Chapter 82

82

Jonathan

Bruce and I have been fencing for five minutes when it dawns on me that I am fighting for shit. People have been calling me sloppy for a while now, but this is the first time that I feel it. Bruce cuts my forearm. He knicks my neck. I am late on a block three, four times in a row.

When they called me sloppy, I assumed they meant I was reckless. Now that I feel it myself, I know that is not it. They did not think I was dangerous because I was deranged. They thought I was a liability because I was weak.

"I thought you were better than this," Bruce says. He is annoyed. Hell, so am I.

I do not think I can beat him. I used to be so angry. I was consumed with rage. It was my secret weapon. It was the thing that made me powerful, but when I reach for it now, I cannot find it.

I thought life was horrible, and then I met her.

I thought the world was a dark place, but how could it be, when she was always in it?

Maybe everything I thought about the world was wrong. Maybe I saw only one side. Maybe I do not know the world at all. Maybe, by surrounding myself with death, I have never truly lived. Until her. Until now. Until I fell in love.

Loving her is making me soft. It is making me kind and careful and fucking thoughtful. Love has made me a better person, and a worse murderer.

Love is going to get me killed, like I always feared it would.

"It's her, isn't it?" he says, reading my mind. "She took away your power. I'm a little disappointed." His sword slices through the air. "I wanted to fight you at your peak."

"Then why did you send her?"

He backs away for a moment. He shakes out his hands, then darts forward again, striking harder. "You may not know me, but I have known you for years. I have seen you kill dozens of people; some I have watched with my own eyes. You were a monster once, you know. I think even I was afraid of you." He drives me back until I hit an eighteenth-century writing desk. He forces me back against it. Our swords shake with tension as I hold him at bay. "It seems I should not have been."

Beyond the window, the sky is a brilliant, unholy blue.

I should be happy that I am going to die like this: surrounded by antiques, with an excellent view of Paris, at the hands of a maniac. I have seen so many deaths, so I know this is a good one. I could have died anywhere: on the street, asleep, in the hospital, on that train, before I met her.

I should be happy, but I do not want to die. I do not want to be anyplace where she is not. I want to be old. I want to be boring. I want to be with her.

An alarm pierces the air. The guards jump to attention. They scan the room but no one appears. She must be downstairs. She must be coming back. Shit.

Bruce has me trapped against the desk. I can smell the stink of my own sweat, mixed with my blood from where he cut me. My muscles are quivering from fatigue.

Even if I manage to throw him off, even if I stab him, he will not die right away. And in the meantime, I will be shot by the firing squad that still has four guns pointed at my head.

It is not what I want, but at least if he is dead, she might live.

I struggle to reposition myself, but Bruce does not budge. I need to throw him off balance, but I am trapped.

"You've built quite the business model." I grunt. "You must be responsible for hundreds of deaths. But I wonder, have you ever killed anyone with your own hands?"

I can feel his rage bubble. "I would tell you to ask me again tomorrow," he says, "but you won't be here."

I loosen my grip, as if finally giving up. Bruce tips forward, caught off balance. I unleash the last of my rage, the last of my fury, the last of my hope.

I trip him up and I force him back. I stab him.

A guard yells, and then I feel the shot:

Bang!

And then I hear the firing squad:

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Sometimes it happens that fast.