“Oh, ofcoursethey are!” I look to Auggie, who’s watching me with his “get-on-with-it” look. “Augs, I think we should pop over to city hall after this and have a chat with the mayor. See about getting the Forsythes the keys to the city. An honorable mention, at the very least.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” the doctor says. “You’re fae. It’s… it’s different for witches and mages. We’re not supernatural, but we’re more than human.” Her gaze lifts, watery eyes meeting mine once more. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to live with a foot in both worlds, never really fitting into either?”
More than you know.
I look to Auggie again, and for a split second I remember him as he was—my human friend, my neighbor, the bloke who’d take me out for mead and a few laughs at the tavern in town after a hard day’s work in my father’s fields. No cameras back then—he used to draw and paint. That was his way of capturing the world—a world he saw as beautiful. He was kind and good, full of life, happy.
And now he’s here, trapped in a filthy house with filthy people, forced to watch me torture the worst of humanity, just as he’s been doing night after night for centuries…
Auggie gives me a single nod, and I know he’s thinking about it, too—our old lives. What we lost. What we’re still losing, a little more with every sunrise.
I don’t even know how much time we’ve got left.
My fucking heart lurches. This woman believes we’re fae because that’s what the fae who cursed us intended her to believe. We’ve spent fifteen hundred years living in forms that weren’t supposed to belong to us—weren’t supposed to exist. Everyone we ever knew and loved is either dead, or—
I close my eyes, clenching my jaw to keep from lashing out at her again. From telling her the whole gruesome story just so she’ll stop feeling so fucking sorry for her pathetic self and her beloved “cause.”
“The Forsythes inspired us,” she blathers on. “Nurtured our magic, gave us a coven and a family when many would’ve rejected us. They rid the society of the corruption that was rotting us from the inside out, and turned it into something we could all be proud of.”
“Seems to me you’ve been drinking too much of the coven Kool-Aid,” I say.
“Mock me all you want, but—”
“Immortality,” I say, cutting her off before I have to hear anymore odes to the Archmage. “That’s what you’re trying to achieve with Hunter. How? Even for a pureblooded mage child—which Hunter wasnot—how the fuck is something like that even possible?”
“It isn’t. Not really. Our procedures don’t make him immortal, they merely make him stronger and less vulnerable to human disease, injury, and natural aging. Once the demonic entity has taken full possession, the vessel bonds with the demon’s immortal essence until they are virtually one and the same.” Her eyes glow with some newfound awe. “It’s quite amazing to see. The applications for human medicine are—”
“Yes, I’ll be sure to mention that to the Nobel committee when I submit your nomination. You’re still treating him, then?”
She gives me a wary glance.
“We’ve got surveillance footage of you coming and going from his apartment,” I say. “So if you’re not treating him, perhaps you’re…” I thumb over toward Connie. “Making one of your special house calls?”
A huff of irritation, then, “I was… concerned about him. Hunter has not been the same since his bride—”
“Donotcall her that,” I seethe. “And spare me your false concern for Hunter. Hunter was a child that you and your lot murdered. All that’s left is a shell you’ve filled with a vicious demon.”
“You don’t understand. I—”
“Why didn’t the medical treatments start until Hunter turned nineteen?” I press. “Why not sooner?”
After everything she’s already shared, this seemingly innocuous question seems to shut her down. Her lips press into a thin line, the last of the color draining from her face.
On the bed, our other prisoner tries his luck again, arching his back, thrashing his legs, groaning in frustration and fear. Whatever the answer to this question, it’s clear he doesn’t want her to tell us.
“Augustine?” I say, nodding at poor Connie. “Perhaps the Yankee Candle needs his wick dipped again.”
There’s a lovely selection of candles in all shapes and sizes on the bedside table, and Auggie selects a nice, fat red one, along with a lighter.
I turn my attention back to the doctor, but before I can prod her to continue, Connie’s back at it with another fit of hysterics.
I glance over at Auggie, who’s diligently passing the dripping red candle over the man’s unmentionables.
“Guess he likes it better when you do it,” I say to the doctor. Then, raising my voice to be heard above the ruckus, “You were saying?”
“Stop!” she cries. “You’re hurting him! You’re—”
I grip the handle of the dagger and give it another good twist.
