Page 26 of Connected
Filled with revulsion, Owen shook his head. “Do you think this is tempting to me?”
“I do. Because love is almost hate. They’re really very nearly the same thing. What we want, we also want to destroy.”
“That’s the most idiotic bullshit I’ve ever heard,” said Keaton.
“No, it’s the truth. When I became what I am now, I killed my wife, my children, even my mother. What fools call love is nothing more than the desire tohavesomeone. To possess them completely. And what could be a more complete possession than holding their life in your hands?”
Jesus. This guy believed what he was saying. Keaton suspected he’d been fairly twisted even before he got mojo’d.
“I won’t hurt him,” said Owen. Bruised, bloody, chained, he was still so beautiful, as if a tiny sun lived inside him and made him the brightest thing in the room, no matter where he was.
“You already have. You led him here, and?—”
“I made my own fucking decision,” Keaton snapped. “I am responsible for myself.”
Their captor waved a hand. “I’m bored with this conversation. I’m bored with both of you. Agent Clark, this is your last chance. Join us and experience power beyond what you can dream of. Or refuse and die, slowly and painfully. The innkeeper’s dead either way.”
Keaton almost laughed. When he was younger, he’d often pictured his own death. An OD was most likely, he’d figured, or maybe a car wreck. Maybe he’d drown in a swimming pool, toowasted to get himself to dry land. Maybe he’d do a swan dive off the balcony of a high-rise hotel room. Those were the ways that people like him met their ends, and the media would circle around their corpses for a while. Until the next actor or rock star died.
He’d never imagined himself middle-aged, chained in a magical coal tipple, tortured to death by a not-quite-human psychopath. Wouldn’t that make an interesting episode ofE! True Hollywood Story.
“Fuck you, Miller,” said Owen.
“Suit yourself.” Miller turned away, opened a drawer beneath one of the metal tables, and started sorting through shiny metal instruments.
That unseen entity, the one whom Keaton had been faintly sensing, felt a small bit of triumph over Miller’s lack of success. Which implied that they knew what was going on here, despite Keaton being fairly certain that nobody was in the tipple except for him, Owen, and Miller. It must have been one of those portals that Miller talked about, the ones that were closed because the portal to Copper Springs remained open. Yet Keaton could still sense the person. Had, in fact, sensed them years ago when he’d first visited the tipple, when Miller had been lying in wait and hoping that Owen would return home.
That was… interesting. Possibly important, although Keaton couldn’t figure out why and likely wouldn’t have time to solve the puzzle.
Better to simply make sure his and Owen’s final moments had a few shreds of happiness.
“You’ve done a lot more with your life than you think, Owen. You should feel proud.”
“I’m a miserable bastard. Don’t sugar coat it.”
“But you’re not. I told you. You’ve built up a protective covering, and it’s pretty durable—and understandable.”
Owen gave him a long look. “You know, Chief Townsend liked to lecture. He told me once that scars are honorable souvenirs. I thought he was full of shit. And now I’ve got scars on my body—worse ones on my… soul, I guess. Are they honorable?”
“Only you can answer that.”
It was quiet except for the soft clank of metal as Miller set various implements onto the table after holding them up to the light and inspecting them. Owen was silently sorting through a kaleidoscope of emotions, but Keaton felt almost eerily calm. He didn’t want to die, and certainly not like this. But here he was.
Owen lifted his chin and gave Keaton a small smile. “I think he was right. And you know what? I might be a miserable bastard, but I’ve done some good things, and I’llneverbe like Miller.”
“You never will.” Keaton basked in Owen’s sense of accomplishment, his feelings of pride and self-worth.
Miller, who’d been pretending that neither of them was worth his attention but was still secretly apprehensive, marched over to Owen. Without warning, he slashed him across the cheek with a scalpel, narrowly missing his eye. “You won’t live long enough to scar from that,” Miller said.
“And no matter how long you live, you’ll always be nothing,” Owen responded. “You’ll never be important to anyone.”
“Liar.” Miller sliced Owen’s other cheek. Blood flowed steadily, but neither wound was especially painful, and Owen was too confident in his sense of self to care.
“You tempted me,” said Owen. “You really did. You’re good at playing these games. But you were wrong when you said your side was winning. I think you’re even lying to yourself about what the battle’s about. It’s not humans versus monsters or good versus evil. It’s hope versus despair. And there’s still hope out there. You can feel it, can’t you?”
Miller’s face twisted with rage. More of that sickening emotional rot spewed from him, but so did something akin to confusion. This wasn’t how he’d expected his prey to behave. Things weren’t going to plan.
Owen, an experienced fighter, pushed his temporary advantage. “You can’t win as long as hope lives, and you know that. It scares you. But you could have some too. You could joinus.”
