This man was no ghost. He was not even a memory, only a stranger whom shared his blood and knew of the blemish within it. The blame did not live simply with his grandmother, though; the faults of fathers are so often passed down to their sons. So too, it seemed, came the burden of blood. Ezekiel’s eyes turned vicious at the mention of the dead thing that had once been his uncle, hating him still. Andrezej had infected Talitha, body and soul, and she continued to rot despite everything Ezekiel had done for her. Alaine was right about him—he was no healer.
“He raped my sister,” the Aquila said coldly. There was terrible hate within his heart. Hate that it had not been he who had slaughtered the beast, hate that he had never found his sister when she was oh-so-close. Some nights he hated himself for these things. Philosophy couldn’t save him, though, for the world was cruel and what became of the pnemua mattered little. God knew his own. Of this, Ezekiel had no doubt.
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