Pieces of Autumn (25 page)

I swallowed hard before I could speak. "That's not it," I insisted. "I was just afraid."

"Of me," said Tate.

The clock ticked loudly, echoing in the silence.

"Yes," I said, finally. His reaction was minuscule, but unmistakable. His chest expanded slightly, his eyes narrowing at the pain of my words.

"I was afraid of you," I went on. "I walked through these doors afraid of you. At Stoker, they called you a cold-blooded killer. I didn't know who they were talking about at first, but I knew I was being sent to you. One of them said he thought I should be
warned
. The moment I woke up in your barn, I was terrified for my life. Even worse than I would have been otherwise.

"But when I looked at you, I saw something I didn't expect. You weren't really cold. You wore it like a mask. You were hiding so many things from me. You still are, but I've managed to convince myself that I'm a little closer to the answers now."

His jaw clenched. "There are no answers," he said, quietly. "I'll save you the trouble of wondering."

"That's not true. I already understand you so much better than I did before." Feeling bold, I took a step towards him. "I'm not looking for excuses. Justifications. Reasons to nominate you for the sainthood. That's not what this is about."

I took a deep breath before I spoke again.

"I want to understand you," I said. "Is that a crime?"

Expecting more of his cold, hard detachment, I was astonished to see a flash of actual pain on his face.

"No," he said. "The crimes are all mine."

Frustrated, I tried to think of something that would actually get through to him. He needed to understand that nothing was worse than wondering. I ran away because I didn't understand how his mind worked. If he would just open up those dark corners of his past, I could at least learn to read his motivations.

He'd finally stopped pacing, hurling himself down on the sofa to stare into the fire. I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

A flash of inspiration struck, and I acted on it, before I had a chance to re-think.

"I know what happened," I said. "With Daniela."

His head snapped up, and I thought for sure I'd pushed him too far. Eyes so dark he looked possessed, as if there was any demon in the ranks of hell who could be a match for Tate.

"How?" he demanded, and I realized something - he wasn't just angry, he was wounded. Like just hearing her name was enough to hurt him.

I swallowed. In a moment, he was going to call my bluff, but I could keep this going for a while. "Does it matter?"

Tate let out a little snort of bitter laughter. "Joshua," he said. "The little prick. I should've known. I suppose they still tell that story. I suppose they're still using it to frighten all the headhunters into submission."

Suddenly I felt afraid for Joshua. "I made him tell me," I said, quickly. "Please don't be angry with him."

Tate rolled his eyes.

"I just wanted you to know that..." I hesitated. What
did
I want him to know? "I wanted you to know that I understand. You know I lost my parents. It takes a long time to..."

He was just staring at me, incredulously. I drifted off.

"Really?" he said. "Are you still trying to appeal to my sympathy? After all that? Knowing what I did to her, you still think I'm
human
?"

My heart stopped beating.
 

A dark cloud had passed over Tate's face, and there was nothing left of the cold detachment or sarcasm that so often lurked. He was pure anger and regret. Pure self-loathing.

Knowing what I did to her.

Tate must have been the one to break her. To
train
her. Taking her apart, piece by piece, to rebuild her into the perfect slave. Only it had unforeseen consequences. She didn't just turn into a perfect slave, she turned into
his
perfect slave. Stoker must have forced them apart, broken her heart completely, broken her mind. Maybe he didn't speak out. Maybe he didn't stand up for her, because he knew it would end worse for both of them if he did.

No wonder he felt guilty.

"You had no choice," I said, quickly, taking a guess at what he meant. "I know that. I understand."

"You.
You
understand," he repeated, raking his hands through his hair. A dark, bitter laugh escaped his throat. "Just like that, is it? A few days under Stoker's care and you're another victim just like me. You're just brimming over with compassion."

I stared at him. "You don't deserve what happened to you." Who was I trying to convince?

"Oh," he said, softly, with another deep chuckle that chilled me to the bone. "I see. You've figured it out. All this time, I've just been trying to turn myself into the kind of person who really
did
deserve it. So my world will finally make sense. At last, now that you've come along with my diagnosis, I can find peace!"

His harsh, mocking tone fell flat on my ears. I refused to get angry. I knew that was what he wanted. If he could push me far enough, he would break my compassion, force me to fight back. But I knew there was truth in what he said. He wasn't making fun of the "diagnosis," he was making fun of the idea that it
mattered
.
 

He was telling me that he was too far gone.

He was telling me, in his own way, to turn tail ran
run the fuck away
.

"It doesn't have to define you," I said, calmly. "Look at Joshua."

A smirk. "If that boy thinks he's been working for Stoker this long, without it rubbing off on him - he's a bigger fucking idiot than I thought." His fists clenched. "Doesn't matter how noble you are. Doesn't matter what intentions drive you. You're still breaking human beings for sport."

"So we
are
human," I said. "We
are
deserving of a little dignity."

Tate shrugged, his eyes in the candlelight dark and endless, like obsidian. "When you break a teacup on the floor, in a thousand shards, does it matter whether it deserves to be whole again?"

This was my moment. To be angry. To protest and fight back, and insist that people aren't teacups. They matter. They're not replaceable.
 

But I wouldn't take the bait.

"No," I said, so softly that he leaned forward.

"What's that?" he demanded. "I can't hear you."

"No," I said, drawing my head a little higher.

Tate stared at me, waiting for something else. Waiting, and waiting.

"There's no place in this world for broken things," he said, finally.

"So you discard them," I suggested, my hands clasped tightly in front of me.

He didn't respond.

"That's your point, isn't it?" I could feel my temperature rising, but I forced myself to keep calm. Steady. Serene. "That broken things ought to be thrown away. Get your dustpan and your broom. Sweep up the shards. Take them out with the other unwanted refuse."

Tate kept watching me. His eyes daring me to continue.

"Your life is covered in broken shards," I said, softly. "You never swept a single one away."

He didn't answer. His eyes flicked away from mine, and I felt a moment of triumph.

I'd won.

"What would you have done?" he said, at last, looking up at me again. His voice and his eyes were duller now, but a fire still smoldered inside. "Don't lie to me. Tell me the truth."

Swallowing hard, I deflected as best I could. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Everyone at least
thinks
they have an answer." A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. "What do you think it would be like? Hmm? Coming across an injured animal in the woods, and putting it down, out of mercy? Is that how it would feel?"

What the hell is he talking about?

"You know," he went on, "I know she'd be gone, either way. And I know I'm the cause of it. Take the gun out of my hand, she still dies. So why does it matter? It doesn't. I was her death sentence all along. The fact that I pulled the trigger is completely immaterial."

My world stopped.

He wasn't speaking in metaphors. No.
 

Tate was a murderer.

He
had killed Daniela, and that was why she haunted him.
 

"They gave me a choice," he said. "But it was no choice at all. Not really. If I let them do it...I couldn't let them do it. They would have..." He stopped, and for a moment I thought he wouldn't be able to start again.
 

Finally he spoke, rough and quiet: "They would have made it hurt."

I held my breath.

"Not that she didn't deserve it," he said. "After what she did."

My fists clenched at my sides. What on earth could this woman have done to him?

"Why?" I managed to whisper.

His eyes flashed, and he was pushing himself forward in his chair, on the verge of standing. I forced myself not to flinch.

"She promised," he snarled, one lock of his perfectly-smoothed hair coming loose to dangle on his forehead. "She promised and she lied. We were going to run away together. We were going to leave all the sickness and the tears behind us. But her mind was twisted with loyalty to them. She betrayed me in exchange for her freedom, she told them everything -
everything
. And they gave her her freedom, all right."

His harsh laughter rang out, echoing against the high ceiling. I kept my fists clenched at my sides.

"You have no idea what she was going through." My voice was shaking, but I didn't care.

Tate laughed again.

"That's where you're wrong," he said, finally standing up, raking his fingers through his hair. "That's where you're terribly,
terribly
wrong, little girl."

With cold fear creeping through my veins, I sat tall, refusing to buckle under the pressure of his anger. He paced the room, staying far enough away that I was able to relax, just slightly.

"I didn't do it out of mercy," he said, finally, his voice dripping with self-loathing. "If I had, maybe I could live with myself. But I didn't. I was angry. I hated her, in that moment. She ruined everything. When they put the gun in my hand, when they told me I had to do it - I had to do it, or they'd flay her alive, piece by piece - do you think I pulled the trigger out of
mercy
?"
 

He looked at me, suddenly, his eyes hollow, and his laugh hollower still.

"I think
you
know me well enough, by now," he said. "Do you really think I cared for her suffering?"

My mind reeled, my stomach churning with a sudden sickness.

"Yes," I managed to say, fighting against a sob rising in my throat. "I do."

His laugh this time was harsher and louder, and he walked to me swiftly, until he was close enough to lay one firm hand on my throat. I swallowed compulsively.

"Stop it," he whispered, viciously.
 

"No." I stared at him, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Why?" he demanded, bending down so his face inches from mine. "I tell you who I am,
exactly what kind of person I am
, over and over again. But you persist in believing I'm different. Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?"

They made him kill her. He loved her, and they made him kill her.

"With all due respect, Sir," I said, softly, "I don't think you really want an answer."

"I'm
ordering
you to give me an answer," he countered, in a quiet growl.
 

I swallowed hard. "When I came here, I was afraid. I was afraid because of what they let slip, calling you a killer. I was afraid because I couldn't understand what kind of person would allow another human being to feel the way I was feeling, and not automatically want to comfort them. I was terrified. When you first walked towards me with your knife, I didn't know if you were going to untie me, or slaughter me like a pig.

"The moment you cut the ropes, I knew you weren't the person you were pretending to be."

His eyes showed so much, all at once - fear and anger and longing and disbelief. I pushed on.

"You're not a saint," I told him. "I won't argue with you on that. You're a sinner, Tate - through and through. But you're not a monster."

His lip twitched. "You're wrong," he whispered. But his heart was beating faster; I could practically hear it, thumping against the cage of his ribs.

My throat was dry, but I forced myself to keep talking.

"You ordered me to answer," I said. "So that's it. No, I'm not telling you what you want to hear. I'm telling you the opposite of what you want to hear, because it's what I believe."

He was so close now that our lips were almost touching.

"You don't understand half of what you think you do," he whispered. "And you've been a very bad girl."

Slowly, his fingers tightened around my throat. A stab of fear went through my chest. "Why?" I rasped. "What did I do?"

"You lied." His grip loosened, slightly. "You were bluffing. I can see it on your face. You didn't know. Until just now, you didn't know I murdered her."

I held his gaze, steady, although I felt like I might faint. "It doesn't matter," I said. "You're still my protector."

He closed the gap between us then, pressing his lips against mine in a searing kiss. When he pulled away, I could barely hold myself upright, my body shaking and my head and heart pounding with the force of it.

"Stop it," he snarled. "Stop playing this game."

"What game?" I asked, my voice sounding very far away.

He reached out and grasped my wrist, holding my quivering arm steady. "Your will isn't broken. It never will be. It's insulting when you act like there's a chance you could
ever
really want to be mine. You're trying to manipulate me, and I don't appreciate that." He let out a harsh breath, and his nostrils flared. "I need you to stop. That's an order."

"Fine," I said, pulling my shoulders back. "Have it your way, Tate."

He laughed darkly. "I always have it my way," he said. "Haven't you learned anything by now?"

"Apparently not." I watched him carefully.
 

"Now," he said. "Autumn. The real one, not the shadow that pretends to submit to me. Tell me what you think of a man who kills his lover in cold blood."