Page 98 of Petrify

My eyes narrow. Though I guess I need a man who isn’t easily afraid.

His hands are in his pockets, an easy set to his posture as he looks me up and down. No fear of the mask.

He’s been under Leo’s employ for years now. His custodian, of sorts. Nothing much probablydoesscare him.

It’s late. Mallary is deep asleep, the rest of the house quiet at the midnight hour. But Desmond—the man almost never sleeps. Not that I watch himtooclosely.

“That girl,” I say. “What’s her name? Aubrey?”

His smile slowly drops.

I grin.

He still doesn’t move as I stalk closer. I know there is a gun in his waistband. I know he can throw a punch. But he won’t.

He blinks, pretending now as if the name means nothing. “What do you want.”

“I wonder who has your leash—Leo, orher?”

Chapter 45

The Pianist

While the otherresidents exchange gifts in the mid-morning, I seek out my tormentor, almost mindlessly, my thoughts of nothing else buthim. I can’t leave him alone today, and especially not after what I’ve remembered. He doesn’t deserve another day alone.

I find him sitting by the window in his attic bedroom. Outside is gray with sleet, the dreariness spilling inside. His back is turned to me, a curve to his spine like he’s cradling something to his chest. His heart, maybe.

I know he can hear me enter.

Silence while he straightens, almost like he’s grounding his soul back in his body after flying off elsewhere. Like a demon, possessing his bones. I can feel his hesitation in the air, in the way he refuses to face me at first. He clears his throat. “How is Henri?”

To keep some distance, I sit on the old worn arm chair on the other side of the room. “I haven’t seen him since?—”

“No.” A pause, his masked profile coming into view as he looks over his shoulder. “Does he enjoy it?”

The music? “Mostly, I believe so. He excels at everything I throw at him. Your parents—” My jaw snaps shut.

Baz just sighs. “He is… blameless in all of this.” There’s something to his voice. “And yet, I can’t help that I wish he were never born.”

Do you believe in curses, Mallary Doyle?

This strange affliction, that we have no control over another’s thoughts, another’s feeling about us. Henri did not ask to be born, and he did not ask for his brother’s anger, either. Just as Baz did not ask for his parent’s neglect.

“I don’t think that’s your fault,” I say, softly.

“Doesn’t it make me a monster?” Something sardonic seeps into his voice.

“There are other things that make you a monster.”

A self deprecating laugh rumbles low in his throat. “Yes. You’re right.” Only now does he turn fully to look at me. “For a while, when he was first born, it was envy. But now, I wish for his own sake he wasn’t born. This existence is…”

He trails off, thinking of the right word, but it just hangs in the air between us.

He wears a high-necked black sweater and wool trousers. All of his clothing is higher-quality than anything I could afford, at least before my first paycheck. His dark hair curls around the mask dutifully adorning his face. He has the sleeves of his sweater rolled to his elbows, revealing the strong muscles of his arms, the bones of his wrists.

“Come here,” I say.

Framed by the gray window, he’s an angel of death. Then he's walking toward me, slowly, almost stalking forward like a wolf towards its kill.