Jack of Ravens

4

‘You are a very strange creature, Ryan Veitch. I cannot quite fathom you.’ The Libertarian gnawed the last vestiges of his lamb dinner from a bone in the darkened second-floor room. Outside, the cry of, ‘Get that light out!’ rose up at irregular intervals.

Wearing a too-sharp suit that made him resemble a local gangster, Veitch stood at the window looking out at the silhouette of the city skyscape. He lazily flipped a half-crown, a mannerism he’d picked up from a George Raft movie he’d seen at the Gaumont that afternoon. ‘What is there to understand?’ he said without looking back.

‘Hmm. Well, there is that. The point is, I feel you are completely lacking in self-awareness. Do you have any idea who you are?’ He tossed the lamb bone into the corner of the room. ‘You collude with our forces to bring about our ends, yet at the same time you’ll help some innocent or carry out some futile action to winnow the flame of hope. These two extremes are incompatible. Do you not comprehend that?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’

The Libertarian sighed. ‘I really should know better.’ He stood up and stretched like a cat. ‘Are you coming to the ritual?’

‘Nah. Seen one, seen ’em all.’ In the distance, searchlights swept the sky. Veitch listened for the approaching drone as the Libertarian closed the door behind him. His footsteps disappeared down the creaking stairs.

Sometimes Veitch’s thoughts felt like a black hole sucking him in, never to escape. He could understand the Libertarian’s confusion, for nothing appeared to make sense, either outside in the world or within him. He was a good person aspiring to good things — it was the reason why Existence chose him to be one of that most select band, a Brother of Dragons — yet nevertheless, here he was, murdering, destroying, tipping the scales towards the darkness.

A column of flame rose up somewhere in the Kentish limits of the city. More indiscriminate deaths.

His own killings, however, were not indiscriminate. They were not innocents, but combatants in a war who knew, or would know, that they were legitimate targets. Veitch held on to that thought tightly, for to let it slip away would mean facing up to unpalatable truths.

He had been wronged, badly, and he should never forget that. Betrayed, when all he had offered was support for the cause, even at the risk of his own life. Treated badly by Ruth and Church, manipulating him even while they established their affair behind his back, secretly laughing at him. Ruth knew he loved her; Church knew he loved her. It didn’t mean anything in the long run, and if love was meaningless, the whole premise on which his membership of the Brotherhood of Dragons was based was a pack of lies. He couldn’t trust Existence at all; he could only trust himself, and what he wanted was revenge. That’s what he learned when he was growing up: if somebody hits you, you hit back harder. He wouldn’t be taken for a fool ever again.

The sky was filled with the thunder of war machines. The nagging thoughts that threatened to strip away the facade from his justifications slipped back and were lost in the noise. He turned from the window, secure in the knowledge that he was on the right path.