He was supposed to be an angel but they took him from that light and turned him into something hungry, something that forgets what his hands are for when they aren’t shaking.
J
ust as she did last time, Lucinda makes me feel more myself than anyone else I have met thus far. It is only due to her species; it is because beneath her exterior, velveteen and austere, I recognize my personal foil. I am more awake; more electric; the danger is real, is intoxicating, and: How can I be having a conversation with the very thing I am sworn to destroy?
Neither of us belong here.
I can imagine that from a glance, we appear to: despite our lack of adornment, are are both naturally beautifully. She, with her striking green eyes and her raven-sleek, raven dark coloring. Even her staff, made of understated wood, possesses a sense of majesty.
(I have always wondered why predators are so beautiful. It is not as if the lion must lure the buffalo with his handsome mane, or bright gold eyes—nor does the wolf require such striking nobility. So why, I wonder, must Lucinda possess an elegance that surpasses any other woman here? Why must the spider weave such an intricate web? The orca sing such a keen song? Why does her gem-sharp gaze show forests and emerald seas, and death, death, death?)
Well, I was quite disappointed that I didn’t receive an invitation. I heard some whispering about the lavish party at the Ieshans and knew I just had to crash it.
I offer a smile that is small and dark. I glance sidelong, sipping my drink as she sips hers. I do not mention Adonai’s invitation; it seems unnecessary. “I find it is almost better to not receive an invitation to such frivolities. This way, when you bore of them, you’re more difficult to track down.” I know my expression. I know it, because I have worn it for what seems like hundreds of these occasions; my eyes alight with humor and mischief, my smile bright but roguish, daring. It says, let’s dance with wolves tonight, let’s play with fire.
Let’s burn the whole damn place down.
I have not yet decided yet how I’d like to enjoy myself.
I take another drink, unaware of what concoction Lucinda herself sips. “Give me the options,” It emerges half a question and half a demand.
I am reminded, however, that it is unlikely any of them are good.
What happens when the lion is loose in the flock?
