Page 223 of Coal Hearts

But it was no use.

I only saw a fallen angel.

A devil born from a man.

With a huff, Henri unwound his fingers from my throat. They fell away, trailing down my chest before he put distance between us, coating me in ice after he’d burned me with brimstone.

I couldn’t breathe as he stumbled back, alcohol stealing his steadiness. With a groan, he raked both hands through his hair and looked at the domed ceiling. With his head tipped back and blood streaking his upper lip from my kick, he looked as if he implored the heavens to give him a second chance. To let him fly into the clouds and save him from the despicably dark things crawling through his spirit.

But no deity answered.

No spearing ray of light appeared.

The fog swirling by his legs only grew thicker, congealing like blood as his chin tipped down again, and he sucked in another huge breath.

His hands balled. His tattered wings retracted and folded down his back, the bone-clawed tips kissing the bloodstained carpet below.

And then...his eyes locked on mine.

“I told you what would happen, little nightmare. I told you what exists inside me...”

Every atom inside me froze, all while my hallucinations grew stronger.

The unexplainable attraction I held toward Henri chose that moment to tear out my stupid, useless heart. His grey gaze was the hook, puncturing the pathetic organ. His cold smirk the line, tugging on my ribcage. And his blackened voice the final yank, ripping me from existence, delivering me flopping and gasping at his feet.

“I’m finally free.” His voice echoed in my buzzing mind. “Free.”

I trembled as he smiled. Not the fake, perfected smile of a cop playing the role of a sadist but a monster who was truly, finally free.

He’s free, and I’m...

dead.

“Let yourself die. This is just the beginning...you don’t want to endure the end,” a hummingbird whispered.

“Death is better than what he’s about to do,” a crocodile, forever trapped in water-like epoxy, croaked.

“I’m glad you decided to finally stop fighting who you truly are, Henri.” Victor’s vile tone cut through my delusions. “Just in time, I might add. Then again, I’m still unsure if I should let you live or die...”

“You’d kill me the moment I’ve come alive?” Henri muttered. “Bit unfair.”

Victor didn’t reply for a while, his face carefully cold. Finally, he said scarily softly, “I’ll postpone my judgement until after...how about that?”

“Fine.” Henri nodded, his face etched with shadow.

For a moment, I saw things as they truly were.

Henri just as a man—his black t-shirt rising and falling with heavy breaths, his black slacks so severe compared to his bare feet.

Peter just as a slave—kneeling on blood-dripped carpet, the cuts across his torso like red scripture scrawled into his skin.

And Victor as a king—sitting with his legs primly crossed on a rattan peacock chair. His lambskin slippers tapped out an impatient beat while his black dressing gown parted, showing navy silk pyjamas beneath. His hands folded over the gun he’d held to my head, resting like a deadly pet on his lap.

With a tight smile, Victor ordered, “Now you’ve strapped her down, choose a weapon.”

“A weapon?” Henri’s voice dabbled with drunkenness, lazy and hostile.

Victor pointed at the table full of rusty, unhygienic torture devices. Even the barbaric thousand-year-old instruments displayed in the Tower of London were better looked after. Two of the knives had dried blood on them, and the thumbscrew looked as if it had a torn piece of flesh.