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“Maybe to a point, but when I climbed into that water, I put myself in His hands—”
“No,” snapped Victor. “You put yourself in mine.”
Hate was too simple a word. He and Eli were bonded, by blood and death and science. They were alike, more so now than ever. And he had missed Eli. He wanted to see him. And he wanted to see him suffer. He wanted to see the look in Eli’s eyes when he lit them up with pain. He wanted his attention.
“Do you know him?” he asked, eyes alight. Sydney nodded. “How?”
Sydney swallowed. “He’s the one who shot me."
Killing something was easy. Bringing it back to life took more than measurement and medicine.
And now, just as then, when he closed his eyes and searched for silence, a word rose up to meet him, a reminder of why he couldn’t afford to break, a challenge, a name.
Eli.
"Pull the trigger."
And he did.