Chapter 12

“Here, eat,” The Butcher pushed a bowl of soup broth toward Mori and some crackers.

It wasn’t the finest meal, but it was all her tumultuous stomach could take. Better than rations, anyway. She needed something to sooth her stomach.

That part of her could be soothed, anyway.

Her soul? That was another matter.

“Thank you,” she said as she picked up a cracker.

He nodded, watching her eat, and he took an orange fruit and began peeling the skin off it.

Fruit.

It was everywhere in his apartment—at least, that’s where he’d said they were. It didn’t look that different from her tiny place—minus the fruit of course. He was even in the same dome—the forest dome.

That was something to consider another time, well, beyond knowing that Fate was likely quite amused at putting the two of them together in such close proximity.

She scrutinized the way The Butcher’s clothing fit him, and she wondered if he was a customer of The Tailoring Shop. His layers contoured his shape in a flattering way.

Making him pleasing to look at. Even with his shirt on.

She brushed off the thought. She should not be considering him in any way, pleasing or not. He held her prisoner, after all. She let her gaze wander away from him, to his apartment, though truly it was no different than looking at hers.

He still had his light fixture, though.

Had her light fixture been fixed yet?

Was it only this past morning that she’d shattered it? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Was this what mortals meant when they felt like they’d lived an entire life in a day?

“What day is it?” she asked, looking for a hint of what time it was. So much swirled in her head, it was exhausting.

Her soul had ripped itself apart and now attempted to knit itself back together while she processed all that she’d learned in the last few moments in her cell.

Before she’d thrown up.

Ugh, she could smell it.

He, however, didn’t seem that bothered by the aroma. Could he not smell it? How he couldn’t, she didn’t know. It permeated her pores.

In fact, he seemed so calm.

If anything, he smelled vaguely like ocean and fish. Not a bit of tension or malice in the air. Well, fish and the fruit.

He munched on the orange fruit but stopped before his latest bite to answer her. “It’s the fifteenth.” He shoved the chunk in his mouth.

She watched him carefully peel and then eat a new piece of the fruit. Meticulous. Rhythmic. He’d eaten two more before he paused again and glared at her.

He was still so calm.

Had the attacks already happened? Had they assassinated that female yet? She wanted to ask, but he spoke first.

“Eat. The cleaning cycle in that locker will be done soon.”

She nodded, though not because she agreed. He still planned on keeping her. That meant the vision had not happened, and there was still time to save the woman.

Nothing else.

Focus on the vision. On the coming future.

Not on the past.

She sipped on her soup, remaining as still and calm as she could be, without revealing the storm in her mind.

The past was trying to rip her soul to pieces. Inside, everything began to converge like wind pulling itself together and becoming a storm. The reality of the circumstances could have knocked her over, they hit so strong.

Being kidnapped? This was nothing. It wasn’t the first time others thought they could overtake her.

No, this was something else. The battle in her soul was far different.

Her gaze ran over him again.

She knew him.

And it wasn’t because they had been friends or some silly thing like that, either. It was far bigger. It was her duty and her foolishness that connected them.

Krevik had always said there were reasons beyond the Novian’s understanding of who was chosen and who wasn’t.

She didn’t always know the reasons why she killed who she killed, and saved who she saved. It was orders. For most of her existence, she’d never questioned any of it. She took those she was commanded to take and moved on.

Yet she’d broken the rules and made a different choice.

She watched him as she sipped her soup, and wondered how many lives would have been spared had she done her job, and not let this man—the Butcher of Nova Wars—live.

Her stomach roiled again.

The events that unfolded after she’d gone against Krevik, became, in essence, her fault. The extension of the war that this one human spread out in her mind like a map. The changes of the future, the twisting of everything, because of him.

The destruction he caused.

And look at her now.

Imprisoned by her own creation.

Her own devices.

Krevik was a far crueler punisher than she realized.

Or was it something else.

What if this was instead an opportunity to correct past mistakes? Was that why she was here? Why she’d come this way?

Could she take him to Krevik now?

Possibly correct her errors and return to Nova?

She knew not. She had never realized the Butcher of Nova Wars had survived the war.

How Krevik would have treasured that warrior in Nova! A soldier with no fear who walked into battle, unafraid to kill whoever opposed him.

The stories went that he never hesitated and he removed any and all obstacles against his army. No Novian could defeat him, and that said a lot because Novians were amazingly strong compared to humans.

Seeing him without his shirt, though illustrated why he was so strong. Cybernetic enhancements would certainly level the battlefield. In another time and place, she would have enjoyed sparring with him.

Not when she was weak.

She ate what she could, but it was minimal and shoved it away. Her stomach was still sensitive. The last thing she wanted was food.

Sleep would have been better. At least here it was clean.

“You really should eat more.”

“Why are you concerned?”

“I’m not.”

“You seem to be.”

He shrugged. “I’m just watching you for a few days. That’s it. Unless different orders come in.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Orders? You do not make your own choices, Butcher?”

He took a step forward. “You could be dead by now.”

“So could you,” she snapped back.

He smirked. “That is true.”

She blinked, keeping her face somber. “Why?” Did he know who she was? Did he remember her from his battlefield?

“Haven’t you heard, War Priestess? Wars can kill you.”

“Not the Butcher of Nova Wars.”

He snorted. “I hate that.”

“Then why call yourself that?”

“To scare you.”

“Do you have a real name? Or designation?”

“Cadell. You?”

“Morrigan.”

He nodded. “Well, Morrigan, you’d better eat, because you’re going to get hungry in that shed.”