There’s another rasp as he passes the stone down the blade. “Made this particular one for him back in nineteen eighty-seven.”
I think back to what I was doing in that year. Graduating from Northfield Mt. Hermon, on my way to Smith College, nineteen years old because my bday is in the spring. I still had all my teeth back then, and I suppose it’s a sad commentary on how much dental work I’ve had over the years that I measure eras in my life based on where I was in the restoration process.
“I mark each one of the handles.” He holds the weapon up and tilts his head to inspect the base of the hilt. “With the year.”
“Any particular reason you’re buffing that blade up?”
“Nah. Just passing time.”
Such a lie. I know that Wrath is going to go out in the war again. “No one is better at metallurgy than you.”
“You’re right.” He goes back to the sharpening. “That’s why I do the job.”
More silence.
Goddamn, this reminds me of writing his book.Lover Unboundwas one of the worst writing experiences of my career. I felt like each word I typed was a stone I hauled into a retaining wall—and if you’ve seen how I’m built, there’s no gun show anywhere on me. It was exhausting work that never satisfied, and there are reasons for that. Reasons that V knows and has never forgiven me for.
Life goes on, though.
As my brain goes into all kinds of gymnastics, I decide he engineered this encounter. He could have avoided the whole thing simply by not showing up. But he wanted me to see him so I could once again tangle around everything that didn’t happen, a carousel I ride whenever we’re together.
And yet I put him in every book, it seems. Or at least most of them.
V wipes the blade on the side of his leather-clad thigh and then inspects what he’s been working on. He clearly finds whatever he’s done acceptable and puts the weapon down on a velvet pad he’d unfolded beside the bench. Then he takes the stub of the hand-rolled between his lips and flicks it into the fire.
He looks at me again. And I brace myself all over once more—
His gloved hand reaches behind himself, and then reemerges with a fresh cigarette. For a hot minute, I figure he’ll light it by putting his whole damned face into the flames, but nah. He flicks a red Bic and does the duty all regular.
As he exhales, he talks through the compression of his lungs. “Anytime you like.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You can come and go, anytime you like.”
I’m not exactly sure what he’s talking about, but hey, at least if I can’t have any kind of back-and-forth here, I’m guaranteed an escape from this hot workspace. And a welcome-back, apparently?
I’m not sure I believe the latter and decide he’s talking about the Brotherhood at large.
When he reaches to the opposite side and picks up another dagger, I wonder whose it is—
“Tohr’s.”
“Oh, ah, I’m going to see him next.”
And thank God for the proverbial palate cleanser after this tension.
“You know where to find him,” V remarks.
As the rasping sound cuts through old-school Biggie Smalls, I think of that iconic song, “Hypnotize,” and the scene fromDark Loverof V and the boys getting into his Escalade.
Worship me, gentlemen. And I might let you play with buttons.
V’s early years in the War Camp were downright brutal. And then there’s been the agony of his visions, that only ever spell the deaths of those he loves. There was also hismahmen, the Scribe Virgin, who’s always put the “queen bitch” in “complicated.” But there have been good things for him, too. Doc Jane, of course.
Now Allhan, who lived through his transition, thank God.
Or Lassiter, as it were.
