He pays the bill, he takes my hand, and we walk out into the night, arm in arm. I am buzzing; I need this edge of insanity to push me forward. The weight of everything that has happened will crush me unless I keep moving. There is a flutter in my stomach, a sweatiness on my palms, as if I were thirteen again and still able to dream.
“I don’t know your name,” I say.
“Malik.”
“Do you live far from here?”
“Not far. Coming back with your limbs guaranteed me one of the largely untouched apartments.”
He walks briskly, with barely contained energy. I stump along beside him, starting to breathe hard. “Slow down.” I would never have asked Bron to slow, but this is different. I don’t want to hurry, not now. Not this last time.
He listens, and we stroll among the people. In the dim light, I can almost imagine the world as it was, when men and women went to and fro without a care in the world, buying and selling, kissing and drifting to peaceful sleep.
But it’s all wrong. It’s an illusion. And Malik’s eyes feast upon me, ravenously. I respond by clutching the illusion close. I’ll take a lie, at least for the moment. I strike up conversation. “I heard a boom earlier. Several of them. Do you know what they were?”
“Demolitions. We’ve lots of buildings to knock down, and there are ways to do so without magic.” He grimaces. “I was a Select, too, you know. And now–nothing. I was a weapon, highly skilled. Other weapons will replace me.”
“Poor boy.”
“Doesn’t matter, now, does it? Especially not to you. Not for long.” His grip tightens on my arm. “You haven’t changed your mind?”
“No.”
I don’t think I am able to change my mind.
* * *
We climb the steps to his apartment. His hand clenches my arm. I struggle to breathe, not from exertion, and not really from fear, but from a dreadful exhilaration. Up we go, one more mountain to climb to reach my destination. Will I find what I’m looking for? Or will I find the empty hole again? Not the magic that consumes me and leaves nothing, but an emptiness that swallows me and keeps me whole?
Terror races along my veins, now, joining the exhilaration and, like just the right spice, accentuating its flavor. Up we go–”Almost there,” he says. I am in a delirium which might be joy and might be rage and might be fear. Yesterday doesn’t matter. Even an hour ago has ceased to exist. It is now. Now, the dark stairwell. Now, Malik’s hot skin against mine. Now, the breath that forces its way in, its way out, its way in. And now, the door, plain, with the number 316 upon it.
Now is when I cry out. Now is when I escape. Now is when Bron comes near and tells me that I will not die, that he will save me–no matter what.
Now–no, I am a coward, always a coward, afraid to die, unable to live.
The door opens. I am subservient, led about like a doll. He shuts the door behind me, locks it. He lights a candle.
“Pardon the mess,” he says, almost winking.
“Will it hurt?”
He pauses as he lights two more candles. “Do you want it to?”
“No.”
“I won’t promise anything.”
I don’t turn and run. Why? I deserve this. Malik claims we all believe in something. This is my belief: that I am not worthy of existence.
The shadows flicker darkly across his face as he turns to me. His eyes weigh me carefully. He licks his lips. I wait.
I feel it with my good hand, but I restrain myself, force my fingers to remain still.
He steps close. “You’re broken,” he says. “One leg. One arm. And a brain too big and too stupid. I expected you to fight, to try to escape. Do you really want to die?”
I shake my head, and tears run down my face. I lock my knee, clench my fist, and force myself to remain, but I am sobbing great, painful tears. My chest is convulsing uncontrollably. “No,” I whimper. “No.”
And through my tears, through my distress, I see him smile.
“Too late for that.”
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