Page 64 of Thorns from the Fall

I ignore her.

“I’ll stop then.” I say. “My bad.”

“I mean, it was…nice…last night. It helped!” he assures me. “I’ve never beaten someone half to death with you before. Thank you for that,” he says, and he gives me a little nod a beat later. It’s a recognizable motion, an unspoken way of communicating that we’ve always had.I’m telling the truth—really.

“How sweet,” Margot says, widening her eyes at my brother, and he laughs. It’s the best sound I’ve heard in a long time, and it soothes over my discomfort at missing the mark. I should’ve known this would be too much.

“Are you jealous, Margot? Most people don’t have a designated torture buddy. Do you have one?” he asks.

“You’re looking at him,” she says, nodding toward me. “Although, I don’t think it’d be a buddy situation. He’d do it all, and I’d get bored pretty quick.”

Remy grins, but his smile fades as he takes in my expression. Too serious, I realize, and I try to adjust my frown. I don’t like that I’ve upset him by pushing too far with the vengeance.

He adjusts in his seat, tilting his head back to look up at me. He shrugs, explaining himself even though I’m not questioning him. “No amount of beating or Viking torture methods is goingto bring back Kayla. She’s gone, and that’s all there is to it,” he says.

My little brother gives me a sad smile, before shaking his head and looking down at his book once more.

“Well, do you want to finish him off?” I ask, feeling stupid for splattering the entire inside of my garage in blood. I thought I was helping. Why else would he hang out with me while I did all this? Granted, he’d stepped out for the messier parts, but when I’d used a hammer on the demon’s fingers, plucked his fingernails and carved out his eyes, Remy had been beside me.

“I probably should,” Remy says. “And you’re sure the host is?—”

“For the hundredth time, yes, the host’s soul is gone. Asmodeus double checked.”

“I’d like to point out the irony in you trusting a demon’s information,” Remy says, giving me a wry smile.

He's been different the last day or so. Morose, certainly, but a calm has taken over him. It reminds me of the Remy who left the compound, exiled by my father but newly detoxed and eager to find his way in the world. Eager to prove himself. Melancholy but hopeful.

“This demon is different,” Margot says, helping me to reassure him. “Petra has him by his demon shadow balls. Do demons have balls?” Margot ponders it for a moment. “Balls are definitely a thing created in hell. So maybe demonsdon’thave them? Why would they torture themselves with balls?”

She’s laughing at herself, and Remy looks at her with a disbelieving smile lighting his features, and he leans over and tucks an errant hair inside of her balaclava.

Margot blushes.

Jesus Christ, that’s the last thing I fucking need.

Remy’s color has come back, and she cut his hair the other day. Not short, but not long, and she told him he looks like a male underwear model. But he just looks like Remy to me.

This is the Remy before Rose, and I hate what he went through—what we both went through—to get him back to this point, but a small part of me is grateful for it.

He stands, placing the book down on the bench behind him in a way that ruffles Margot because she swiftly fixes it. He stretches his neck as he approaches.

“I just want it to be done, Ro. She’s not coming back. Neither is Rose. It’s just me. Nobody is coming back, and I want him gone.”

“Yeah,” I say, not allowing myself to be caught up on the fact he said it was just him. He didn’t mean it in a way that I should take offense to, I’m sure, but it stings. He’s always had me and he always will. I just hope he understands that. “Of course. I just wanted to give you dibs on the kill in case you wanted it. Oh, fuck, unless you shouldn’t—because of the blood.”

Remy smiles, and the street light catches his green eyes, bright and vibrant, and it reminds me of our mother.

I think she’d be proud of him.

I hate that part of me thinks of Gwyn. She is the one who held him hostage, though he insists the torture was mild and didn’t last for long, but she’s also the one who gave him back to me—in a weird, fucked up way.

I’m truly mind-fucked when it comes to that woman.

“I’m good,” he says. “I’m not going to lose it and start licking blood off of your tools.”

“Licking tools, huh? There’s a joke there,” Margot says, and Remy rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t stifle his smile.

“Hey, man, I’m just trying to be cautious. You don’t have lunch with an alcoholic at a bar.”

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