Evelyn Disgrace

Chapter Thirty-One - Evelyn Tiras

The rock is bloodthirsty. It soaks in drop after drop, like a sponge. But this stone can only be covered for so long.

The blood begins to seep onto my arm, and I swallow at the sight of it. But it's not as shocking as the way the general continues to try to move his mouth, as if to speak. He opens and closes it aimlessly, like he's chanting to the scuffle in the driver's seat.

"Ho!" the driver yells. "What do ya think yer doing back there? Do ya even know who yer speakin' to?" But when he turns to face me, his eyes widen in horror.

The general's brains have been knocked out. The words enter my mind, dark with a sadist's humor. I continue to clutch the rock, all the red mingling with my own. I open my mouth, but I can't even speak. I can't form any words, or choke out any repentances. Noticing a gleam of silver, I grab the knife that Welk had taken from his uniform in defense.

"The general..." the driver pauses, and I think I even see a tear run down his cheek. Then he's shrieking, "The general is dead! The general is dead! Colm, boy! Come here! The general is dead!"

I see the young man who had been trying to light his cigar rush out from under one of the shop's exterior roofs and into the shattering rain, which has started to wash off some of the blood in my hand.

When the young man draws nearer, he appears paralyzed with fear, with disgust, with anger. Then he roars, "Put both hands up in the air. I am a justice member, and I will bring you in." Then he steps closer, raising a pistol in warning.

I can't go to jail. This is Poulliese government, and they'd surely put me to death. Jeremy had told me so in our childhood, that people were put to death on the streets. I'd just killed a general. They would burn me alive with Aster.

Clenching the scarlet rock, I glare at the boy. "You will not be taking me into prison." Swiftly glancing at the driver, I calculate how fast I could put a knife to that man's throat. Smoothly, too. The rain will help me, and I don't know if the driver knows that I have a weapon.

"Yes, I will." The boy shudders in the rain. "Don't make a move."

"Colm, whistle for the troops!" the driver yells. He frantically looks around for help, but this section of boardwalk seems to have been guarded by Colm himself.

The young man glances at the dead general, and then returns his fiery gaze to me. "If you don't put the rock down and put your hands up, then I'll shoot you. I'm not afraid to do that!"

But he looks very much afraid. Probably because there is no bullet in that pistol. He needed to buy bullets, but there's a chance that Colm never loaded the gun.

I leap over to the driver, and then have him by his neck. My knife threatens his throat, just like Lena Britchhawk's had to mine. Then I snarl at Colm, "If you whistle for those troops, this man dies. I am not afraid to kill." I push the knife harder against the driver's neck, and he lets out a muffled scream. "Shut it!" He goes silent.

Colm lowers his pistol. "Don't. I won't call them. Just leave us. Leave Vera. We won't come searching for you if you just leave." Tears started down the young man's eyes. "Don't go around killing anymore papas."

I look at the general. Colm Welk? I shake my head.

This can't be true. Colm's supposed to be a soldier, one in a thousand. He's supposed to be a number, not have personal ties to the dead man in the carriage. I'm tempted to go and dive into the icy river, but that would be guaranteed death.

Colm Welk's father was killed by my hand. I am this boy's Piper.

This has gone too far.

I desperately release the driver. "You must be honorable enough to keep your word." Then I inch away from the carriage. "You must!"

"I'm more honorable than you," he spits. "But if you are not out of my sight in ten seconds, I will fire your head off."

I shake my head, and keep my words to myself. Within five, I'm gone.

~

The sky is crying with me. Everything's cold, and my very bones feel ill. Welk's blood spilling into my clenched hand repeats itself over and over in my mind. I feel feverish and hot and nauseous. I feel chilled and like I'm going to die in this frigid rain.

I've murdered before. But those words aren't any comfort right now. They provide no warmth. The Piper was different, for he never died. Jeremy was different, because it wasn't by my own hand. But Welk was by the very stone clenched by my fingers. Welk's blood spilled onto my hand and down my arm.

I had taken Colm Welk's father. This is no indirect position I'm in. I killed Colm Welk's father. I watched the man die by my fingertips, and I witnessed the life flooding from his heart. My eyes were there when his soul left these grounds.

I am a true murderer now.

The alleyway's stone paving is hard and icy from the falling rain. My dark hair has unraveled down my back, slick with the sky water. In a puddle on the pavement, I attempt to wipe off more blood from my hands, but the stains remain. Proof of what I had become.

I can't stay here, but neither can I go. I feel sick and scared, and I can barely think.

The sky continues to pour down in a heaving sob. Somehow, through all the chaos, I can smell the bakery's fresh loaves of bread. I can pick up their cakes and their sweets. My stomach growls, as if it's biting away at my insides. But then the nausea returns, and I'm tempted to retch right here in the alley.

I'm next to a bakery, I think. The thought is mindless, dumb, and I can hardly conjure anymore up that contain more than a small amount of logic. The bread smells nice here. I want to fall asleep here. I want to die here, with the smell of bread under my nose and the taste of rainwater on my tongue. And in the stars, I'll meet Jeremy again. Everything will be all right in the stars. The stars is where it's safe. The stars is where my story will be. I'll get to read others', too. Jeremy and I will exchange stories. We'll have warm blankets and warm bread, and I may even have a wish granted. A wish...from the Wishmaster. No, he's dead. The Wishmaster's dead. They're all dead. I will be dead, too.

Jeremy.

Mr. Pombei.

Old Hancock.

Nat.

Nat.

Nat.

Nat is dead, too.

The bread smells nice here.