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“Jax—”
I say, “Easy for you to tell your story, Ash. How you supposedly tried to help when I needed your help—”
“So you have no doubts about Mia,” Ashton says, “but about me, you would—”
“Shut up,” I snarl. “You were there. I have known you for most of my life, so I have every right and every reason to doubt you, asshole.”
“Guys! Guys. Please.” She glances around at the three of us. “Please, tell me. I care for all of you. I’m on your side. But I need your truth because I trust you more than those articles. Just tell me. Trust me, too.”
“Fuck it,” Emrys says. “I’ll tell you a story. Not saying it’smystory, mind you.”
“Rys…” She sighs. “Come on.”
“Just listen.” He rubs the back of his neck, the spikes of his Mohawk shimmering gold, as if on fire. “There was a demon boy once, born in the House of Arij, named after an old, powerful demon with the task of causing hell on earth. That’s not an extraordinary fact in itself, since demon children are raised to wreak havoc all the time, but this boy was a fucking prince and was expected to fulfill certain expectations and obligations. And you may think you know what I’m talking about, not only in terms of royal obligations but even in terms of cruel expectations. You all come from some pretty fucked-up families, after all. But you never had to train your torture skills on your pets before you were promoted to working on other demons, were you?”
“Rys,” Mia breathes, her eyes wide.
“You never had to befriend an animal or a person and then be made to hit them, bleed them. Have you even seen a corpse? The maggots in its belly? Have you seen—”
“Rys!” she cries.
“Oh, you can’t take the truth, I see.” He lifts his chin, his hands falling at his sides, his face a careful blank. “Why ask, then?”
I can see Mia’s face crumble into tears. “You were young,” she whispers, “that shouldn’t be…”
“What does age have to do with cruelty?” His grin is like a rictus.
My heart is thudding. Why is he telling us this? We never talk about our pasts. It’s an unwritten rule, a measure of defense, of self-preservation. A level of trust, of saying,“I don’t know what the fuck happened to you years ago but it’s okay.”
“Please,” she says, “tell me that it’s not true.”
“Oh, don’t worry, angel,” Emrys purrs. “That boy isn’t me.”
“But—"
“Not anymore. That boy used to be me but he’s now dead and buried. He only haunts me in my nightmares. So you see, you want to fuck Ashton up because he sat there and didn’t help save you?” That’s directed at me but I’m too fucking shocked to react. “I helped hurt others. Ash, are you paying attention?”
“I’m not… feeling so good,” Ashton says, his voice hushed.
“My tales of gore upset your tummy?” Emrys growls. “I hurt people. I probably killed people. It’s possible. Can’t remember all that well. So there is my answer. That good enough for you, sweetheart?”
Mia is shaking her head.
“Motherfucker,” Ashton breathes, and when I turn toward him, I watch in puzzlement as he takes a step back and then just falls down on his ass.
“Ash,” I say.
“What…?” He looks dazed, blinking slowly. His eyes are red. “What the hell.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. He needs blood,” I say. “I know the signs.”
“And I would like to drink mead in the skulls of my enemies but it won’t happen,” Emrys snaps. “Get up, Ash. You can drink someone later.” He turns his dark gaze on me. “So who’s next with a tragic childhood story? Or are you all such cowards you won’t speak out?”
“And we’re to assume you’ve told us everything that happened to you?” I grind out. “Your life summed up in two sentences?”
“You must learn to count, Mutt. That was a lot more than that.”
I give him a wolfish grin. “But can be summarized as something like‘I’m a sicko but can’t give you details.’”
