side of Isadore and Ruin gritted his teeth when he took Isadore’s hand in his. She snapped her gaze to mine. “He says we have to be touching. Oh,” she looked down at their joined hands, “you’re hot.”
“Fine, Angel.” Touch him all you like. Seconds later and Ruin was biting a hole in his tongue ready to demand what was taking so long? How hard could it be to convey the simple words to speak? Maybe he was enjoying the feel of—
“He said you need to calm down.”
Ruin released his breath in a growl. “How about you tell him to hurry.”
Isadore whispered, “He has to measure out the exact amount of power to seamlessly insert your judgement patch without alerting the…Erev̱ni̱tí̱s?” she glanced briefly at Scriber then back to Ruin, “who would then come to investigate,” she finished casually while Caliber muttered his silent amazement over the odd couple, making Ruin need to elbow him in the temple.
Ruin returned to staring at the floor. “Do it.”
“He said I need to take your hand,” she whispered, lacing her fingers in his. Her touch immediately calmed him and he clutched her tightly, his hunger for her overtaking his anger.
Isadore gasped as Scriber’s power entered Ruin through the arm she held. The ice cold pressure trickled its way up to his shoulder, then pushed into his neck like a burrowing ice pic. Ruin clenched his eyes shut as the power expanded like a slowly flexing hand, the fingers crawling up the right side of his face. He grit his teeth and let out a grunt when the ice fingers stopped at his right eye and seemed to feel around for something before the fingers attempted to enter the entire socket, a frigid dagger pushing to get beyond.
He fought not to crush Isadore’s fingers when the pressure on his eye suddenly liquefied and oozed around it, making its way into his brain so very slowly.
“Don’t move,” Isadore whispered. “Almost done.”
The liquid on the right side of his brain formed fingers again, petting, feeling, pressing and prodding, as though searching for an entrance. Ruin picked up a pattern in the movement. Not searching for an entrance. Entering a code. Yes.
Ruin gasped at feeling and hearing the sound of metal inside his ear. Scriber seemed to be picking it, like a guitar string. One…two…three…four… Ruin counted.
“On seven,” Isadore whispered.
The seventh flick of metal brought Ruin to his knees and power shooting through his body, returning, racing, filling. His power. He angled his head, more aware than ever of Isadore, and how Scriber held her close to him, how her pulse raced hard in her veins. It was a protective gesture on the being’s part, but Ruin couldn’t bring himself to appreciate it.
“Do it,” Caliber ordered.
The urgency in his voice reminded him of the importance of that job. In one move, he swiped along the man’s face and gathered his soul from the claustrum section of the brain where Scriber quarantined it. Mr. Thibodeaux’s body gave one violent jolt with the sudden disconnect and Isadore gasped. Ruin handed the dense ball of energy to Caliber who in turn placed it in a lit cylindrical container. Ruin then eyed the back of Isadore’s head, face planted in Scriber’s black chest.
Ruin became aware at that moment that the being was no longer solid black. The spiral markings on his skin glowed white, as did what should have been the whites of his eyes. Ruin stared into that dark gaze, somber and void of any emotion, an abyss of forever dark.
With the return of his power, the urge to protect Isadore hit him hard and full force. He extended his hand to her and she came instantly, eagerly. The second her body met his he felt all the powers in the room sigh in relief, as though the world’s existence hinged on his need to touch her. At feeling the urgent press of her hands into his body, the need to have her in other ways, in every way, gripped him. And having her work her hand up his shirt to caress his lower back didn’t help. She needed to feel him, skin to skin and he needed as always, to accommodate that need.
Caliber shook his head at the body. “Well done. Now we need to bury him.”
Isadore tensed in his arms and Ruin whispered, “I can crema
te him for you.”
“Cremate?” Her brows furrowed as she stared up at him, her gaze cloudy blue and confused.
“I can do it,” Ruin said, feeling again like the words should be spoken against her lips. “You can have his ashes.”
“Where is he?” she asked him. “His soul, I mean?”
Ruin shook his head, not caring about the eyes on him. “I don’t know this time.”
She looked around then at Mr. Thibodeaux. “I have something,” she whispered. “I’ll get it.”
“I’ll help.” He was suddenly aware of how stupid that was. What would he help with? It didn’t matter. He followed her upstairs regardless, and stood in the center of the room, watching her dig in the closet.
She turned with a small tin can and the sight of the pathetic container and the way she petted it like rare treasure, stirred something in him. “What is that?” he asked, moving close enough to touch her, only he didn’t. Something in him was making him wait.
“My…dad gave me this for my tenth birthday.” She stared down at it in her hands and the can began to tremble.
Ruin covered her hands with his and squeezed. At connecting to her turmoil, he realized it was from the trauma. The trauma behind her wall. “Isadore?”
“I’m fine,” she said, still looking down, still trembling. “I got it.” The last words were a hoarse whisper, frail and on the verge of losing control.
Ruin stared at the can, a sudden rage taking him. He snatched it and threw it across the room, making Isadore jump. She snapped a confused gaze at him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ruin whispered, fighting the need to take the room apart and set fire to all her memories bloodied with the sins of her father! “I’m not the enemy here.”
She swallowed and held his gaze.
“That…” Ruin pointed in the direction of the can, “is your enemy. Your pain. Your rage. Your denial.”
She shook her head, closing her eyes.
“Yes, Isadore, yes. Yes it is. That’s the enemy, the one you need to hate.”
She shook her head more. “Hating is wrong, hating isn’t the answer.”
“Hating,” he whispered carefully, “is right, Angel.”
More head shaking, stronger. “Hating isn’t right. Loving is right. Forgiveness. Mercy.”
“Hating the wrong is right, forgiving sin where there has been no justification—is wrong! Loving what should not be loved—is wrong! Having mercy where judgement is called for—is wrong!”
She stormed to the can and dropped to all fours, collecting whatever items had been in it. Ruin was torn in two to see her that way. So pathetic and broken and confused.
He went to her and knelt to help and she slapped him away, continuing to pick up what appeared to be random nothings. Rocks, barrettes, bottle caps, fish hooks, marbles… He picked up one of the hooks and she snatched it out of his hand, ripping the skin on his palm open. She gasped at seeing the flow of blood and put a trembling hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m a mess, I’m a fucking mess. I’m so sorry, I’m so confused.”
Ruin pulled her into his arms and held her tight. “Shhh, Angel. I’m here for you.”
She struggled out of his embrace and pushed him away, then hit him in the chest. Once, then again. “Don’t touch me,” she gasped, wiping along her arms like his hands were something dirty. “Don’t you dare touch me. My daddy gave me these things because he loved me.” She jabbed her finger in his face now. “He. Loved. Me!”
“Okay, Angel.”
“He loved me!” She shoved him backwards with the scream and began beating on his chest again. “You son-of-a-bitch!” she gasped. “He loved me! How dare you!” she screamed again. “You fucking cruel bastard! Why would you try to take that from me?”
Ruin didn’t block the barrage of her fists, filled with so much pain and agony, he took it, absorbed it into him, sucking it from her.
“Why would you do that?! You’re just jealous! You’re jealous of that love, just like you’re jealous of anybody that loves me. You’re jealous of my father, of my boyfriends,” she screamed at him before pointing down, “You’re even jealous of Scriber! You’re jealous of everybody that is nice to me!”
Ruin realized everything she said was true. “I am.”
She shook her head, tears pouring from her eyes. “I need those things,” she whispered.
Ruin lowered his head, wanting to say what he thought and felt but no longer trusting they were right. They were certainly true, but he was far from certain if they were right. He didn’t want her to have those things. Not from others.
Pain stabbed Ruin’s side and he gasped, looking down at the homework given him. Time was up. Hardening his resolve, Ruin got the can and lid from the floor and hurried downstairs. “Isadore,” he called, wanting her there for it.
“I’m… changing,” she called from upstairs. “Do what you have to.”
Ruin held his jaw shut, hating himself for always managing to ruin things with her. Maybe that was his purpose, after all it was his name.
“You’re out of time, son.” Caliber’s gruff tone was softer than usual and Ruin glanced at Scriber who seemed preoccupied with something in his hand.
Ruin took a breath and located the fire inside him, then closed his eyes, slowing his breath as he gave it the directive.
“Wait!” Isadore came running down the stairs. “I’m ready, wait, I want to be there.”
Chapter Five
Ruin waited as Isadore came to stand next to him. He was suddenly sure she was too close. “You… need to stand back.”
“What? Why? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean those things—”
“No, Angel. I mean you could get burned.”
The common sense hit her along with shame as she backed up a little. “Right. Backing up. Here fine? Or should I go in the kitchen?”
“I wouldn’t allow her to get burned.”
Ruin and Isadore turned at hearing the first audible speech from Scriber. The silky flow in the words was like an auditory slap in comparison to his dark essence. On top of that was the need to use his fire on the being in that second for just suggesting he’d protect her. Yet another urge that went against his judging instincts he realized. Was he faulty? Still tainted? No doubt.
“Thank you,” Isadore said.
Ruin didn’t miss the satisfaction in her tone. So she was angry with him. Again.
The weight of that notion was more grievous than the job before him and helped to call the fire forth in seconds. At feeling himself loaded and ready, Ruin muttered the word, “Katharísei,” releasing it.
The shot of light streaked from the air above and consumed the flesh, leaving… oh shit. Nothing.
“Tad too much padre,” Caliber muttered.
“Is it done?”
“He’s done alright,” Caliber raised his brows. “And I’ll be back later to check your homework.”
Caliber vanished and Isadore came to stand next to him, staring down at the spotless, ash-less floor. “Where…” She looked at him, perplexed.
Ruin slid his hand over his head, feeling like an idiot. “I used too much power. I’m sorry.”
She looked back at the floor. “You…burned his ashes too?” she gasped, realizing what he meant.
He may as well have burned the very last hope in all the world by her tone. “I’m sorry.” He was, it was the last thing he’d ever want to do.
“You burnt his ashes?” she repeated, like one in shock.
Ruin stared down at the floor, the feeling inside him angering him. “I didn’t mean it.”
“You didn’t mean it? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Ruin snapped. “Why would you think I’d want to burn up his ashes?”
“I don’t’ know,” she gasped incredulous. “Maybe because you don’t want me to have any memories that are good.”
“Isadore, you know that’s not true,” he said.
Scriber walked ov
er to where Mr. Thibodeaux had laid and waved a hand. Smokey air emitted from his fingertip and slowly settled on the floor, outlining where his form had been. Scriber swirled his fingers and the black mist flowed through the air to the can clutched to Isadore’s chest, and entered it. She looked down at it then up him.
“His residual essence.”
The soft words sounded more like a caress and Ruin fought with the conflicting feelings inside him. What Scriber had done was right but felt very wrong. And Isadore’s smiling “thank you” added to the negative equation. His residual essence. The being’s words repeated in his mind in the same silky manner he’d spoken them. The idea he’d been mentally in her mind before that, rubbing her with his oh so smooth words, burned him. Burned him to the point of bad judgement. This wasn’t normal for him and he was sure the answer was staring at him and he just wasn’t seeing it.
The block.
Yes. Yes, that. He needed to do that homework. Soon. But first… “Can I talk to you Isadore? About my homework assignment?”
She snapped her gaze to him, appearing guarded. “Sure.”
At seeing she would talk right there, he said, “Upstairs, please.”
“I’ll be back.” Scriber said softly, turning for the door.
“Where are you going?” Isadore asked as the door shut. “Where’s he going?” she asked Ruin now.
Ruin managed a shrug, too angry to speak. Why did she care where he went? Why did he care that she cared? “Something is wrong with my powers.” With him, actually, but he was sure it was connected to his powers.
“What? Like what?”
He put a hand on his hip and glanced around for the exact words. “I’m having…strange thoughts.”
“How so? About what?”
“Not about what.”
Silence stretched and he met her worried gaze. “Who then?”
“Who do you think?”
“Scriber?”
“Partly.”
“Caliber?”
“No, Isadore.”
“Me?” she said, sounding doubtful.
“Yes. You.”
“And…Scriber.”