Page 79 of Forging Darkness
“This is the best I can do unless you can get rid of all that.” She waves a limp hand up and down my body, indicating my armor.
The hair in front of her face parts a few inches as she lifts her chin a notch and waits for my response. It’s just enough of a gap for me to make out one brown eye, her small nose covered by a smattering of freckles that contrast with her paper-white skin, and half her peeling and chapped lips. But one thing stands out to me more than anything else: Pressing into her bottom lip is a filed fang, blunted at the end and only as useful for tearing through skin as a back molar would be.
What happened to this creature?
“Chances are I’d set the bed on fire if I tried morphing back,” I finally push out, unable to stop staring at that fang.
She dips her head in acknowledgement and gathers her materials, placing everything back on the tray. Moving to the side of the bed, she starts cleaning the sick off the floor.
Something squeezes in my chest, and I can hardly believe what it is. Pity. I’m having a twinge of sympathy for this creature, and I don’t know what to do with that.
Thorne comes gliding back through the window while she finishes mopping up my vomit with her last clean cloth. Hearing his return, she finishes quickly and tries to jump to her feet. Her movements are sloppy, and she knocks some of the jars off her tray and onto the floor. I wince when I hear glass shatter.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeats over and over while she frantically picks up the broken shards with her bare hands. I can tell she’s cutting herself as she’s doing it, because bits of the glass she deposits back on the tray are covered in a thick black substance—Forsaken blood.
Thorne seems completely unaware of her presence as he strides forward, his eyes evaluating her handiwork.
Dumping the last bit of glass back onto her tray, the Forsaken makes a hasty retreat—or as much of one as she can while bowing and hobbling backward toward the still-open doorway.
“Not a word of this,” Thorne barks.
I think he may be addressing me until I hear her quiet “Yes, master” before she leaves. The stones grind as they return to their place in the wall.
“What the heck was that?”
“I’ve told you weakness is seen as an opportunity among my people. I had to take a moment to remind them who was still in charge.”
“No.” I point a finger toward the wall where the Forsaken healer just exited. “What is going on there? You told me you didn’t let Fallen take human vessels. Nowaywas that the body of a former angel-born. And she looks like she’s being . . .” The word sticks in my throat, and I have to swallow to loosen them. “Abused. Did you file her teeth down? Is she even being fed?”
There’s a single crease running vertically between Thorne’s eyes, bisecting his brow. The rest of his face is emotionless.
“What do you care about a Forsaken? Aren’t you of the belief that the only good one is a dead one?”
“Well . . . yeah. Especially if you’re going to abuse them. It’s like abusing an animal. I don’t have to like a creature to not want to watch it suffer.”
“Would you like me to call her back? I can easily end her life if that’s what you wish.” His eyes spark with interest as he measures my response.
I rear back as far as my half-prone position will allow.
“Oh my gosh, no. You’re serious. You’d actually call her back just to kill her if I asked.”
“I’d do a great many things for you if you only asked.” Thorne’s voice has gone quiet, but the intensity of his gaze doesn’t diminish. I’ve gotten so used to seeing his aura that it’s only the flash of dark lightning that draws my eye to it now. He’s gone deathly still, but the pulse of his black-streaked aura betrays deeper emotions. “Her life would be as easily ended as a snap of my fingers.”
Am I being tested again? Does he want to know how heartless I can be, or does he truly not care one way or another if the poor creature dies? I honestly don’t know which scenario is worse.
Bile starts to boil in my stomach, threatening to make another appearance.
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
“I don’t pretend not to be, but my point in all this is for you to evaluate your own prejudices. Do you feel sadness for the creature? Pity? If her existence shouldn’t be snuffed out without thought or reason, why should any Fallen or Forsaken suffer the same fate?”
“You can’t make that comparison. Forsaken prey on humans. Killing them, drinking their blood, planning their destruction for sport. And the Fallen want to see Nephilim bred as meat suits for them, effectively enslaving and then killing every angel-born on the planet. What you’re talking about with that half-starved Forsaken is not the same.”
“Not every angel-born’s existence is snuffed out when they’re turned into a Forsaken.”
“What? What are you talking about?” My mind is spinning. I can’t grasp what he’s trying to say.
“Silver is a prime example. Becoming a Forsaken changed her, there’s no denying that. When she was an angel-born she was little more than a naïve young child. But not all Nephilim lose themselves when they merge with a Fallen. If their spirit is strong enough, dominant enough, they retain their essence, and it’s the Fallen who fades away.”