William put down the copy of the Gazette. His fingertips had become black with ink. He licked his thumb, rubbed his fingers until the smudge had congealed, then wiped his hand on a napkin which he then tossed in the garbage by the bed.
The article was smartly written, insightful, and one hundred percent true. Parker had done a surprisingly good job.
In a short amount of time, too. He wasn't quite sure how
Henry had pulled all the facts together, and part of him was rather impressed. Still, William knew there were many unanswered questions to which Parker-and the rest of the city- would beg the answers. This was the beauty of the whole thing. William felt a great surge inside. Pride and ambition.
Those four deaths were just the beginning. Athena Paradis, the other three martyrs, they were stepping-stones to a greater good.
Two pages after Parker's story was an article about the turmoil at Franklin-Rees publications following Jeffrey
Lourdes's murder, as the empire ran around like a headless chicken hoping to find some stability. William knew, as soon everyone else would, that regardless of how many Frankenstein-esque heads they tried to bolt on, the animal itself was dying. Everything would crumble from the top down. And out of that rubble would come something beautiful.
Once the guilty had hanged, the innocent had nothing to fear. It was human nature to fear the executioner. Most never realized their job was to cleanse the earth of the guilty, the evil, those who poisoned society.
Despite the truths Henry Parker had unearthed, William felt no anger toward him. Being attacked and brutalized hadn't stopped Parker's pursuit of the truth.
Parker, of course, only knew what William wanted him to know. Because he was the Regulator. He was the last of the great bloodline. And even if the line died with him, it would have died claiming a destiny so abruptly halted many years ago.
Just as William had uncovered his history despite those who had wished to keep it a secret, so would Henry Parker discover it, as well. Two sides of a coin-one clean, one dirty-both needed to create the whole. The same way Billy the Kid had his chronicler in Pat Garrett, so would William in Henry Parker.
William heard a groan. She was waking up.
He nudged the prone body on the floor, gave her a little kick. She shifted, uttered a muffled cry through the rag soaked through with saliva.
William knelt down to her, gently shook her until those eyelids-crusty with eyeliner and mascara-fluttered open.
The pupils took a moment to register, but as soon as they did fear came racing back to those pretty hazel eyes. The very eyes that had once gazed upon Henry Parker with an intense love that she still felt for him. Mya had made that clear in Paulina Cole's article. Surely Henry still felt something for her, too. Perhaps he could still feel her pain. They'd find out soon enough.
The Boy smiled. He gently stroked Mya's cheek with the back of his hand. Her face trembled, lips quivering, blubbering.
"Don't be scared, Mya." William's fingers traced soothing circles over her forehead until her trembling lips began to calm. "You have no idea how important you are."