A tightly rolled object rose to his hands, compact and sweet smelling. He found the box of matches not long after, another prize long held safe during his time here. From this came a puff of smoke, a hiss of flame, and the joint in his mouth was lit. Ezekiel inhaled deeply and held his breath, listening, watching as his cousin faltered before him. It wasn’t fair to do things this way. It was selfish and he, for this reason alone, found it the only way it could be done.
“No,” he said lowly, and breathed out smoke. His head finally lifted and a weary, worn face looked out at her. His hair was unkempt from the ride and fell around his face like dead straw and spider’s silk. “I’m telling you because Inferni is now yours.” A pause. The smile cracked across his face, sad and somehow sorry. “I should have told you sooner. You’ve always been the one I intended to leave this to.”
Another breath. He let this out in that half-laugh, shook his head, and looked to Myrika as if she had somehow, impossibly, been expected to know this all along.
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