The air brightened, cooling quickly as tempers subsided.
“What have you done?” Alex whispered.
I dared to open my eyes.
Gerard’s body was blessedly hidden away behind the desk but its surface was covered in blood and other things I did not want to acknowledge.
Julien remained perched on its edge. His chest rose and fell heavily. He was wrung out, but his face was blank once more as he studied the mess left behind.
Viktor gripped the handles of the wheelchair, as if preparing to hold his brother back but any trace of fight had left Alex. He stared at the scene, eyes wide, mouth open with surprise.
“What was needed,” Viktor murmured.
I’d expected him to sound triumphant. He’d wanted this revenge. He’d wanted to make Gerard suffer as he and Julienhad.
But his voice sounded hollowed out, as empty as Julien’s expression.
“He was picking up the letter opener. You saw him do it. He would have hurt Julien. He would have hurt me. Ver,” he snapped, bringing me into their morbid tableaux. “You know what he was capable of. You know he would have done it.”
From his seat on the table, Julien silently turned his hands over, as if just now noticing the spray of blood across them.
“But not like that. Not like any of—” Before Alex could finish his sentence, he turned to the side, throwing up.
Viktor’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “He was a monster. He wasthemonster in our little story, and in fairy tales, the monster must always be slain.”
He stepped out from behind the wheelchair, crossing to the desk. He leaned across it, studying Gerard’s motionless form. After a moment, he nodded.
“You did what you had to,” Viktor murmured, pressing his forehead to Julien’s, squeezing his arm with commiseration. He turned back to us, drumming his fingers against the desk, careful to avoid the congealing puddles. “Long live Duke Laurent.”
“Long live the duke,” Alex recited vacantly, his words nothing more than a flex of muscle memory.
I noticed the tip of Gerard’s shoe sticking out from the side of the table, saw drops of blood spattered across the patent leather. “How are we going to explain this?”
“We say exactly what happened,” Viktor said, as if it were the most obvious of answers.
“No one will believe us,” Alex murmured, sounding small and lost.
For the first time since the attack, Julien stirred into motion, turning to stare at us. His eyes were too wide, too unblinking. “What did you make me do?” He rubbed at his forehead. “Your thoughts. Those images. They were so loud….” He scrubbed furiously, as if trying to wipe away the memory. A red welt rose across his skin. “I couldn’t hear anything but you.”
“Julien, stop,” I said, reaching out to still his fervor.
He smacked my hand away, the slap stinging.“What did you make me do?”
“Calm down,” Viktor instructed, and Julien’s hand fell back into his lap, still once more. “It was only ever self-defense.”
“Was it?” Alex asked.
“Self-preservation,” Viktor continued, nodding, convincing us. “And no one can fault you for that, dear brother. For protecting your life, your security and sanctity, and defending it, using whatever means necessary.”
“I suppose, but—” I began, then gasped as Viktor took up the letter opener himself and plunged it into the hollow of Julien’s throat.
Everything seemed to slow down into impossibly long seconds that stretched and expanded, allowing me to see every detail of the horrifying action.
Julien let out a strangled, airy sound as he struggled away, flipping himself from Viktor’s grip. The letter opener went flying, spinning madly through the air like a sparkling baton. It landed at Alex’s feet, its edge slicked red.
Blood—droplets, then a stream, then a torrent—followed after as Julien crashed onto the desk. His eyes were open wide but flatter than usual, his life already ended.
Viktor stood over his brother, dispassionately watching the blood pour from his throat. It came in spurts, pushed by a heart wild with shock, before tapering to a slow ooze.
