It was perhaps the first thing he heard clearly in three days.
"What?" Aleksandr managed to intone, more afraid his mind was playing tricks on him than incredulous. His voice felt rusty and came out sandpapery and faint.
He looked at Oleksei squarely for the first time, his steely eyes flickering intermittently between bewildered and expressionless, like a bird unsure whether to light on a branch or fly straight into a window--and not being able to tell which was the better choice, which was more alarming, but only in the abstract.
Aleksandr had passed the point of concrete rationalization by about 48 hours.
Slava's hand on his face felt hard and smooth as granite, but warm and oddly soothing, if only on the most animal level. It was brotherly, intended to comfort. He'd seen it often enough among thieves. It was their way, easy and facile, tactile, rough men unafraid to express themselves physically. Perhaps even lacking other means.
His feverish, overwrought mind had clearly misinterpreted the tone of the manner in which Cheslav said the words, like the artifact of a crossed wire.
Cheslav had said a brazen thing, but not as brazen as his mind would have him believe, and what was more, he couldn't let Cheslav know his perception of such things was compromised. Who knew what the butcher was capable of, given that kind of speculative latitude to exploit.
He recovered slowly, his hand tightening into a fist around Avadya's coat.
"You wouldn't dare," he said, very softly.
The voice was there, menacing and ominous, wrapped in grey, but the will behind it was exhausted, and the body was weak.
no subject
"What?" Aleksandr managed to intone, more afraid his mind was playing tricks on him than incredulous. His voice felt rusty and came out sandpapery and faint.
He looked at Oleksei squarely for the first time, his steely eyes flickering intermittently between bewildered and expressionless, like a bird unsure whether to light on a branch or fly straight into a window--and not being able to tell which was the better choice, which was more alarming, but only in the abstract.
Aleksandr had passed the point of concrete rationalization by about 48 hours.
Slava's hand on his face felt hard and smooth as granite, but warm and oddly soothing, if only on the most animal level. It was brotherly, intended to comfort. He'd seen it often enough among thieves. It was their way, easy and facile, tactile, rough men unafraid to express themselves physically. Perhaps even lacking other means.
His feverish, overwrought mind had clearly misinterpreted the tone of the manner in which Cheslav said the words, like the artifact of a crossed wire.
Cheslav had said a brazen thing, but not as brazen as his mind would have him believe, and what was more, he couldn't let Cheslav know his perception of such things was compromised. Who knew what the butcher was capable of, given that kind of speculative latitude to exploit.
He recovered slowly, his hand tightening into a fist around Avadya's coat.
"You wouldn't dare," he said, very softly.
The voice was there, menacing and ominous, wrapped in grey, but the will behind it was exhausted, and the body was weak.
"You wouldn't dare touch me."