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“I convinced him to send us back.” “You threatened to kill him,” she said, touching fingers to the bruise already appearing on her cheek. “That’s what I said.”
The past was useless, an anchor drowning you in an ocean of self-doubt and recrimination. If it couldn’t be changed, what was the point in remembering it?
A plate of meat that might have been chicken, if chickens looked more like cats, and a haphazard scattering of vegetable matter arrived with a pint of grey ale. Wichtig swilled the ale and scowled at the flavour. How the hells does something taste grey? Shoving the vegetables to the side of the plate—plant matter was what food ate—he wolfed down the chicken, spitting out the whiskers and claws.
What kind of man defines himself by the crimes he is unwilling to commit? He knew the answer: A man willing to commit every other crime. Could that sad little list have been Bedeckt’s path to redemption? Had Morgen blocked that path with his manipulation? Reasons should matter. But what of Morgen’s own reasons? He’d lied, of course. Lied to all of them. Even Bedeckt, the man who both killed and saved him. Funny, as it was Bedeckt, Stehlen, and Wichtig who taught him the art of deception.
