I look down at my prey and I say, You’ll like it.
My knife comes up. I’ll kill him here in his bed where he can’t fight back.
There’s a flicker of light. In my head and outside and all around. I blink it away and instead of Duncan I see my father when he found me holding my silver knife and looking for a boy to kill. Then it’s dark again and Duncan is back but my hand drops.
Mack will kill him. He’s sworn it.
He’ll be the guilty one.
He’ll do it if he loves me. And if he does it, I’ll love him, too.
Mortal Thoughts
I put the knife at the foot of Mack’s bed. When it leaves my hand all the energy pours out of my fingertips with it.
I’m shaking.
I lock myself in the bathroom. A light from outside shines in and turns the wide mirror to a movie screen.
The stage is mine. Vengeance Paid, starring Jade Khanjara—
last week Elle, pretty name, but not as pretty as you, platinum blond and dressed in white—
last week that little whore with the jade-green eyes, caught and clawing—
this week new girl, twisted bitch, we’d be power, revenge-black hair and a rosy pink flock-girl shirt and a skirt too short for Duncan to ignore—
this week partners in greatness, I’ve never loved anyone more, with a boy strung so tight around my fingers and my heart that he’ll kill for me.
Kill for her.
I’m not just a girl anymore. Tonight I’m only cruelty. No pity. No mercy. No fear of what comes next.
I bring the darkness close. It sifts smoky around me and clings to my skin. No one living and no one dead will find my heart tonight.
No one will see where the dagger finds its wound.
Not until it’s done.
Outside the door Mack paces. He whispers thoughts he shouldn’t speak—
thoughts I’d hear even if he didn’t say them out loud at all—
whispers, Is that the knife?
I say, yes.
He says, I see his blood.
I say, you will.
He says, The whole world’s asleep.
I say, The whole world is dead.
He says, I hear him breathing.
I say, His time is up.
The clock chimes out its death-knell. Two long cold clangs.
He says, I’m going now. It’s done.
Regicide
The liquor that made them drunk made me bold.
The night that left them full and sleeping has me lit on fire. I can feel it burning cold along my wings.
It’s happening, right now. The most beautiful moment I’ve ever felt.
I sit on the end of Mack’s bed, exactly where I left the knife for him. Ankles crossed and claws buried in the duvet.
Outside an owl cries. It’s so close I can feel its call in my teeth and hear the breeze shift when its wings brush down. The rain is over as strange and sudden as it started.
Then—
“Who’s there?”
I leap up. If it’s Porter—
The door swings open and Mack staggers in. The knife shakes in his grip. His hands are red with blood.
“Mack!” I cry out sharper than I should but I don’t care—
I don’t care who hears or what happens in the morning—
—because his hands are bloody and Duncan is dead.
“I did it,” he says, breathless.
I take his hands in mine. “I knew you would.” I try to kiss him but he pulls away.
“Lilia,” he says. “She was with him.”
I push him back against the door. Shut the world out. I don’t want his frantic grasping questions. I want his victory and his blood-sworn devotion. “Asleep. Half dead.”
His eyes fix on our hands. Bloody and bound together. “God,” he breathes out. Praying. “This is hell. We’re ruined.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say, and finally he lets me kiss him. His lips are prison-cold.
“She laughed.” He almost gags on the words. “Lilia laughed.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“She did.”
“It’s nothing.” I pull at his knife-hand. Try to pry his fingers away from the handle. “She was asleep.”
“What if she wasn’t?” His voice is rising and curling into itself. “What if she saw?”
I get my hand onto the knife, under two of his fingers. He still holds tight. “She didn’t.”
“What if she knows? And Porter—”
“Mack!” I push him hard against the wall. “Stop it. It’s done. Give me the knife.”
He lets go. His arms drop down to his sides and his eyes fall hollow on mine.
“Wash your hands,” I say. “Drink something. Don’t leave this room until I get back.”
When I step back he slides down the wall and sits staring at his hands. “I’m afraid,” he whispers. “I can’t go back in there.”
“Good,” I say, and I hate him for his fear, even now. “Don’t.”
“Jade—” he starts, but I step over him and pull the door shut behind me. I stand in the hall, in the dark, holding the dagger.
Smiling so hard my face sparks with pain.
Porter is still asleep. Crooked against the wall exactly the way he was when I left him. I crouch down with the knife and reach for his hand—
A choking rasping gasp tears through the silence.
Adrenaline spikes through me. More than I already felt and more than I knew I could feel. I should wait. I should leave the knife and warn Mack—
But instead I stand. My claws tap down on the door and nudge it just far enough open that I can slip into the room.
The light shining in through the windows is a pale sickly green. The room floats. Lilia is still rag-doll dead on the window seat with her skin blue-white.
But the bed is bleeding a dark red circle into the sheets. A circle that blooms out from good-king Duncan’s chest.
He gasps again. The sound shatters out of him.
I take three steps closer. The souring light finds my face in the shadows.
He sees me.
He struggles harder. Pulling at the air and pushing against the sheets. Dragging his other hand to the dark place below his heart where his blood drains out.
I come closer. To the very edge of the bed. His eyes are ripped wide open. He’s terror but still arrogance.
He doesn’t believe that he’s going to die. Not like this.
He gulps at the air. The wound on his chest whines and gurgles. He chokes out, “Jade—” and thin blood trickles out between his lips.
“Duncan,” I say. My lungs are full of life and my veins are full of blood.
“Call—” he rasps, “call—”
The word bubbles wet. His eyes flash fear and he chokes and chokes.
I sit down on the bed. The silk-white sheets are soaked through. I bring my legs under me and kneel low next to him.
“Jade—” He starts to choke again.
I put one finger on his lips. His blood stains it. I hiss, “Shh.”
His face changes even under the agony. He sees it now—not all of it yet, but some of it. Enough to know something isn’t right.
He’s afraid.
He tries to speak again but his lungs fight him and win. He grabs my hand instead—the hand on the bed. I break out of his grip without even trying—