Page 47 of Realm of the Wicked

Damien just watched me, waiting for me to calm down, I was sure. ‘Are you quite done?’

He was such a pompous ass, it made me want to scream. How was he always so composed? ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

He straightened out his cuffs with a smirk. ‘Of course you don’t. Are you coming or not?’

Stubbornness simmered in my core, demanding me to disobey, to hold my ground, but the larger part of me was too curious for my own good. ‘Fine.’

Damien led us through the neatly organized stacks, along the back wall we hadn’t reached before. Shelves lined the wall in either direction, stretching the length of the vast room. Except instead of books on the shelf, there were… things. That was the only way I could describe it. Things. Trinkets. Knick-knacks.

I could feel Damien’s eyes on me as I stepped closer. ‘Funny. You don’t seem the sentimental sort.’

‘I’m not. These are tokens collected mostly before my time. I just created a place to store them all.’

I stole a glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. He simply watched me, and if I were to name his expression, it would contentment.

‘What are they all?’ I finally asked.

‘Artifacts. A history of sorts.’ He stepped beside me, running a hand over a white vase, painted with feathery strokes. ‘There are so many names for what I do. Different cultures explain it in different ways. We don’t exactly have a concise history of who we were, and how we came to be. At least not an accurate one. People are always going to twist the truth to make themselves look better.’

‘Oh,’ I whispered.

‘This is the closest we’ll get to an accurate history. The art people created to worship their deities. Of course, they never worshipped the right ones, but c’est la vie.’

‘What do you mean?’

Damien thought for a moment, lips pursed. ‘Well, take the Donner Party for example. A pretty well-known tragedy, right?’

‘Right…’ I had no idea where he was going with this.

‘Well. Something worse would’ve happened if the Donner Party hadn’t gotten stuck when they did. Far more people would’ve died. Innocents. Children.’

When he snapped his gaze to mine, I felt pinned to the spot, unable to move or even look away.

‘That’s what people don’t realize about this. We’re not just killing people for sport. We’re balancing out the needs of the many versus the few. One tragedy versus the next. The soul of a serial killer for the lives of five teenagers. But what if one of those teenagers grows up to be an even worse serial killer? It’s complicated and cruel and harsh. And yet, I’ve probably been more of a god to these people than anything they’ve ever begged for mercy from.’

His words settled in, taking root in my chest, spreading out with spindly tendrils of understanding. The needs of the many versus the few.

He’d saved me, though. What did that mean?

‘Where do I fit in?’ I choked out.

I didn’t know why I bothered to ask because I already knew I wasn’t going to get an answer.

Damien pushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. ‘This wasn’t what I brought you here to see.’

‘It’s not?’ I tried not to stare at the way his muscles pulled at his shirt.

‘No. It’s something on the shelf.’ He finally ripped his eyes away from me, taking a piece of me with him. He ran his finger along the shelf until he stopped. ‘Here.’

In his hands, he held an antique mirror, far older than I could fathom. The worn silver was bronzed around the edges of the ornate detailing, the glass speckled with tarnish. When I took it in my hands, it was heavier than I expected.

‘A mirror?’ I asked.

The smallest hint of a smile pulled at his lips, not condescending or placating. Genuine. I decided I liked it, no matter how small it was.

‘It’s not just a mirror.’ His hand brushed against my wrist as he reached out to tap it, a sensation I told myself to ignore. ‘Think about what you want to see more than anything else in the world.’

My answer was immediate. Grace.