“You got all that from one look at me?” she asked. “Yet you can’t see the delusion of grandeur being played out from your fingertips?”
He cocked his head, squinting. “Ambition is the fruit from the seed of neglect. You understand?”
She grew uncomfortable under his steady, prying gaze.
“I know your father, Coyle. Good man. Earned a decent living. Provided for little Sherlyn and her sisters. Kept food in your little belly and coals in the hearth. Yes, Denny is a good man.” He walked, waving his hand in the air.
“But are you satisfied with what you have? Did father Denny support your interest in becoming a constable or detective? Or in anything, for that matter? No? What a shame. You know, you’re good at guessing games. Let’s see how well I do, shall we?”
She glanced behind her. The door seemed so close, yet it wasn’t.
“You’re the youngest of three daughters.” He counted his fingertips. “Ellory, Maycroft, Sherlyn. He probably wanted a boy somewhere in there, am I right? After all, we know what kind of brute the man is, what with his dog-fighting ring and the barrels of whiskey he has hidden away in...” He counted silently to himself. “Six different ports. And a lovely arm tucked away at his side in each of those disreputable firms he thinks he hid so well under shell companies. Tsk, tsk. No, a man like Denny would definitely hope to have a boy. He needed someone to take over the business when it came time.
“The way I see it—and do tell me if I am wrong—firstborn Ellory’s blonde curls were for Momma. That should have kept her busy until the second, but then Maycroft pushed her big head into the world. She was probably shooed in under Mommy’s dress. Then Denny had a third and final chance for a little boy, someone to call his own. But you came out, and that was that. Tell me, what did his eyes say to you when he looked down at little Sherlyn? You could remember with that sharp mind of yours.”
She blinked, tears threatening to spill down her hot cheeks. Her jaw set on edge. And her face expressed everything she wanted kept hidden.
“Yes. Yes, I know this voice that carries words further and deeper than any song imagined,” he said. “But this is the voice that gave us strength to rise above what we didn’t want to become. This indomitable will wrapped us in armor no steel blade could sunder. And the void of our want became seed in the field of our destiny. That which we never received became an opportunity we were born to create. Like it or not, Sherlyn, we are presently who we are, where we are, and how we are because we can be nothing else. And you are not a murderer.”
Fang’s voice echoed in her mind.
Some of us choose not to go back.
Coyle wiped her eyes. “Our past can’t be the influencer of our present decisions. We can only learn from those terrible experiences and make adjustments for the course of the future.”
“You sound like you almost believe yourself, Sherlyn,” he said. “Reach down further, past the self-aggrandizing wretch you expect everyone to see.” He turned and faced her. His wide eyes stared into her soul. “Grasp hold of authenticity—truth!—with both hands.” He shook his fists.
“Who are you, Sherlyn? There are no expectations up here in the clouds. It’s just you and me and a bunch of hired conscripts who don’t give a rat’s ass what comes out of your mouth. This is your chance to speak your mind. Without judgement, Sherlyn. Without expectations. Is it true there’s strength through adversity? Say it! Shout it! What are you made of, deep inside?”
Her fears were fully realized, not because she was going to die, but because she was exposed. She tried so hard to believe in her motives for justice, but really was just grasping at straws all along. All this time she was just buying another step on an unsure journey.
She stared at her feet, her hands. She had no strength—what did he just say? Strength through adversity. Wasn’t that the creed of the Templars?
Repeat the faithful creed.
But it wasn’t written in English, it was written in Latin. She remembered her flirty conversation with Poes—with Fang.
“You know Latin. I like that. Latin’s a nice word, isn’t it?”
The Templar’s creed was written in Latin, what was it? And then it came to her in a flash.
“Virtus per aspera,” she said. The letters glowed on the page, shifting, rearranging into a single phrase.
Moreci blinked. “What did you say?”
Her eyes raced over the newly formed phrase. All of it meant nothing to her. Except—she had seen this before. She squinted. Yes, she had seen this before. The words were mirrored. Her eyes shot up to the tilted windows—to the glowing words reflected in the glass—and read the phrase out loud.
Suffer the wrath of your creation
Word-bearer of lies
Walk in torment and damnation
The room exploded in purple lightning, and all of them were thrown back. She flew across a table and into chairs. Fingers of eerie, glowing light creeped along the walls and floors and ceiling. Rifle fire burst through the air. She covered her head and peeked toward the men.
Cavin and the guards fired wildly at her. Their bullets tore through the furniture and shattered the glass, but all missed her. Tendrils of energy flared through the air and wrapped around her assailants. They writhed in coils of lightning and ruptured into burning ash.
She looked at Moreci. His body shook and twisted, crawling with dark energy. His agonized screams deepened, chilling her blood. The mask covering his face ripped apart, and his mouth widened. Huge, jagged teeth burst forth. His back hunched, his legs widened, his arm twisted
