Vitale always closed doors as quietly as he could, like he was some sort of fucking mouse. Still, the click of the knob was deafening.
My heart pounded with rage, and I waited him out for ten seconds before grabbing the crystal inkwell and hurling it at the door with a violent snarl.
The crystal shattered like thin ice, the black ink staining wood and carpet alike.
The bastard lied. Lie after lie after lie.
I shouldn't have been so angered by it – he was Casterian after all, and a priest atop that. Why should I think him to be at all an ally? Exposure was not synonymous with trust, nor friendship.
I could have accepted his silence – it made me swell with rage, but it was something at least palatable. That was his way. The bastard watched and learned and remained quiet. But if I asked in just the right way, the man would never speak a false word. Not until now.
