“I’m just a figurehead, me. This army can create order, or just the opposite. The more order there is in the world, the safer Evie is. You either want that or you doan.”
More people closed in.
Exhaling with irritation, Aric removed his gauntlet. He crouched to place his bared icon hand over each clone’s face. Black lines forked out.
Did Aric remember his parents every time his touch killed? I’d heard that he preferred to take out opponents like this. Maybe his Touch of Death served the same purpose as his tattoos: reminders never to forget tragedies of the past.
Spectators gasped when the carnates’ bodies seized.
Jack might be accustomed to attention, but Aric was uncomfortable with the stares. Had the coolly collected knight once been shy around others? The idea made me smile with affection—even as the replicants stopped breathing.
I heard murmurs in the crowd: “Good riddance.”
“Rot in hell.”
“They got off too easy. . . .”
Rodrigo cleared his throat. “Uh, sir, what do you want to do with Milovníci?”
“His name’s Milo now,” Jack announced. “My neighbor had a coonhound named Milo. Went rabid. Got put down.” Nervous laughter broke out.
Death stood and slid on his gauntlet. —That’s shrewd. Strip the man of a name that people fear.—
On our first day out, Aric had studied Jack. Tonight, his attention had redoubled, as if he now found his foe worthy of investigation.
Aric had his hunger for knowledge; Jack had his curiosity. Was there really a difference between those two things?
Jack told Rodrigo, “Take ole Milo here and the two bodies back to his tent. He and I are goan to have a chat.”
“Yes, sir.” Rodrigo could barely hide his glee. He ordered soldiers to carry the three, adding, “You might want to wear gloves.”
Jack said, “Death ain’t contagious.”
Aric looked astonished. —He does listen to me on occasion.—
“Oh, of course, sir,” Rodrigo said. “If you’ll follow me.”
As we made our way through the crowd, Jack shook hands, accepting thanks. By the time we reached Milo’s tent, the man had been already tied to a chair, prepped for interrogation. The carnates lay on the ground, atop a layer of extravagant sawdust.
Rodrigo said, “Sir, there are about thirty mercenaries who are loyal to him. They fought back before we overpowered them. What do you want to do with them? Firing squad?”
I frowned. “Like Milo used to do?”
“Non. But they got to be punished.”
Aric leaned against Milo’s desk. “And how will you do it, mortal? Will your leadership be callous? Or merciful?” He sounded fascinated with this subject. Of course, his favorite book was The Prince. “If you plan to be a leader, then the actions you take now could resonate for your entire life.”
“You think I doan know that?” Jack turned to Rodrigo. “Exile them fifty miles from camp with no shoes, shirts, or coats. Give them each a map that leads to five packs filled with gear.”
“I’ll organize that right away, sir.” And off he went.
The corners of Aric’s lips curved, his eyes lively. “Most will kill or be killed long before they reach their destination. And I don’t suppose there will actually be packs.”
Jack opened his mouth to answer, then seemed to think better of it. “That’s army business, and you ain’t army.”
I surveyed the tent. The lavish area was spotless, except for around Milovníci’s desk. Books, pens, and papers had been swept to the ground. A framed picture of his weird children lay with broken glass. He must’ve been sitting there when he passed out. “Do you think Milov—I mean, Milo will give up information on his kids?”
Jack moved to stand in front of the man, hatred stamped on every line of his body. “He’s about to give up everything. I’ll make the twins’ torture look like love taps.”
I blinked at Jack. So ruthless. So unyielding. A million miles away from the drunken boy who’d cared about nothing after the Flash.
Selena had told me that Jack had changed. Yeah. That.
He backhanded Milo. “Wake up, you fils de putain.” Not a twitch . . . While we waited, Aric knelt, lifting a weighty black book from the ground. He brushed sawdust from it, then laid it on the desk.
I drew in. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer, just turned to the first page. Handwritten text covered the weathered paper. I couldn’t determine the language.
Aric’s radiant eyes illuminated the page. “Gods in heavens.”
“What is it?”
“Chronicles.” He turned that brilliant gaze to me. “The Lovers’ chronicles.”
33
“What is this?” Milo demanded, spittle flying into the air. Finally, he’d come to.
Jack stopped mid swing, lowering his hand. “Look who’s up.”
Milo’s pale blue eyes widened with shock. “I know you! The notorious hunter! What do you want from me?”
“Your children,” Jack answered. “The real ones. You’re goan to give them to us.”
When the sounds of the outside celebrations filtered into the tent, Milo’s shock deepened. “This isn’t possible—my soldiers are loyal!” His lips drew back from stained teeth. “They will retake control.” His hands twisted against his bonds, his fingers tipped with long yellow nails. “And when they do—”