The City of Broken Hearts

Enemy

"So nice to see you alive," he comments dryly.

I narrow my eyes at him as sparks of memory shoot off in my cranium.

"I wouldn't call it alive," I return.

His lips twitch upwards beneath his dark hood. 

"No, I suppose being raised by a rebellious lot of bastard Witches doesn't count for much, does it?" 

My hands curls into fists of their own accord. I may not have all my memories intact at the moment, but one thing I will never forget is the gross misuse of power that turned my brother's head. It was odd enough that two children from the same family should be gifted with the Sight, but the fact that he was able to hone his skills so quickly, at such a young age should have been a warning to us all.

"What are you doing here, Rodrick?" I ask, glancing around the still empty street.

He clicks his tongue, his head slowly shaking back and forth. From beneath his cloak, I see his hand twitching on the hilt of a dagger.

"Your little display was hard to miss," he admits, "I saw the spike and came to investigate. Imagine my surprise at finding the missing Seeker doing his job on the other side."

"You don't seem particularly surprised to me."

He shrugs. "Perhaps not as much as I should be. But when you overload someone's heart, it's always a bit startling to see them walking around."

I blink as another vivid spark of memory racks my brain. Rodrick? Was his the face looming over me in the darkness as my heart gave out? We might not get along, but it seems like a bit of a stretch, even for him.

"You killed me?" I ask incredulously.

A look of deceptive hurt wrinkles his nose up. "Why, Bart. I'm surprised at you. Do you really not remember your own death? And it was executed perfectly!"

I take a step towards him. His hand twitches again, but otherwise he shows no sign of movement.

Why can't I remember my death? Generally speaking, if someone is reminded of something in the Afterlife, they recall it quickly. So why can't I place Rodrick's face? 

"Why would you do that?" I ask, deflecting my own misgivings.

He shrugs again. "Seemed like the logical thing to do at the time," he says calmly, "I can see now how it might have backfired slightly."

"Why the bloody hell would you-" I shake my head, "Never mind. Did someone put you up to this?"

For an instant, a glimmer of something akin to fear flickers in my brother's eyes. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his dagger, his muscles coil as if he's preparing to bolt. 

"It's not safe to be out in the streets," he hisses, "You ought to get indoors. Go back to the Witches and lay low for a while, especially after that idiotic display of your powers."

"You didn't answer my question, Rodrick," I say, stepping closer, "Why did you kill me?"

His jaw tightens. "Listen, you old fool," his voice slithers across the small divide between us, "You can't stay here. You have a maximum of five more minutes before the streets are swarmed. You'll be lucky if you don't run into the entire Council on the way back."

I narrow my eyes at him, watching for the tell-tale signal that he is lying, but his face remains stone cold.

"I'm not lying to you, Bart," he says, "I swear. You and I have had our differences, but this is a matter of Life after Death. You'll understand soon, but for now, you have to trust me and get out of here."

I hesitate. Trust is not something that has lingered long between us. Usually, I would brush off his warning like a fly, especially after he confessed to murdering me, but the sincerity and fear in his eyes tells me I better scoot, just to be safe.

He nods at me as a farewell and vanishes back into the shadows. I turn and hurry back the way I came, hoping that my feet remember how to get me where I'm going.