There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(5)

I’m aware, academically, of the full range of human emotions. I’ve studied them intently so I can mimic their effects. But they have no power over me.

What I do feel, I feel intensely: rage, revulsion, and pleasure.

These are elemental forces inside of me, like wind, ocean, and molten rock.

I have to keep tight control upon them, or I’ll be no better than Shaw, a slave to my impulses.

I’m not killing Danvers because I have to.

I’m killing him because I want to.

He was an irritation, an inconvenience. A worthless, sniveling, envious shit stain. He deserves nothing more than this. In fact, he should be honored, because I will make more of him than he ever could have made of himself. I will immortalize him so his spark burns bright at least for a moment in time.

I hear the crack of his hyoid bone fracturing.

His body goes limp. Three minutes later, I release him.

Then the butchering begins.

While I’m working, I feel a sense of purpose. I’m stimulated, interested, flushed with satisfaction.

This is the feeling I always get when I’m creating art.





The sculpture is exquisite. My best work yet.

I show it at Oasis, where I know Shaw will likewise display his latest work.

None of the bones are recognizable as a rib, a mandible, a femur. I filed them down, dipped them in gold, and mounted them in an entirely new arrangement. Still, their linear, organic shape remains. The sculpture lives, in a way it never would've had it been constructed of gilded metal or stone.

The response is immediate and ecstatic.

“My god, Cole, you’ve outdone yourself,” Betsy breathes, staring at the sculpture like it's an idol. “What are you calling it?”

“Fragile Ego,” I reply.

Betsy laughs. “How uncharacteristically self-deprecating,” she says.

I say nothing in return, because as usual, Betsy has completely missed the point.

I’m not referencing my own ego, which is indestructible.

Before the night is out, my sculpture has sold for $750,000 to some newly minted tech billionaire.

“Are they planning to melt it down for the gold?” Alastor says sourly.

He’s never sold a piece for half that much.

“I don’t think anyone’s bought a piece of my art just to destroy it,” I say, reminding Shaw that a fundamentalist church bought one of his paintings just to set it on fire. That was in his early days when he was a provocateur, not a salesman.

He’s in no mood for mockery tonight. His face looks puffy above the too-tight collar of his dress shirt, his broad chest rising and falling a little too rapidly.

He stares at the sculpture with unconcealed envy.

Shaw has talent, I can admit that.

But I have more.

Then, in the midst of his irritation and resentment, his entire expression changes. Understanding dawns.

“No . . .” he says softly. “You didn’t . . .”

I don’t have to confirm it, and I don’t bother to deny it. The truth is plain for anyone who has eyes to see.

Alastor lets out a sensual sigh.

“The balls on you . . .” he says. “To put it up for display . . .”

Briefly, he sets aside his jealousy. I set aside my loathing.

We gaze at the sculpture, sharing a moment of deep satisfaction.

Then his impulses take over and he can’t help sneering, “It took the small words of a small man to motivate you to make great art.”

Anger bubbles up inside of me, thick and hot.

Unlike Shaw, I don’t allow my emotions to shape my words. I carefully consider what will enrage him most.

Looking Alastor right in the eyes, I say, “No one will ever talk about your work the way they talk about mine. It must eat you up inside every day, waking up to your own mediocrity. You will never be great. Do you want to know why?”

He’s fixed in place, the sneer frozen on his lips.

“It’s because you lack discipline,” I tell him.

Now his fury washes over him, his fists clenched and trembling at his sides, his thick shoulders shaking.

“You’re no different than me,” he hisses. “You’re no better.”

“I am better,” I say. “Because whatever I do, I’m always in control.”

I walk away from him then, so those words can echo and echo in the emptiness of his head.





2





Mara Eldritch





I get up at an ungodly hour so I can shower before all the hot water is gone.

I share a moldering Victorian row house with eight other artists. The house was hacked into flats by someone with no respect for building codes and very little understanding of basic geometry. Thin plywood walls divide the rooms into triangles and trapezoids with no consideration for how a rectangular bed is supposed to fit in the space. The slanting, rotted floors and sagging ceilings add to the madhouse effect.

I occupy the tiny attic space at the very top of the house—sweltering hot in summer, and frigid in winter. Still, it’s a coveted perch because it provides access to a small private balcony. I like to drag my mattress out on cool nights to sleep under the stars. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to camping.

My whole life has been spent in this city, often in worse houses than this.