He watches me for a beat, his hand coming up to touch my face briefly, brushing an imaginary hair away. My chest rises rapidly as his inky eyes find mine.
“You are. More confident. Louder. Bolder. But I see right through the facade, Evelyn. I still see the girl lying in bed, covers drawn. She’s there, and you don’t want anyone to see her. But I do. I see her.”
I swallow, my eyes fluttering as he brushes the skin on my face ever so slightly before pulling away.
“Time changed us,” I whisper. “The ghost of Auguste Martin changed us.” I pause, looking around the small chapel. “He had an evil spirit. Like something was rotten in his core, and it was left festering for years. On the outside, he appeared normal. But I knew. When I met him, and he lured Lily and I away that night, I knew, despite his innocent act. I could tell something wasn’t right. My soul knew his soul for what it was.” I look at Benedict. “That’s never happened with you, so something must be vitally different between the two of you. I don’t buy that you’re the same,” I add, looking away. “I don’t buy that there’s a drop of his blood in you.”
He inhales sharply but doesn’t look at me. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Well, you are running a weird tantric sex cult, so,” I add, looking over at him, breaking the seriousness.
It seems to work, because he laughs. “Touché.” Leaning forward, he rests his face on his hands as he stares straight ahead at the altar. “I have my reasons for being there.”
I study his profile, admiring the way these last couple of years have really filled him out. He has small wrinkles around his eyes now—like he’s been scowling and brooding for two years straight. He’s still young, but his countenance—his eyes, especially—tell me he’s lived an interesting life filled with things a man his age should never have to contend with.
I missed the intrigue of Benedict Martin those first couple of years, but I see it now. The vivaciousness, the all-or-nothing mentality. The magnetic pull when he enters a room.
The kind of person everyone wants to be a part of.
“What reasons?” I ask, my voice nearly a whisper.
He turns to look at me. “Reasons.”
I scowl. “You’re being purposefully vague.”
He looks at me, his lips forming a sad smile. I’m not sure I like that look. “There are very few things I truly care about in this world, Evelyn. I can assure you; the Brotherhood is not one of them.”
I sigh. “But then, why are you doing it? Leading them?”
He looks away, and he’s quiet for a minute before answering. “To understand why the impoverished, anxious, dark souls are the way that they are, you must swim in the same waters that drowned them. You must be willing to sacrifice yourself for the greater good sometimes.”
I open my mouth to ask what the hell that means when the door to the chapel opens, and Salem enters, confused.
“We’ve been looking all over for you two. Come on, we’re walking to Angelina for some of Delilah’s favorite cake before heading to our flat.”
I smirk as I stand. “And I assume you’re still opposed to public transportation?”
“Of course.” He grins as Benedict and I follow him out and into the main hall of the cathedral.
I try to ignore the way Benedict’s words made me uneasy, or the feel of his warm hand on my lower back as we wander over to the Tempest family.
And I most definitely ignore Lily’s piercing, know-it-all stare, as well as the way her eyes flit between us with a smug, satisfied gleam.
Not today, Satan. Not today.
Shake and Shatter
Evelyn Snow
Oxford,Present
Benedict and I share an uneventful taxi to the train station the next morning, much too hungover to communicate. Salem’s brilliant idea of busting out his aged whiskey was, in retrospect, not something I would repeat again. At least I don’t have a two-year-old to look after today.
Perspective.
Once we get to the train station, I don’t attempt to fight Benedict as he carries my suitcase and overnight bag. A small pang of guilt rushes through me when he stops to readjust—somehow figuring out a way to carry a total of four bags. We board the train together, and as we walk to our shared first-class suite, I resist the urge to ask him about yesterday—about his answer to my question.
You must be willing to sacrifice yourself for the greater good sometimes.
