Dust

VI

I turn around, hiding my face, pretending I have seen nothing. My heartbeat is thudding in my chest like a drum, and I can already feel sweat beading on my forehead. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget scenes of that night four years ago, of losing everything—

"Oh, Gemma." It's Damien, his hand light and reassuring on my wrist. "That's not him. It can't be him—"

I force my eyes open; Damien is only an inch away from me, his expression one of utter melancholy and sorrow. It is one of the expressions that makes me remember how long he has been alive, even if he has the body of an eighteen-year-old. He has seen so much. "But it is," I insist, swiping at my eyes. Tears blur my vision, and I try to stop crying, but I can't. I brush my blind eye, pushing down rage. If I could talk to him, I would make him feel bad for what he did to me. For what he did to my father. "The scar, Dame. I...I remember it."

He blinks down at me, murmuring my name again, but glances back at the man in the seat. When his eyes meet mine again, they are heavy with realization. For a moment, he looks as if all he wants to do is swear, but then he just sighs and pulls me to him. Still sniffling, I press my face into his shirt, wrapping myself in the protection his arms provide. I don't squeeze him too hard; Dame is so thin that I'm afraid if I do I'll break him.

Damien reaches up, pushing my hair back from my forehead and pecking me there. He says, "Gemma, I'm so sorry."

In the back of my head, I hope he doesn't care I'm getting his shirt wet with my tears, but I am unable to get a hold on myself. The man in that chair is the same one who murdered my father and impaired me, and I do not care if he was wearing another skin. He took a part of my life away, and I let him get away that night. There was a point when Damien yelled at me to quit fighting and run, and I had let him get away.

I have to speak with him.

I don't know why.

It doesn't feel like the reason is closure, or vengeance, or any other logical reason. I just need to.

"Dame, you can let me go," I say.

He draws back, cupping my face in his hands, forcing my gaze up at him. I smile a little; even if being fussed over is not something I fancy, seeing Damien so concerned about me makes me feel loved. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I assure him.

So he lets me go, backing up and exhaling again. A hand to his chin, his angular eyes are fixed on me. "So what should we do?"

I steal a glance around the wall again; he is still sitting there, staring at the wall ahead of him, his scar livid against his skin. I ask myself if he even knows what he has done, and if he does, does he care?

"Oh. I know that face."

I turn back to Damien, who is wide-eyed. "What face?"

"That face. Whatever you're thinking, it is a terrible idea, and you should not go through with it. Gemma—"

"I'm going to talk him with or without you, Damien."

I start towards the chair, but Damien grips my arm. I try to wriggle from his grasp, but he is, as he always has been, much stronger than me. With reluctance written on my face, I turn back to face him. "This is not a good idea," Damien warns. "For one, we don't even know why he's here. And, of course, this is not going to make you feel better. How is this supposed to help you move on?"

"Dame, maybe I'm just curious."

"What killed the cat, Gemma?"

I give him a look to communicate my distaste for his protests, and am finally able to shake free of his grasp, since it has gone slack. I start to head for the front desk, shouldering past people, and Damien follows. He knows, as he told me on the train earlier today, that there is no sense in arguing with me.