( she had braced for impact, but she's still jolted by the question, the collision of it striking her in the chest. really, she'd anticipated that he might scoff in dismissal, the typical masculine arrogance of men who think themselves impervious to common, unexciting deaths by knifepoint — as if she were an old maid telling fictional stories of baba yaga to a grown man, and expecting him to cower in fear of superstition. alina stalls, focused fingers rubbing the balm in with hypnotic circles, soothing herself more than the nicks and scrapes he's earned.
eventually, though: ) Danny Johnson. He has a fixation with death. Mine, specifically.
( and embry moore's, but it doesn't feel right to rewrite that saga. she isn't the author of embry's story — that's his to tell, when and only when he wants to tell it. there's no telltale tremble in her voice, no frenetic energy in her fingers — but a tension threads through the words, all the same, pulling the syllables tighter in her throat. an emotional betrayal of her attempts to sound matter-of-fact, unaffected — the way she supposes this manner would have preferred. a perfect little victim they could have sympathized with, and not the angry thing it had made her.
she pauses, letting his hand drop to tend to the other. her eyes, all the while, stay trained on his mottled knuckles. )
Jem Walker and Eddie Munson are his lap dogs. I wouldn't trust either of them not to turn on you, if Danny snaps his fingers, though Jem is quite good at pretending to have a heart. ( she pauses. it's going to air itself, eventually — and when it does, she doubts others will be kind to louis or alia. ) The Balfours hosted ... They called it a game, but it was more of a hunt. There were others, but — it wasn't their fault. They weren't themselves.
( the implication, of course: danny was. jem must've been, when she tried to bloody her hands to finish the job danny had failed to do. ravka might call her a saint, but she has no forgiveness to spare for what they'd done. )
just nice normal things, u know
eventually, though: ) Danny Johnson. He has a fixation with death. Mine, specifically.
( and embry moore's, but it doesn't feel right to rewrite that saga. she isn't the author of embry's story — that's his to tell, when and only when he wants to tell it. there's no telltale tremble in her voice, no frenetic energy in her fingers — but a tension threads through the words, all the same, pulling the syllables tighter in her throat. an emotional betrayal of her attempts to sound matter-of-fact, unaffected — the way she supposes this manner would have preferred. a perfect little victim they could have sympathized with, and not the angry thing it had made her.
she pauses, letting his hand drop to tend to the other. her eyes, all the while, stay trained on his mottled knuckles. )
Jem Walker and Eddie Munson are his lap dogs. I wouldn't trust either of them not to turn on you, if Danny snaps his fingers, though Jem is quite good at pretending to have a heart. ( she pauses. it's going to air itself, eventually — and when it does, she doubts others will be kind to louis or alia. ) The Balfours hosted ... They called it a game, but it was more of a hunt. There were others, but — it wasn't their fault. They weren't themselves.
( the implication, of course: danny was. jem must've been, when she tried to bloody her hands to finish the job danny had failed to do. ravka might call her a saint, but she has no forgiveness to spare for what they'd done. )