Siege and Storm (Shadow and Bone #2)(13)

“I’d like to free you,” he said quietly.

“Free me, flay me. So many options.” I could still feel the press of his knife at my cheek.

He sighed. “It was a threat, Alina. It accomplished what it needed to.”

“So you wouldn’t have cut me?”

“I didn’t say that.” His voice was pleasant and matter-of-fact, as always. He might have been threatening to carve me up or ordering his dinner.

In the dim light, I could just make out the fine traces of his scars. I knew I should stay quiet, force him to speak first, but my curiosity was too great.

“How did you survive?”

He ran his hand over the sharp line of his jaw. “It seems the volcra did not care for the taste of my flesh,” he said, almost idly. “Have you ever noticed that they do not feed on each other?”

I shuddered. They were his creations, just like the thing that had buried its teeth in my shoulder. The skin there still pulsed. “Like calls to like.”

“It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat. I’ve had my fill of the volcra’s mercy. And yours.”

I crossed the room, coming to stand before the desk. “Then why give me a second amplifier?” I asked desperately, grasping for an argument that would somehow make him see sense. “In case you’ve forgotten, I tried to kill you.”

“And failed.”

“Here’s to second chances. Why make me stronger?”

Again, he shrugged. “Without Morozova’s amplifiers, Ravka is lost. You were meant to have them, just as I was meant to rule. It can be no other way.”

“How convenient for you.”

He leaned back and folded his arms. “You have been anything but convenient, Alina.”

“You can’t combine amplifiers. All the books say the same thing—”

“Not all the books.”

I wanted to scream in frustration. “Baghra warned me. She said you were arrogant, blinded by ambition.”

“Did she now?” His voice was ice. “And what other treason did she whisper in your ear?”

“That she loved you,” I said angrily. “That she believed you could be redeemed.”

He looked away then, but not before I saw the flash of pain on his face. What had he done to her? And what had it cost him?

“Redemption,” he murmured. “Salvation. Penance. My mother’s quaint ideas. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention.” He reached into the desk and drew out a slender red volume. As he held it up, light glinted off the gold lettering on its cover: Istorii Sankt’ya. “Do you know what this is?”

I frowned. The Lives of Saints. A dim memory came back to me. The Apparat had given me a copy months ago at the Little Palace. I’d thrown it in the drawer of my dressing table and never spared it another thought.

“It’s a children’s book,” I said.

“Have you read it?”

“No,” I admitted, suddenly wishing I had. The Darkling was watching me too closely. What could be so important about an old collection of religious drawings?

“Superstition,” he said glancing down at the cover. “Peasant propaganda. Or so I thought. Morozova was a strange man. He was a bit like you, drawn to the ordinary and the weak.”

“Mal isn’t weak.”

“He’s gifted, I grant you, but no Grisha. He can never be your equal.”

“He’s my equal and more,” I spat.

The Darkling shook his head. If I hadn’t known better, I might have mistaken the look on his face for pity. “You think you’ve found a family with him. You think you’ve found a future. But you will grow powerful, and he will grow old. He will live his short otkazat’sya life, and you will watch him die.”

“Shut up.”

He smiled. “Go on, stamp your foot, fight your true nature. All the while, your country suffers.”

“Because of you!”

“Because I put my trust in a girl who cannot stand the thought of her own potential.” He rose and rounded the desk. Despite my anger, I took a step back, banging into the chair behind me.

“I know what you feel when you’re with the tracker,” he said.

“I doubt that.”

He gave a dismissive wave. “No, not the absurd pining you’ve yet to outgrow. I know the truth in your heart. The loneliness. The growing knowledge of your own difference.” He leaned in closer. “The ache of it.”

I tried to hide the shock of recognition that went through me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but the words sounded false to my ears.

“It will never fade, Alina. It will only grow worse, no matter how many scarves you hide behind or what lies you tell, no matter how far or how fast you run.”

I tried to turn away, but he reached out and took hold of my chin, forcing me to look at him. He was so close I could feel his breath. “There are no others like us, Alina,” he whispered. “And there never will be.”

I lurched away from him, knocking the chair over, nearly losing my balance. I pounded on the door with my ironbound fists, calling out to Ivan as the Darkling looked on. He didn’t come until the Darkling gave the order.

Dimly, I registered Ivan’s hand at my back, the stench of the corridor, a sailor letting us pass, then the quiet of my narrow cabin, the door locking behind me, the bunk, the scratch of rough fabric as I pressed my face into the covers, trembling, trying to drive the Darkling’s words from my head. Mal’s death. The long life before me. The pain of otherness that would never ease. Each fear sank into me, a barbed talon burrowing deep into my heart.