“No, sir.”
“Did you forget,” he says, “that I am your master?”
“No, sir.”
“Liar,” he cries.
My heart is in my throat. I swallow hard. Say nothing.
“I will ask you one more time,” he says, locking eyes with me. “Did you forget that I am your master?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
His eyes flash. “Should I remind you, Juliette? Should I remind you to whom you owe your life and your loyalty?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, but I sound breathless. I feel sick with fear. Feverish. Heat prickles my skin.
He retrieves a blade from inside his jacket pocket. Carefully, he unfolds it, the metal glinting in the neon light.
He presses the hilt into my right hand.
He takes my left hand and explores it with both of his own, tracing the lines of my palm and the shapes of my fingers, the seams of my knuckles. Sensations spiral through me, wonderful and horrible.
He presses down lightly on my index finger. He meets my eyes.
“This one,” he says. “Give it to me.”
My heart is in my throat. In my gut. Beating behind my eyes.
“Cut it off. Place it in my hand. And all will be forgiven.” “Yes, sir,” I whisper.
With shaking hands, I press the blade to the tender skin at the base of my finger. The blade is so sharp it pierces the flesh instantly, and with a stifled, agonized cry I press it deeper, hesitating only when I feel resistance. Knife against bone. The pain explodes through me, blinding me.
I fall on one knee.
There’s blood everywhere.
I’m breathing so hard I’m heaving, trying desperately not to vomit from either the pain or the horror. I clench my teeth so hard it sends shocks of fresh pain upward, straight to my brain, and the distraction is helpful. I have to press my bloodied hand against the dirty floor to keep it steady, but with one final, desperate cry, I cut through the bone.
The knife falls from my trembling hand, clattering to the floor. My index finger is still hanging on to my hand by a single scrap of flesh, and I rip it off in a quick, violent motion. My body is shaking so excessively I can hardly stand, but somehow I manage to deposit the finger in Anderson’s outstretched palm before collapsing to the ground.
“Good girl,” he says softly. “Good girl.”
It’s all I hear him say before I black out.
KENJI
We both stare at the bloody scene a moment longer before Warner suddenly straightens and heads out the door. I tuck my gun into the waistband of my pants and chase after him, remembering to close the door behind us. I don’t want those scorpions getting loose.
“Hey,” I say, catching up to him. “Where are you going?”
“To find Castle.”
“Cool. Okay. But do you think that maybe next time, instead of just, you know, leaving without a word, you could tell me what the hell is going on? I don’t like chasing after you like this. It’s demeaning.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“Yeah but I thought personal problems were your area of expertise,” I say. “You’ve got what, at least a few thousand personal problems, right? Or was it a few million?”
Warner shoots me a dark look. “You’d do well to address your own mental turbulence before criticizing mine.”
“Uh, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that a rabid dog could sniff out your desperate, broken state. You’re in no position to judge me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You lie to yourself, Kishimoto. You hide your true feelings behind a thin veneer, playing the clown, when all the while you’re amassing emotional detritus you refuse to examine. At least I do not hide from myself. I know where my faults lie and I accept them. But you,” he says. “Perhaps you should seek help.”
My eyes widen to the point of pain, my head whipping back and forth between him and the path in front of me. “You have got to be kidding me right now. You’re telling me to get help with my issues? What is happening?” I look up at the sky. “Am I dead? Is this hell?”
“I want to know what’s happening with you and Castle.”
I’m so surprised I briefly stop in place.
“What?” I blink at him. Still confused. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with me and Castle.”
“You’ve been more profane in the last several weeks than in the entire time I’ve known you. Something is wrong.”
“I’m stressed,” I say, feeling myself bristle. “Sometimes I swear when I’m stressed.”