The fire hissed, as if it could sense his warring emotions.
“You know nothing,” he whispered, but even when he closed his eyes, he saw her. The fear twisting her lips, the desperate bent of her scream. He splashed his face, and the water slowly spiraled down the sink in one long, red stream.
He shouldn’t have attacked her so horribly. But the things she had said… And the contempt in her eyes. They dug into his old wounds in ways he did not quite comprehend, but nonetheless had pulled out something raw and all too painful. What right did she have to question him?
She had so easily branded him a monster, as if she did not recognize her own monstrous self. As if his rage wasn’t hers.
He had wanted her on his side.Neededher to understand, to see him. They were gods, couldn’t she tell? Forged from the same fire, bearing the same burning burden. The same terrible purpose. But she, his only kin, detested him. In a way, her flames had been a more vicious attack than a Jantari zeemir. She did not even need to touch him to land a blow.
He swallowed, fighting back his bitterness.
It was better this way, he reasoned. Better if he held her at a distance.Better if he did not build something deeper, more integral. He had, in a moment of weakness, entertained the thought offellowship. Like a lone traveler who had finally seen a fellow countryman in a foreign land, he had hoped that they shared the same kindred spirit. But their only commonality began and ended with their fire. He needed her for only one reason.
There could be nomore.
The inferno swelled, singing.
Butcher, butcher, butcher.
Samson stood abruptly, pushing away from the sink. He shoved on trousers and a shirt, and was reaching for his coat when the door flew open and Chandi strode in.
Samson steeled himself. “I know, I know. That was a fucking mess. H-how is she?”
He turned to face Chandi and started. A quiet smile tugged her lips, one he had never seen before. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, and he thought, with a wretched certainty, that had Chandi been fighting, Elena would not be breathing.
“You were brilliant,” she said.
Samson eyed her. “Did Visha slip you one of her poisons?”
“Everyone—Ravani, Sesharians, even the priestess—they all saw, Samson. They sawyou. The Prophet, righteous and powerful, conquering the queen. They— Oh, just come look.”
He followed her outside into the rain. Along the steps of the city hall, people were gathered. Ravani, Sesharian, heads bowed under hoods and umbrellas, but as he stepped onto the landing, they looked up to him. He saw the mother and her child standing with the Sesharians she had once cursed. He saw the thin man who had once spat at his feet watching him with a fierce devotion that made Samson feel both repulsed and invincible.
“There are those who still don’t believe,” Chandi whispered at his side, “but they fear you now. They saw you defeat Elena and her inferno. See how you do not need her influence. Youaretheir god. And our Blue Star.”
Samson wavered, wary of her words, wary of the naked fervor in their eyes, but a sound made him turn.
“Prophet, Prophet, Prophet.”
Not Butcher. Not a monster who drove them to ruin.
Their voices rustled forward, awed and timid within the rain, but they swept him up, lifting him from his quagmire of guilt. He turned to face them—her people turned his.
There were about two hundred of them, but Samson knew more would come. Already, his followers had grown since his healing of the burned. They were old and young, Sesharian and Ravani, workers, medics, soldiers, mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons—the faithful who had finally found someone worthy of their belief.
Vindication, blistering and acute, surged through him as the rain kissed his scars. And yet, Samson held back. It was too much—they wanted too much of him,sawtoo much. He stumbled, overwhelmed, and then Chandi touched his shoulder. He was not sure if it had been a push or a squeeze as she said, “Go.”
And then he was moving, or they were reaching, but he found himself among them with hands touching his face, his arms, his body.
The mother kissed his hand. The thin man bent so low his nose nearly touched the ground. Everywhere he turned, people offered themselves up. They held prayer beads and trinkets and palms out for his blessings. He was in a sea of believers, held aloft by their prayers and worship.
“Bless me, Prophet.”
“Look upon my child, Prophet, and give him your sign.”
“Lead me to the sands of prophecy.”
Once, their calls, theirdemands, had made him feel cramped, squeezed underneath the relentless weight of their belief, but now, now Samson bore their summons. Now, he let them lift him, his body at once weightless and buoyant.
