[P] the patron saint of liars and fakes;

[Acton]

Acton these violent delights have violent ends All there was was his breathing, as he watched Raum move like moonlight on water to the edge of the cavern. In and out, heart caught solid in the cage of his ribs, waiting for something he already knew was coming. This was inevitable. Acton was always too careless to be careful enough. He would not be caught again; he would not be imprisoned like he had been as a boy. No matter who waited, who breathed there, just beyond their shared darkness. The Ghost’s dagger (he’d come, in part, to return it) was suddenly a black hole; it swallowed his thoughts, swallowed his senses. It was truly a remarkable thing, nothing at all like his powders and explosives: it drew silently, a ripple of silver. The situation was simple: he would kill whoever it was. When she stepped into the sunlight, bright and blazing, Acton laughed; it rang around the cavern, echoing back at them. It sounded like madness. A few pebbles shook loose, clattered down the walls; dust motes spiraled up in the shafts of daylight. Of course it would be Bexley Briar. He did not believe in fate, or the kindness of the gods – but he did believe in their cruelty. They liked a show as much as he did. As much as her laughing insults, he thought of what Raglan had said as a storm swept in months ago. I don’t trust her. He stepped forward, met those sea-blue eyes, bared his teeth right back at her. His heartbeat was a frantic, eager thing in his chest; he could hardly hear over the roar of blood in his ears. Acton stepped from the darkness into the light beside Raum just as the girl with golden curls spat on the cavern floor, and it felt to him like stepping onto a stage. “And the  jackals will eat yours,” he said, grinning like a dead man. “Get lost, honey.” He drew the knife down, savage as a lightning strike, across her pretty face. @Raum @Bexley OH SHIT