Dresden 11 - funkplanet

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Thomas pointed a finger at the young women. “Food.” He pointed a finger at the old couple. “Food.”
He pointed a finger at the mother and her children. “Food.”
I just stared at him.
He rolled his head, inhaling deeply and then exhaling. “Maybe it was all those kills together like that.
Maybe he drove me insane with the torment.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I just know that
things seem a lot simpler now.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” I asked. “That you’re happy, now?”
“Happy,” he said, scorn ringing lightly in his voice. “I’m . . . not wandering around blind anymore. Not
trying desperately to be something that I’m not.” He looked back down at the tigers. “Something I can
never be.”
I just stood there, shaking my head.
“Oh, empty night, Harry,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not some kind of ravaging monster. I’m not
some kind of psychotic rampaging around the city devouring virgins.” He waved a hand in a casual
gesture. “Killing when you feed feels fantastic, but it’s stupid. There are far too many advantages in
ensuring that the kine survive. Not only survive, but grow and prosper.” He smiled a bit. “You know, I
really think I might have something to offer the world. I never could have exerted any kind of influence on
my kin as a moping exile, trying to be human. Maybe this way, I actually can accomplish something.
Promote a more responsible standard of relations between humanity and my kind. Who knows?”
I stared at him and said, “Gosh, that’s noble.”
He eyed me.
I hit him with my heaviest sucker punch. “What does Justine think of it?”
He straightened and turned toward me, and there was imminent violence in the set of his body. “What?”
he asked. “What did you say to me?”
“You heard me,” I said, without changing posture or rising to the threat.
His hands closed into fists, knuckles popping.
“Still stings, doesn’t it?” I said quietly. “Still burns you when you try to touch her?”
He said nothing.
“And you still remember what it was to hold her. Like you did the night you trashed Madeline at Zero.”
“Jesus Christ, Harry,” he said. He turned to face out, away from the tigers, and his voice was full of
weariness. “I don’t know. I just know that it doesn’thurt so bad all the time anymore.” He was quiet for
a long time. Then he said, in a very quiet voice, “I have bad dreams.”
I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, to give him some support. But some instinct warned me that it
wouldn’t be welcomed.
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