Page 39 of Sullied Saints

I close my eyes. It’s different, seeing it here, outside the intimacy of closed rooms. This feels violating.

"She did that." Syr's eyes are wide.

"Over several hours," Dirk confirms, his sweater and his jacket in his lap as he sits back down. "I was… weakened, by the time of the rescue."

"I…" Syr closes his mouth. "I didn't know."

"No, few did." Now Dirk looks at the camera, sitting there half-naked but not diminished. "You wanted us to tell you the truth. Here it is: You all think releasing Needler will spell the end for Cocooner. It won't. Needler may be the hero of the city, and he saved my life, but he had a chance to kill the Cocooner that night. He didn't then, and he won't now."

"Why not?"

"For the same reason that we need him."

"And what is that reason?"

There's an audible pause. Syr waits.

And Dirk says it: "Cocooner is Needler's sister."

Abruptly, the TV cuts off, just a blank, dark grey screen. The silence is total, numbing.

I blink, as though coming out of a daze. Conrad hovers near the power button, frozen against what must be turmoil within. He looks at Tristan, who seems both uncharacteristically stunned and horrified at what Dirk has just done.

Because I can see what he's just done. He's outed the monster, and then connected the city’s saviour to her. What do people have to crusade for now?

I don't believe for a second that Needler's horror is for the potential of love lost from Tregam—he was never doing it for that—no, it’s for his sister. With a hundred thousand sets of hands and fresh minds now aware of the connection, the people could very well find Cassandra, and tear her apart before we can ever get to her. But what they’ll do in the process of finding her could be worse.

"Is it true?" Conrad asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"It is," Needler admits, staring back at the other man, perhaps estimating which direction he'll now turn his considerable motivation.

Conrad falls back onto the stool, its legs grating loudly one inch across the floor. "Did you…?"

"I didn't know it was her before she attacked the detective."

"But you let her go!" His face lifts, accusing.

"She's my sister," Tristan says, voice soft, almost apologetic, like even he knows it’s not enough anymore, not with everything she’s done.

"Forloyalty!" Conrad takes a sharp inhale. "What about my loyalty? To my Broderick! Shedrownedhim, suffocated him in…" His head falls into his hands, shoulder shaking.

The two lackeys in the room shift from foot to foot. One dares approach. "Are we still getting him out?"

Conrad stands so abruptly that the stool falls over. "He belongs here. Get out! This is over."

"What about—"

"I said leave!" Conrad screams, face twisting before he crumples back down, to the floor this time, where he'll stay until the riot squad clears the building an hour from now.

I sit on the bed, knees drawn up, blankly watching the crying man on the other side. This was all he had, what he hinged all his hopes for justice on. Tristan is in his chair, staring at the door, equally blank.

I open my mouth, then close it again. "Tristan…"

"They still won't find her."

My teeth press together. "Can you find her?" He still doesn’t answer. "This can't go on."

"No, it can't," he says, eyes still on the wall. There’s no emotion in his voice as he looks at me and adds, "They're going to find the homes, the carers, everyone who I was ever connected to." His jaw works. "Your boyfriend better know what he's doing."

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