Page 112 of Violent Possession
I hate the vulnerability of it all. I hate even more that a part of me likes it.
He then removes the old bandage. The process is similar—he wipes a gauze soaked in antiseptic around the wound, and no matter how much I try to control myself, a shiver runs up my spine.
“You’re suicidal, Griffin,” he says. “And it’s not even for the job. I think you just like the feeling.”
He finishes the bandage on my shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, leaning back, studying my reaction. The distance between us is less than a hand’s breadth. His face is lit only by the blue light of the television, the shadows running down his cheeks and making his eyes even more glacial.
I don’t know what he’s going to do. I feel that any movement could trigger an explosion, or a kiss, or a punch. With Alexei, you never know.
I wait. Tachycardia is already familiar when he’s this close.
He raises his hand, slowly, and runs his index finger over a scar above my collarbone. It’s the lightest touch I’ve ever felt, and yet it makes me want to run or attack or scream. Or all at the same time. He traces the line of the scar to the base of my neck, and then stops.
He looks at the metal necklace I never take off. It’s a cheap, old necklace, and the surface layer has already disappeared in several spots, leaving only copper and greenish stains. The St. Michael necklace Seraphim gave me.
The tip of his finger traces the outline of the small medal, the faded figure of the angel imprinted on it.
“Saint Michael the Archangel,” he says, quietly. “The captain of God’s armies. Are you a Christian?”
Every question Alexei has ever asked me had a purpose, an angle, a tactical objective.What did Seraphim tell you? Whose side are you on? How’s your leg? Do you know how to play chess?Each one was a way to collect data, to evaluate the asset, to calculate the risk of the investment. They were questions about my function, my loyalty, my utility.
But this one?
There’s no tactical advantage in knowing my spiritual beliefs. It has no market value. It’s a useless question for a mafia boss.
And, consequently, it’s the first question he’s asked me that is just about me.
And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
I swallow hard. A ridiculous lump forms in my throat. The heat rises up my neck, a sudden, stupid shame. I look away, at the metal of the medal, just to avoid his gaze.
To talk about it is to confirm his theory that I’m just another follower of a cult, that every piece of my identity is, somehow, tied to Seraphim.
And I think it is.
I just don’t want him to know.
“Uh... no,” I say, steadying my voice again, forcing neutrality. “I’m not.”
His gaze remains on me, patient. Waiting. He knows there’s more.
“Hewas,” I say, quietly. “Seraphim. He... believed in the Bible. God, angels, miracles, all that shit.” I let my gaze fall on the medallion hanging from my neck—St. Michael, the warrior angel, paladin of orphans, protector of the damned. “He gave me this.”
When I look back at Alexei, he’s studying me. I almost laugh, because there’s nothing hidden in me: I’m all scar, all exposed trauma, a walking collection of diagnoses.
Neither of us says anything. He just pulls his hand away, a slow, solemn gesture, as if respecting a sacred space between the saint and the heretic.
Alexei gets up and goes to the bar in the corner of the room. He takes a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He pours two glasses in absolute silence, with only the noise of the television. When he finishes, he turns and hands me one of the glasses. I take it.
His posture relaxes a little. His chin is slightly raised, his eyes fixed on me.
I take a quick sip and feel the alcohol burn my throat, go down my chest, create a trail of fire to my stomach. The heat is so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from coughing.
“Tell me what you found,” he says. “Was the trip worth the blood you lost on my floor?”
The question dismantles me from the inside, because there’s an invisible kindness there. He wants to know if it was in vain. If I, Griffin, made the risk worthwhile. And I, who have never been useful to anyone, feel a fucked-up, shameful pang of pride.
I look back at the glass and swirl the liquid, trying to buy time before answering. I don’t want to give him ammunition, I don’t want to expose everything, but I can’t lie either.
