“■■■■■”
The Headtaker Corps woman reached out a hand and—
—burned out.
Catherine released her hands, her eyes on the black ash dancing in the smoke. A fitting end for a woman who’d turned hundreds of people into bombs.
“……Guess that’s all she wrote,” Rogue said.
On their way back to the gate, he sent Velladonna a message reporting the casualties, the situation at the prison, and the death of the perpetrator. He also collected the magic sword she’d left behind, wrapping the blade in a handkerchief. It was unshakable evidence.
What the nobility chose to do with it was none of Rogue’s business.
“……You sure didn’t hold back,” he said, surveying the hotel lobby. They’d jumped there from the prison.
“Um, I didn’t do most of this,” Catherine said, getting very shifty.
“Nobody’s gonna yell at you. Probably.”
“At least sound sure!”
What had once been the height of luxury was now full of holes. The marble had been peeled off the floor, and there were cracks in the walls and ceilings. Worse, there was a massive crater, like someone had dropped a bomb here. Was this how bad it got when witches fought each other? He couldn’t even begin to imagine what had actually happened.
There was a witch resting against the wall.
The surviving Headtaker—the girl in armor.
She was lying there, her face twisted in pain. He could hear her breathing, so she was still alive.
The real problem—
“What do we do with her?” Rogue asked.
She’d been under Auroch’s control, but she was still a dangerous individual. What would she do once she woke?
Catherine nodded, her mind made up.
“Detective, can I request a favor?”
That doesn’t sound good.
“What?”
Catherine took a deep breath.
“Will you save her?”
“……Save her how?” Rogue asked. “She belongs to the Ligtons. Nothing good comes of messing with nobility. You know that, Catherine.”
“Then you’ll stand by and let them turn her into a puppet again?”
“……”
“Detective,” Catherine insisted when he said nothing. “You stepped up to save me, right? Will you not do the same for her?”
Rogue knew exactly what Catherine meant.
“……You think we should bring her to the Sixth Precinct?”
“I do.” Catherine nodded.
“—! The Ligtons and Drakenias are enemies! We can’t!”
“Leave that problem to Chief Velladonna.”
“Even the chief can’t— Well, I guess we don’t— It’s out of the question!”
He shook his head, eyes on the floor.
I’d like to…
He knew better.
How could I abandon her to that fate? Knowing that rejecting this offer means she’ll be sent right back to hell—how could I go on living? He couldn’t.
Goddamn it.
“Detective.”
Catherine’s eyes were on him.
His mouth opened and closed. He looked at the knight—and his shoulders slumped.
“……Just don’t betray us,” he muttered.
Catherine’s face lit up.
“Thank you, Detective!”
“Promise!”
“I do!”
…That’s why you’re a sucker, Rogue, he told himself. This was beyond his reach. Rogue couldn’t do a damn thing if a witch turned on him. All he could do was choose to trust them. And he knew better than anyone how hard that really was.
“…………Ungh…”
The girl in armor groaned, and Rogue sighed.
He’d just have to convince himself he was out here saving an ordinary girl.
He had Catherine carry the girl, but the other thing—the magic sword, which was taller than he was—proved a conundrum. Catherine tried picking it up but only managed to lift it by the height of her pinky nail before she had to let go.
“Rather frustrating…,” she admitted.
“Leave it someone else, then.”
“No, I’ll figure it out!”
“……Some things weren’t meant to be.”
With that, they left the lobby, hurrying to the underground lot. Velladonna was taking care of the hotel guests and staff; it was Rogue and Catherine’s job to get the armored witch out of Dodge. If she was discovered, that would make everything worse.
On guard, they swept into the lot. Everything down here was still quiet.
They found the car parked near a pillar. He opened the rear door, and they shoved the knight into the back seat, folding her knees so the door wouldn’t hit her legs.
It’s like we’re kidnapping her.
Uncomfortable with that, he closed the door—and finally let himself relax.
Now it really was over.
There was still trouble ahead, but the case was closed. As he got into the car, he saw the Saint stretching. Her back was to Rogue, defenseless.
Hang on.
An idea struck him.
Humans were no match for witches. The Headtaker Corps had proved as much. But time and place might well be a factor.
There was nothing in the rules saying someone had to fight them head on. If one went after them in their sleep or while they were eating—a human might stand a chance. Witches didn’t age, but they could die. They weren’t invincible. That was how the Headtakers had caught witches in the past.
He was suddenly conscious of the magic sword in his belt.
A blade designed to kill witches.
Rogue couldn’t use magic. And he didn’t think any ordinary blade or gun would be able to kill a witch. The Saint had killed hundreds of thousands of innocent people. And right now, he was in possession of a magic sword. This was most likely his one and only chance to kill her.
It almost certainly was. He highly doubted anyone else would be ever be capable of it.
_____I’m the only one.
Only Rogue could kill the Saint.
He felt his arm tensing up.
He knew more than anyone just how dangerous witches could be.
White lilies surrounded him.
This had once been the town square. But now it was covered in flowers that had grown so dense, you could not walk across it. He stepped in anyway and saw his father deeper in.
“Dad!” Rogue called.
His dad had been a sheriff.
As kind as he was strong, everyone had relied on him. Even once the magical revolution made the world go mad, his father had stayed the same, thinking only of keep the peace.
His father’s body was midtransformation.
Flower petals bloomed round his shirt collar, and his arms had already turned to countless white lilies. His lower half was buried in the sea of flowers, out of sight. The transformation must have brought unendurable pain, but his father’s lips were still intact, and he moved them, smiling at Rogue just like he always did.
“Run, Rogue.”
Every flower in this square had once been human. Out of thousands of villagers, only he and Rogue remained.
But those words proved his last. His father vanished. His clothes, his hair, all trace of his dad gone.
Only flowers remained.
Eight-year-old Rogue just stood there.
Nothing made sense.
He didn’t get why this had happened to his father. He couldn’t even tell if this was real or a nightmare.
“If you misbehave, a witch will come for you.”
Was that really true?
Had they done anything wrong?
Of course not.
There was not a single reason why his father deserved to die.
And yet he had.
Rogue’s grip tightened on the magic sword. He carefully pulled it free, his eyes on the witch’s back. How long would she live if he slit her throat? She’d kept talking when the Lifetaker opened a hole in her neck, and she survived with treatment. Witches were far more durable than humans.
_____Doesn’t matter.
If the first cut didn’t kill her, he’d just keep stabbing. He would never give up. A witch’s life was finally in his hands. Even if Rogue died in the process, he’d take her down with him. No matter what.
He made a conscious effort to keep his breathing even. He couldn’t let her notice. He had to do this.
He stepped forward, his feet making no sound. The broken blade was held backward, raised high above his head.
Almost there.
So close to killing her.
A frothing heat took hold of him, but his head stayed clear. Once he took out the girl in front of him, he’d have a chance to act, though not for long. If they got him surrounded, he’d have no chance of escape. He had to return to the Sixth Precinct first and kill as many witches as he could. He might not accomplish anything, but he didn’t care. What mattered was the attempt.
One more step, and he’d be in reach of the Saint’s throat.
He would show her no mercy. If she fought back, Rogue was only human—he’d be dead meat. Dead on his feet, unable to take her down with him.
His mind was made up.
He inhaled, then held the breath.
Now.
“Detective!”
She caught his wrist.
The Saint stopped him just before the blade hit home. How? Rogue wondered, shaken. She’d had no idea. Then he saw himself reflected in the car window. Ah. She’d known all along. He was a fool.
“D-Detective! Don’t do this! Sto—”
Even as the Saint cried out, he kicked her legs out from under her. She hit the ground, and the blade got closer to her neck.
Nearly there. He could almost slit her throat. Rogue’s lips were moving as if he was chanting: Stab, stab, stab!
It scraped her just a bit—and a red line formed.
“Stop…this!” the Saint rasped, her voice strangled.
He paid her no attention. He would slit her throat. He would kill the witch.
What for?
It felt like there was someone behind him.
“Detect…tive…”