“Well?” said Eli, gesturing at the body like he was offering Sydney a gift, and she wasn’t being very grateful.

Somewhere between the third and fourth tumbler, the question mark had become a period.

“How Clark Kent of you,” said Stell drily. Eli was not in the mood.

“Angie is dead—,” said Eli. “Yes, I know—” “…but so are you.” It wasn’t a threat. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Victor. You’re something that’s crawled into his skin. A devil wearing him.” “Ouch,” said Victor, and for some reason, the word made him laugh.

But these words people threw around—humans, monsters, heroes, villains—to Victor it was all just a matter of semantics.

Even more concerning—and more intriguing—than a potential EO was the photograph of the civilian hero. He had asked to remain nameless, but nameless and anonymous are not the same, especially where papers are concerned, and there, below the article, was a picture. A grainy photo of a young man turning away from the scene and the cameras, but not

“Do you even know how to use that?” he asked, thumbing a long, thin knife. Eli’s hands were shaking visibly around the gun’s grip.

Victor smelled pain the way a wolf smelled blood.

He’d never been one for God, never had Eli’s zeal, never needed signs, but if there were such things, if there was Fate, or some higher power, maybe it had an issue with Eli’s methods, too.