Vanity Scare

by H. P. Mallory

  “Bram was right,” she whispered. “Knight…” She put her hand over her mouth. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Chris—” I started.

  “I’m going to kill him.” Christina closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. She clenched her fists, and her joints popped with a sound like gunshots.

  And seeing the anger bubbling up in the head of Humane Resources made something click in my own brain. Some of the red drained out of my vision. Something in the backwaters of my mind said, “Wait,” and it felt like the kind of voice people listen to when they don’t want to end the world.

  I took her by the shoulders, gently, and I looked at her. Level, pouring myself into her eyes, water gushing into a desert. She was furious, almost vibrating.

  “Christina, he’s already killing himself,” I told her. And fuck, it had to be true. The sudden confessional dump onto me, of all people—he knew exactly what he’d done. Knightley Vander wasn’t stupid. He was broken and he was out to get himself, or so it seemed. The more I thought about it, the more I realized he wanted to expose himself, and I’d provided him with the perfect vehicle. Obviously, he was aware that Christina was my girlfriend, so who better to tell than the boyfriend of HR? But then, I had to ask myself, why? Why did he want to crucify himself? Was it to show Dulcie how truly sorry he was? Maybe he was the type of guy who just couldn’t apologize, so this was his roundabout way of doing so?

  Christina blinked. Once, sharply, and there were whole paragraphs of text inside it.

  “He’s an ass,” I said, “irredeemably, and he’s stupid, yes, and he betrayed her in the worst way anyone can, and there’s nothing we can do to change it. You can’t fix this, I can’t fix this, he can’t fix this. He can either man up, accept it, and move the fuck on to be a better person, or he can let it destroy him and he’ll be awful for the rest of his miserable life. But that’s not a transformation anyone can force on him.”

  “We could pursue this. He could lose his position. He could—”

  “We can’t do anything without Dulcie’s approval,” I interrupted. “And everything points to the fact that she wants to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “What?!”

  “This happened two years ago, Christina,” I explained, when she appeared to be unconvinced. “Don’t you think Dulcie would have pursued it if she’d wanted to? She’s a cop, for Christ’s sake, she knows what the laws are. But she didn’t, and that means we shouldn’t, either.”

  “How can you think that?”

  “Because this is her business, not ours. Of course, if she wanted to pursue it now, I would support her. But this is her decision. It happened to her; not us. And for whatever reason, she’s decided not to pursue it. And that’s her right.”

  She nodded. “I guess that makes sense.”

  “If Dulcie wanted Knight to suffer or to pay for what happened, she would have pursued it herself.”

  Christina blinked twice. Soft blinks, sad blinks. The blinking that happens right before tears, and I realized I’d never really seen her cry. “Maybe she was afraid or ashamed? Maybe she was too embarrassed to go after him?”

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t sound like Dulcie. Besides, this happened two years ago, and they got back together after it happened. That tells me there must be more to the story. There is—there’s Dulcie’s side.”

  “If Knight admitted it…”

  “Yes, he did. But even though it happened, we’ve only heard his side. We haven’t heard Dulcie’s, and we owe her the right to make her own decision on whether or not she wants to go after him for it.”

  “Maybe we should give her the option?”

  I sighed. Long and hard. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to pursue this.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know Dulcie. And if she’d wanted to pursue it, she would have. Shit, if she knew Bram was spreading all of this, I’m sure she’d be furious with him. Dulcie isn’t the type of person who wants her business aired for everyone to see.”

  “It seems unfair that Knight’s just getting away with it,” Christina said.

  I shook my head and started to shake my left leg like I did when I was nervous. This conversation didn’t exactly make me comfortable. “He’s not getting away with it. At all. He knows what he did. He struggles with it every day. He said as much. And it’s a big part of why they aren’t together anymore.” I took a deep breath. “Just… I don’t know, give him a chance to try to fix it himself so he can grow, or something.”

  She pulled away and looked at me incredulously. Like I’d slapped her and then told her violence was never the answer. “Grow?” she repeated, but really, she spat the word at me. “Grow?”

  “He either gets better,” I clarified, “or he doesn’t. I don’t know.”

  “I’m kind of amazed to hear you say that.”

  “It’s not our decision, Christina. It’s Dulcie’s.”

  And that was enough to stop her. Not to calm her down—she was still in high-noon murder mode—but she wasn’t actively trying to leave the room to go on a good, old-fashioned manhunt.

  She nodded. Inhaled, exhaled, head cocked to one side. Sharp, like she was trying to snap her own neck.

  “I need a minute,” she told me.

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  She stormed coolly out of the room—back straight, expression mostly blank—and turned left, towards the gym. Maybe looking for the punching bag, or for someone to suplex on the mat. Maybe she was hoping Knight would be there, so she would have a reason to kick his ass without letting him know that she knew and that she wanted him to suffer for it.

  Or maybe that’s just what I wanted to do.

  I didn’t know why I had jumped to his defense. Maybe I felt bad for him. Maybe I thought, if I could recover, he could, too. Maybe I was trying to pay something forward.

  Or maybe I just didn’t want Christina to get herself in trouble with Dulcie. Maybe I didn’t want Dulcie to have to relive the events again, because I was more than sure she’d buried them for a reason.

  ###

  Ten minutes later, Christina returned.

  “You better?” I asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  She sighed. “I walked around the courtyard a couple of times.”

  Before either one of us could say anything more, Dulcie poked her head in. Christina’s expression dropped and her face turned white. She swallowed hard. I felt my own heartrate increasing and sorely wished we weren’t reacting this way, because Dulcie would definitely notice.

  “Hey,” she said. “I heard about the whole Dagan thing; what the hell is going on?”

  Christina stood up and walked over to Dulcie. Then she paused for a second before she threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tight. Really tight.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Dulcie hesitated. When she looked at me, I felt my mouth pop open, my shoulders rising in a really pathetic sorry-I-can’t-keep-secrets-that-don’t-belong-to-me shrug.

  “You’re sorry?” Dulcie repeated, frowning once Christina pulled away.

  “About what happened,” Christina said, and nodded. “Between you and Knight.”

  Dulcie’s eyes dropped before she glanced up at Christina again, as if forcing herself to be strong. But she also looked confused. “You mean, how we ran into each other earlier?”

  “No,” Christina said.

  Dulcie nodded slowly, chewing on her lower lip. “You’re talking about what happened with Meg…”

  “Um,” Christina looked at me questioningly before facing Dulcie again. “No.”

  “So that leaves only one other subject you’d be sorry for.” Dulcie sighed deeply. “Who told you?”

  “I wrangled it out of Quillan,” she explained, “who wrangled it out of Knight.”

  “No wrangling necessary,” I clarified, hands in my pockets. “It just kind of spilled out of him, like he was waiting for someone to
ask.” As though I’d asked him what kind of coffee he was drinking, and he tripped and dumped it all over me because answering would have taken too many words. “And then it just kind of spilled out of me.” I frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  I wasn’t sure why Christina hadn’t mentioned Bram, since he was the first one who’d mentioned it to any of us. Maybe she was protecting him? It was an odd thought.

  “Oh,” said Dulcie and she crossed her arms. “And why would Quill think to ask Knight about it?” Her gaze speared between Christina and me.

  “Bram,” answered Christina. So she wasn’t protecting him. I wasn’t sure why, but that tidbit made me feel lots better. Bram didn’t deserve anyone’s protection.

  “Bram?” Dulcie repeated as her cheeks colored.

  “Yeah, I think he’s on team ‘let’s stuff and mount Vander on a wall somewhere,’” Christina said.

  “Not that it was Bram’s place to tell anyone anything,” Dulcie pointed out, then pursed her lips as she glanced down, looking generally like she didn’t want to say anything ever again.

  “It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Christina told her kindly.

  Dulcie shook her head. “I, uh, I can’t do this. Not right now and not… ever. Whatever Bram told you and whatever Knight told Quill… it wasn’t exactly how things went down. I’ve told Bram that repeatedly, and I’m getting sick of listening to myself explain.”

  “Then you don’t want to press charges?” Christina asked.

  Dulcie looked surprised. “Press charges? No! I want everyone and everything to go back to normal so my life can feel like mine again.”

  Christina grimaced and looked like she was going to say something unpleasant—not to Dulcie, specifically, just in general—but she sighed and shook her head instead. “Fine. But if you’re ever in the market for a Netherworldian necktie, let me know.”

  Dulcie cracked a smile, but I could tell she wasn’t feeling it. I’d already known what her feelings were on this subject without her having to express them, but Christina was the head of HR—this was her turf. She was just doing her job. And I understood that, too.

  THIRTEEN

  Bram

  Vander did not make it out of the printer room.

  Quillan stormed out in rather a state, shoving his phone into his pocket and generally looking as though he would very much like to set the entire city on fire. I stood with my arms crossed, watching from around a corner. I waited until he disappeared before entering the printing room, myself.

  You see, I had been listening.

  “It’s all yours,” said Vander, taking a sheaf of papers from the printing tray. Then he turned around and realized exactly with whom he was sharing the room. There was a brief, disgusted pause. “What do you want?”

  I surged forward, grabbed him by the throat, and pushed him back against the machine. The plastic cracked beneath him.

  “Nothing in particular,” I said. “Some pleasant weather, better business prospects, and perhaps your head in a nice wooden box.” I squeezed. “Something I can put on the mantle and show to relatives at parties.”

  He rolled his eyes, or perhaps he was running out of oxygen quicker than I had anticipated. “This again, Bram? You had your chance to kill me and you haven’t taken it. This shit is getting old.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware. Perhaps that is why I am back now.”

  “Make up your fucking mind.”

  It was strange. The rage swelling within me was not of the white-hot variety to which I was accustomed, nor was it the cold and calculating red of a sociopath with a branding iron. This, whatever it was, had a different color to it, something gold and green and furious for reasons most of my body could hardly comprehend.

  I did not want something from him, nor was I the same kind of angry I might have been had he meddled in my professional affairs and bungled an important deal. No, I wanted to hurt him, more than I had ever wanted to hurt anyone. I did not want him to learn a lesson. I did not want him to beg. I did not want him to admit guilt. I did not even want to kill him. I wanted to inflict such pain upon him that his screams could be heard dimensions away, that Dagan himself would look upon my work and cringe and wonder what in the hell could possibly be wrong with me, to do such a grisly thing?

  I lifted him up and slammed him into the printer, hard enough to fully dent its weak plastic exterior. It looked as though a comet had come screaming through the ceiling and bashed itself into the paper tray.

  He began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” I hissed, teeth clenched. The blood of Lokis was bitter indeed, but I could stomach it. I might be sick for days, but not near so sick as I felt when I looked upon him, watching that stupid smile peel across his face as though consequences were an antiquated concept.

  Knight laughed. “You can’t do it,” he said as his eyes narrowed. “Because you know Dulcie would never forgive you.”

  A red wash covered the world. Something in my head began to throb, a stinging sensation I felt all the way into my gut. My hunger swelled. This was not my common thirst, but a desperate need to spill his blood, to extinguish the life from his body.

  “Dulcie would come to understand in time.”

  “You and I both know that’s a lie. And yet, when you’re alone, you keep talking yourself into killing me again. Then you get here, and reason sets in and you find yourself immobilized.”

  There was truth to his words, though I would not admit as much to him.

  “Make a fucking decision, man,” he continued. “I’m sick of having you randomly appearing in my life like you’re some kind of fucking superhero.”

  “I am hardly a hero.”

  “Then act like the fucking villain and let’s get on with it!”

  A growl, deliciously inhuman, curled out of my throat. “With pleasure,” I replied. Once I was through with him, it would look like an entire pack of werewolves had broken in and shredded Vander like cheap curtains.

  I dropped him; or rather, I threw him to the ground like a bag of venomous snakes.

  I tugged at my cufflinks, simply because the gesture seemed to fit the moment, conveyed the proper amount of disgust and nonchalance.

  I picked Vander up again and drove him firmly into the printer, deepening the already unfortunately prominent dent. I was a bit surprised that he did not do anything to protect himself. It was as though he wanted me to rough him up. Bizarre, indeed.

  “I am going to enjoy this,” I informed him, “far more than I should.”

  There was a clicking sound as the door opened. Someone gasped.

  Vander and I turned to look.

  A spindly little pseudo-man stood in the doorway, gaping at us.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, finding it difficult to enunciate because my fangs were fully elongated.

  “Um, I’m the intern.”

  Yes, he played the part well in his white polo and khakis. He adjusted his glasses and looked away, blushing. “Um. Sorry. I… um.” He held papers in his hands, something he clearly needed to copy.

  And it occurred to me that if I killed Vander here, I would have to kill this boy, as well—or risk him telling Dulcie what had happened. She would not understand, she was not yet ready to reign down proper vengeance on Vander’s head. This was ultimately something I would have to do for her, and she would thank me eventually. But not today. Not while she was still love-blind to Vander’s mounting atrocities.

  I realized, perhaps ten seconds too late, that Vander and I were in a rather compromising position there against the printer: my mouth close to his ear, one hand around his throat and the other braced against the machine itself, perhaps in service of some unsavory action that required bracing.

  “Bloody fuck,” I muttered, quickly releasing him and jumping back, putting as much space between us as the narrow room allowed.

  The intern’s blush deepened. I very much doubted that I had succeeded in convincing him that he had not just interrupted such carnal activities.
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  “Um,” the intern said.

  “This is not as it might appear,” I responded. I resisted the urge to dust off the parts of myself that had touched Vander.

  “Exactly,” Vander added stiffly, glaring at me but saying nothing else; as much as he didn’t want someone thinking he’d gone skinny dipping in the ink wells with me, perhaps he wanted people knowing I’d actively threatened him even less. Or else he was simply too flustered to form a proper rebuttal.

  “I was simply threatening to kill him on behalf of his ex-girlfriend,” I explained.

  To this, Vander made no reply.

  “Ooooh.” The young man nodded, completely satisfied. “Can I get around you?” He lifted the papers he intended to copy, a stack of the kind of short-order forms that go in suggestion boxes. “They’re for Agent Ramsey.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” I stepped out of the way and gestured to the machine. “Carry on.”

  The intern smiled and skirted around Vander and me. “Oh, jeez,” he groaned, noticing the admittedly considerable dent I had put in the machine’s face.

  “Apologies,” I responded. “I do hope it still works as it should.”

  The intern sighed, but not heavily—as though finding the printer in such dramatic disrepair was just the order of the day. “Whatever, it’s not like it works right anyway.”

  When he started pressing buttons, the printer whirred and hissed and made an awful clanking noise as it rattled against the wall, like a cat trapped in a filing cabinet. The intern kicked it absently and the clanking mostly stopped.

  “One would think that a federal institution such as this would be able to afford something more functional,” I offered.

  “Right?” the intern replied.

  “Quite right,” I said.

  Vander said nothing.

  “Dammit,” said the intern, and he sighed, taking his papers and exiting from whence he’d come.

  “Well, then,” I said to Vander. “Good day to you.”

  Before I could leave, however, something tore a very large hole in the middle of the room.