I was starting to look forward to opening the box. I felt a rush every time I did, and I craved the hatred her dark brown eyes poured onto me.
There was something about Irene. Something about this little dove who’s wings I couldn’t seem to clip.
Today, when I saw her, I would treat her to something different. Perhaps kindness would unravel her more.
I was about to blurt something out, but then I realised we weren’t alone. My gaze slid over to the corner of the room. Morte stood silently, an endless void of darkness shoved into a knit together body and black cloak and one of those plague masks.
I liked Morte—perhaps even feared him some— but he annoyed me when I wanted James to myself.
Morte was looking out the window at the streets below. This house was our hideout, one that blended in with the lower class civilians. I could see that the steam was heavier than usual this morning, clinging to everything like sticky smog.
There were stormy days where the rain would be too acidic for the humans. I would watch as they changed into their gear, their steel umbrellas protecting them from any drops that might have burned their fragile flesh.
If Irene was human, would the rain hurt her?
“Morte,” I said. “I need to speak with James.”
He ignored me, while James continued to look down at his map.
“Please,” I added.
Morte turned ever so slightly, just enough to show me that he was acknowledging my presence.
“We have a meeting scheduled,” Morte said. His tone was always flat, his accent distinctly French despite the mechanical sound to him. I wasn’t sure who’s voice box he’d taken, but even after having it for so long, it felt like he was still learning how to use it. “I have other things to take care of, crétin.”
“Just sit down,” James sighed. “Both of you. Morte is correct, we do have a meeting.”
That woman was a problem. For the last three days, I’d watched her silent tears fall. Angry tears. Defiant ones. And for the first time in all of my existence, I was beginning to hate seeing a human cry. The taste of her tears had soured my tongue, her pain echoing through me.
I had felt her.
I had wanted her.
The creeping realisation was tearing me apart.
“James,” I growled.
“I’m busy, Charles,” he quipped. “I thought you had a task to do. Three days with hardly any results, and yet you’re here early.”
“James!” I shouted.
He was silent for a moment and then slowly looked up, leaning back in his chair with a blank expression. I went to the desk, slamming my hands down and leaning forward.
I didn’t care that Morte was here. I usually saved my tantrums for when we were alone, but I needed to make a point now. Morte could hear it all, I didn’t care.
“What the bloody hell is she?” I whispered.
James blinked, one of his antennae twitching in annoyance. “That’s what you were supposed to find out, Charles. Or did you forget that while you were fucking around?”
“Look me in the eyes and say that again, you gobshite,” I growled.
He raised a brow and leaned forward. Most of the time, I enjoyed looking into his eyes. His irises were midnight blue, with flecks of beige and gold that reminded me of the patterns of his natural wing.
I knew Morte wasn’t watching us, his head still turned towards the window. He would ignore us until we were done, like always.
“What is your problem? She is just a human,” he said.
“She told me to stop singing,” I whispered. “And I have. I’ve been going to her, questioning her over and over. And I can’t break her. I can’t get through.”
James' gaze flickered. If I weren’t close to him, I wouldn’t have been able to see it, but I did.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s… resistant to my techniques.”
Morte turned now, coming towards the two of us. I glanced up at him, feeling his gaze burn into me behind the mask goggles.
“So what you are saying is that you failed to get the information,” Morte said. “Tête de noeud.”
“Fuck off, Morte, and stop insulting me in French. It’s not that simple. I don’t think hurting her is how to win.”
James shook his head, and Morte made a noise of disgust.
“She must be a witch,” I said, leaning back. The tension was finally diffusing between us.
I turned and plopped into one of the chairs that sat across from him. Morte stood for a moment, glaring down at me before he took the other chair.
James glared at me, his shoulders stiff. He had taken his coat off, wearing only a leather vest over a soft black shirt tucked into black pants, and boots. Everything we wore was functional, which meant that the vest could hold all types of weapons, as well as the pant pockets and boots. His mechanical wing clicked loudly as it lifted, spreading behind him.
I scowled at the noise. “When we’re done bitching at each other, I need to fix that. It’s annoying.”
James sighed, sitting back into his chair and running his fingers over his face. “I can’t be angry with you for too long, even when you are the bane of my existence.”
“Yes, I know. But I’m telling you both…” I drifted off, deciding if I should tell the truth.
But, even though the three of us had our quarrels, we’d never hidden things from each other. It’s what made us strong. It's what made us successful.
“I want her.”
The silence in the room was murderous.
James’ eyes darkened, his brows drawing back together as he looked at me. “You’ve never wanted a human before.”
“I’m aware,” I said. “But when I licked her tears, all I could think of was how I wanted to taste her instead. To make her scream out in…different ways.”
James shook his head. “I forbid it. She is off limits. She’s our prisoner. And she is hellishly injured. We’re going to make her talk and then kill her, like we normally do.”
“I won’t kill her,” I said staunchly.
Silence settled over the room. I looked over at Morte, holding the eyes that burned into me behind the mask.
“Neither will you, Morte. You won't touch her. She will not be one of your fucking science experiments or dolls.”
James' jaw ticked, his gaze narrowing further. “What if I commanded you to kill her?”
“Then you can tie me up and whip me for a couple of days, for all I care. I will not be the one to kill her. I am a monster, a murderer, the right hand creature to London’s second most feared gang leader. I have killed countless humans without a shred of remorse, but when she told me to stop, I did. I am too curious not to find out why. I want to know what makes her tick.”
“Why?” Morte asked. “You have never shown interest in a human.”
Why indeed?
I was silent for a moment, thinking. She had a face that I couldn’t forget. I liked her dark brown eyes, and the colour of her hair. Her curls were soft and smelled sweet, and even when she was screaming, her voice appeased me.
I didn’t want to kill her, I realised. I wanted to crush her. To destroy her.
To devour her.
I wanted to turn her innocence, to watch her be bathed in the darkness that had turned me into what I was today.