Chapter Thirty-Three

The next day went by quicker than I had hoped. My father and I spent the entire day at the Portland library, and then we got ice-cream and walked down the river. Everything felt blissful, but something was deterring me from enjoying the daydream. That night my father and I, again, sat on the couch and watched television, this time I payed a bit more attention to the current events, but they bored me, and I found most of them irrelevant.

When I woke up the next morning, a pair of hands were on my arm shaking me awake. I instinctively swatted at the hands, spitting a mouthful of curses at Inanis for coming into my bedroom.

But it wasn't Inanis. It was my father. I blinked a few times before realizing I wasn't at the mansion with my husband. I was here in Oregon, with my father.

"Mirea." My father ignored the awkward curses he received, and continued on to explain why he woke me, "Messor is on the television. He's working without you, do you not understand what a good sign this is? The more he is without you, the lesser he will want you around."

All I heard was Inanis was on TV. I threw off the blankets and ran down the stairs to the living room, where, just as my father said, Inanis was eyeing the camera with his usual conceited smirk.

He was sitting in an elegant marble room. He wore a black coat with gorgeous diamonds embedded in the fabric. He had a pare of white gloves on, along with white pants, and shiny black boots.

He looked gorgeous, as always. I hated it, but it also warmed me to see.

Sitting beside him was a middle-aged man wearing an expensive suit. I assumed he was the interviewer. I didn't even know Inanis did interviews, but then again, he always was busy doing something, and I rarely bothered to ask what it was that he was busy with.

"So," The interviewer asked, "America wants to know, why was Mr. Rodney spared from execution?"

So that's what this was. It was damage control for Inanis changing victims at the last moment. I was curious to hear my husband's answer, so I sat on the couch, and my father sat beside me, and together, we watched.

Inanis fiddled with the hem of his glove, as he stared from the interviewer, to the camera, to his hand, "It's always such a difficult thing." He began, his voice smooth and controlled like it always was, "To decipher who America wants justice from more. With this being my wife's first killing on stage, I wanted to make it memorable. I wanted to make it extravagant. How extravagant is a mere man who cheats on his wife? It's dull, it's boring, it's nothing to me." He waved his hand, as if to conclude that topic.

The interviewer grinned, "Ahh yes, your wife, the Harvester, where is she now? We were told she couldn't make it to the interview."

Inanis's face did not waver, "Mirea has more important matters than this, I'm afraid."

"Important matters? Is she alright?"

"She is quite alright, in fact, it seems I may be the one that is not so alright." His eyes find the camera, and I know that he knows I'm watching. "Marriage is such a fickle thing." He continues, "I've forgotten how easy it is to get lost in the ups and downs of such business."

"It sounds like there's a bit of trouble in paradise." What an unprofessional interviewer, but a bold one at that. He knew how to get gossip started, and that's all he and his company needs for a ticket in the spotlight.

Unprofessional or not, it was a genius tactic.

Inanis didn't take the bait, "What my wife does is irrelevant to me. There is no 'trouble' in our marriage, and any drama you wish to seek will not be found, as there is none that is worth speaking of." There was a cool expression on his face, as though he had rehearsed what to say a million times.

I found myself wishing I was sitting beside him, kicking him hard to wipe the smugness off his lips.

I then realized, horrifically, that I wished to be there, only so I could be there beside him.

I swallowed hard and continued to watch.

The ring lights shone in his eyes enhancing the color of them vibrantly, as he looked up at the camera. He cocked his head slightly to the side, and I clenched my fists at his feigned innocence.

The bastard knows he's anything but innocent.

The interviewer continued on, changing the subject as though he didn't just question if Inanis was in an unfortunate marriage, "Your birthday is coming up, have any special plans?"

Inanis's birthday was coming up? How did I forget that? Inanis's birthday was a national celebration. A day where people partied and celebrated the birth of Inanis Messor. I never partook in the festivities of the day, since I never cared for Inanis to begin with.

Come to think of it, now that I'm the Harvester, my birthday would be considered a national celebration as well.

I decided not to dwell on that.

Inanis waved his hand in a bored fashion, "Birthdays are for children. What is there to celebrate when you only get uglier and uninteresting throughout time?"

"And yet the country is excited to celebrate for you."

"It is only their excuse to be lazy and get drunk."

"That's rather harsh for your fans."

He leaned back in the chair, looking terribly bored, his eyes staring at anything but the interviewer, "I never claimed to be a sweetheart."

I found myself snorting, and I could feel my dad's eyes on me. I ignored him.

"You never claimed to be a sweetheart, but half the population wishes to be with you. Do you have anything to say to the fans of yours that have been inspired by your marriage to find spouses themselves?"

At that, he stared straight at the camera, "Mulier est hominis confusio."

The interviewer frowned, "Was that Spanish?"

"Latin, actually." Inanis gave the man a darling smile, "The most beautiful language in the world."

"And what does it mean?"

"It means you know nothing about Geoffrey Chaucer."

"The poet?"

"Precisely the one."

"I wasn't aware you were a fan of old literature."

Inanis shrugged, clearly bored, "I'm not at all, actually. My mother used to study old English poetry, and thought it'd do me good to learn it too. I hate it, I hate sitting and reading, it's terribly boring and a waste of my time, but I find myself reciting the poems she forced me to memorize rather often."

"Is that so? Have you studied Latin?"

"I have."

"You can speak it well?"

"I can."

I sat there, stunned. How was it that I was learning more personal information about my husband through a television interview than I ever have being alone with him?

"Is there a reason you chose to speak Latin, of all languages?"

"My mother is Italian, I suppose it is in my blood, a language I'm drawn too without any reason."

"I had no idea you had Italian blood."

"Not many do."

"And of your father?"

At that, Inanis frowned, as though speaking about his father was a repulsive subject, "His blood type was rare, a mixture between a disease and a parasite."

The interviewer, knowing this was yet some more juicy gossip, dared to push further. "Sounds like you and him have some tension."

"It should seem so, considering I killed him."

The room went quiet. Even the interviewer wasn't sure what to say to that.

From the corner of my eye, I could see my father shaking his head, as though he was disgusted that I was married to such a man.

I felt the sudden desire to want to defend my husband, but I couldn't think of how.

Really there was no point in defending Inanis, since no matter what you are defending him of, there will always be something he's done that is worse.

The interviewer cleared his throat, "That is unfortunate."

"Not really." Inanis continues, "All I had to do was slice his throat. One thrust, and nothing was lost." I knew what he was doing. He was purposely trying to make the interviewer uncomfortable. He was egging him on, and the idiot man and his camera crew were falling for it.

"And when did this occur?"

"Oh, I was only thirteen, old enough to know better, but young enough to not care." He casted a stoic smile, "Not that I care much these days either."

"Did he attack you?"

"No, he just upset me greatly."

A pause. "How so, if you don't mind me asking."

"Well, for starters, he was terribly annoying. Always prying into my business, like a blood sucking leech."

The interviewer frowned.

"As well as that," Inanis continued, "He always performed if it granted him personal gain." He put a hand delicately on his chest, "I wouldn't know such selfish motives. My work is for the people, of course."

"Yes, of course."

"Ridding the world of the people who pry into others in the name of success and fame is my favorite pastime."

Silence.

It was almost art. The way Inanis slowly captures his prey with his absurd claims. To witness how uncomfortable he makes everyone, more and more, minute after minute, until the atmosphere is suffocating with anxiety.

"In fact, I have been considering adding reporters to my list of potential victims. I believe they are just as important in the political circle than the president himself, don't you agree? Spreading false information, or tricking others to reveal personal facts should be as dangerous as a politician claiming a lie."

The room was deathly silent, and Inanis sat on the couch with an easy smile on his lips. He looked dashing, and calm, and yet the man interviewing him was staring at my husband wide-eyed and almost speechless.

And then Inanis stood, the cameras struggling to get his face in view, "Do you know why I agreed to this interview?"

The man blinked rapidly, "I-I don't-"

"You and your company upset me. Always prying, always lying."

"Mr. Messor-"

Inanis rolled his eyes, "There is nothing 'Mr.' about me, I think we both can testify to that." I watched, feeling almost numb, as my husband pulled out his precious cleaver.

The interviewer immediately stood, and staggered back, knowing what was to come.

I felt my skin crawling in anticipation, "I should be there." I say out loud, without realizing that I said it out loud.

My father turned to me, "What are you talking about?"

"I mean," I look at him now, my eyes narrowed, "I should be there. I'm the Harvester, I should be there."

"Mirea-"

"No dad." I cut him off, "Think about it, I'm the only person in the world who has power over him." I tried to put it in a perspective that my father could understand. "Inanis is a piece of shit, yes, but without me he's an even bigger piece of shit."

"Don't be stupid."

"Dad," I pointed to the television, "I know my husband, and I know that he is absolutely, and completely, petty enough to add reporters to the Bone Cutter's list of potential victims just because this one man pissed him off. This is what he does. He is a child, a stupid one, and he only does things to people to rile them up. It amuses him, and if I was there right now, I could shut him down."

"You are thinking irrationally."

"I am thinking clearer than I have in a long time." I stood, and my dad quickly stood with me.

"Mirea Dhalmi, where are you going?"

I head for the stairs to pack my things, "I'm going to go home to D.C., and put a leash back on my husband." I turn my back to him as I walk up to my bedroom, leaving him, and the gurgling screams of the man Inanis was murdering on television, behind.