out of stupid.
“Tell me, how is it that your mother isn’t accusing me? Not even Barron. Not even your grandfather. Would they let me walk in here if they really thought I was responsible for Philip’s death?” I can see a muscle in his jaw jump, he’s clenching his teeth so hard. If I hit him right now, his stiffness would make the blow hurt worse. He obviously hasn’t been in a fistfight in a long time.
My hand’s shaking with violence. I slam it into a vase sitting near the doorway. The vase shatters; thick chunks of pottery, water, and flowers rain on the carpet.
“You’re not sorry Philip’s dead,” I say finally, breathing heavily with raw fury that’s only starting to abate. I don’t know what to think.
“Neither are you,” Zacharov says, his voice steely. “Don’t tell me you’re not sleeping better at night with him gone.”
In that moment I hate Zacharov more than I ever have. “You’re doing a really bad job of convincing me not to punch you.”
“I want you to come work for me. Really work for me,” says Zacharov.
“No deal,” I say, but it makes me realize that by losing Philip, Zacharov has lost half his hold over me. More, even, because if I can’t trust him to keep his promises, then all his future threats become hollow. If he tells me I’ve got to do something “or else” and the “or else” happens even if I go along with him, there’s not much motivation for me to do what he says. Philip’s death cost him leverage, and as I realize that, I start to believe he’s actually not responsible. I’m valuable to him; it’s not often that a crime lord gets a transformation worker practically dumped into his lap.
Zacharov inclines his head toward a curtained alcove, one where people are supposed to go to hide their weeping. I follow him uncertainly. He sits down on the long bench. I stay standing.
“You’re ruthless, and I don’t frighten you,” he says quietly. “Both these things I like, though I would like it more if the latter was tempered with a little respect. You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he’s done, or come to like it too much.”
I am chilled to the bone.
“Come work for me, Cassel, and you’ll have my protection. For your brother. For your mother. For your grandfather, although I consider him one of mine already. My protection and a very comfortable life.”
“So you want me to—,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Philip’s death shouldn’t have happened. If I’d had people in place, watching over him, it wouldn’t have happened. Let me look out for you. Let your enemies become mine.”
“Yeah, and vice versa. No, thanks.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to be a killer.”
He smiles. “You may turn our colleagues into living things, if that helps you sleep at night. They will be just as effectively removed.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I say, thinking of the white cat watching me with shining eyes.
“It has happened. Maybe Barron made you forget what you did, but now you remember. You proved that when you undid one of your own curses.”
“That was your daughter whose curse I undid,” I say.
Zacharov takes a sharp breath, and then lets it out slow. “It happened, Cassel. You know how to work. And one of these days, you’re going to find yourself in a position where it’s going to be tempting. And then more than tempting; there’s going to be no other way out. Wake up. You’re one of us.”
“Not yet,” I say. “Not quite.” Which is about all I can cling to.
“You will think about my offer,” he says. “You’ll think about it when you realize there are people close to you that you will have to deal with eventually.”
“You mean Barron,” I say, amazed. “You’re a son of a bitch to imply at one brother’s funeral that I would think about killing the other.”
Zacharov rises and
“Tell me, how is it that your mother isn’t accusing me? Not even Barron. Not even your grandfather. Would they let me walk in here if they really thought I was responsible for Philip’s death?” I can see a muscle in his jaw jump, he’s clenching his teeth so hard. If I hit him right now, his stiffness would make the blow hurt worse. He obviously hasn’t been in a fistfight in a long time.
My hand’s shaking with violence. I slam it into a vase sitting near the doorway. The vase shatters; thick chunks of pottery, water, and flowers rain on the carpet.
“You’re not sorry Philip’s dead,” I say finally, breathing heavily with raw fury that’s only starting to abate. I don’t know what to think.
“Neither are you,” Zacharov says, his voice steely. “Don’t tell me you’re not sleeping better at night with him gone.”
In that moment I hate Zacharov more than I ever have. “You’re doing a really bad job of convincing me not to punch you.”
“I want you to come work for me. Really work for me,” says Zacharov.
“No deal,” I say, but it makes me realize that by losing Philip, Zacharov has lost half his hold over me. More, even, because if I can’t trust him to keep his promises, then all his future threats become hollow. If he tells me I’ve got to do something “or else” and the “or else” happens even if I go along with him, there’s not much motivation for me to do what he says. Philip’s death cost him leverage, and as I realize that, I start to believe he’s actually not responsible. I’m valuable to him; it’s not often that a crime lord gets a transformation worker practically dumped into his lap.
Zacharov inclines his head toward a curtained alcove, one where people are supposed to go to hide their weeping. I follow him uncertainly. He sits down on the long bench. I stay standing.
“You’re ruthless, and I don’t frighten you,” he says quietly. “Both these things I like, though I would like it more if the latter was tempered with a little respect. You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he’s done, or come to like it too much.”
I am chilled to the bone.
“Come work for me, Cassel, and you’ll have my protection. For your brother. For your mother. For your grandfather, although I consider him one of mine already. My protection and a very comfortable life.”
“So you want me to—,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Philip’s death shouldn’t have happened. If I’d had people in place, watching over him, it wouldn’t have happened. Let me look out for you. Let your enemies become mine.”
“Yeah, and vice versa. No, thanks.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to be a killer.”
He smiles. “You may turn our colleagues into living things, if that helps you sleep at night. They will be just as effectively removed.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I say, thinking of the white cat watching me with shining eyes.
“It has happened. Maybe Barron made you forget what you did, but now you remember. You proved that when you undid one of your own curses.”
“That was your daughter whose curse I undid,” I say.
Zacharov takes a sharp breath, and then lets it out slow. “It happened, Cassel. You know how to work. And one of these days, you’re going to find yourself in a position where it’s going to be tempting. And then more than tempting; there’s going to be no other way out. Wake up. You’re one of us.”
“Not yet,” I say. “Not quite.” Which is about all I can cling to.
“You will think about my offer,” he says. “You’ll think about it when you realize there are people close to you that you will have to deal with eventually.”
“You mean Barron,” I say, amazed. “You’re a son of a bitch to imply at one brother’s funeral that I would think about killing the other.”
Zacharov rises and
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