“So, how does it go in these stories of yours? Have I bewitched you already?” she asked, dropping her eyelashes. “Or is there some sordid ritual that comes first?”

The tips of his ears reddened. “I’m afraid I don’t know the details.”

“A shame.”

Was he actually flustered? It had to be her imagination. It couldn’t be that she had any effect on him—that he wrestled with the same horrible impulses as her. To touch her carelessly, to talk to her as if they could be anything but enemies.

Nothing but the tether, she told herself. But as soon as she thought it, it rang hollow, as untrue as these ridiculous stereotypes. Although he was proud and sullen, Hal had surprised her. Despite herself, she’d come to enjoy his company, the way he’d begun to open up as if against his will. In this thin winter sunshine, she thought she recognized what he was hiding behind that breaking front. Hal Cavendish wasn’t just desperate for her help.

He was lonely.

“Anything else you need dispelled?” he asked quietly.

“Your reputation.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been surrounded by enough death to know that people reveal their trues selves at the end. And here you are, mooning about and reading your philosophy books. Looking miserable every time I say the word Reaper. Looking miserable in general, really. So which Hal Cavendish is real? The one I grew up fearing, or the one sitting here?”

Hal’s shoulders went rigid. He tipped his face toward the window, obscuring half his features in shadow. “Neither. Both. Must we discuss this?”

“Oh, come on. What could you possibly be moping about?” She jabbed her finger into his chest. “There couldn’t possibly be a heart under there. You’ve killed too many people for that.”

Hal moved too quickly for her to react. In one motion, he pinned her hand to the armrest. His grip was firm enough to set her heart fluttering, but she wasn’t afraid. “Do you have nothing better to do with your time?”

“No, indeed. I have all night. This is what Lowry is paying me for. To torment you.”

He met her eyes: an accusation. “Everyone is afraid of me. But not you.”

There was a strange brew of hope and frustration in his voice.

“Do you want me to be?”

“No.” He removed his hand from hers. He spoke softly, almost achingly. “I don’t.”

It would be wise to fear him. No matter how he treated her, she had seen the truth. A part of him, however small, was capable of ruthlessness. Of committing atrocities with not a flicker of visible regret. No one could do such things and remain untouched by them. No one’s goodness could survive it.