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The Tower was sitting at his desk when he burst in, the picture of cool stoicism with one leg crossed over the other, both hands folded in front of him. He didn’t look surprised at Mayan’s entrance. And why would he be? Even if Mayan had made any bare attempt at dampening his side of the bond upon approach—which he absolutely fucking had not—Anton was smart enough to expect him after what he’d done.
After what he’d ordered done.
“You had him whipped,” Mayan clipped the moment the door shut behind him.
Anton kept his steady gaze, unflinching in the face of his rage. “A lighter consequence, you’ll agree, than anyone else would have faced in his position.”
“He is sixteen years old.” Every syllable gritted out through clenched teeth.
“I am aware.” His projection of apathy—despite whatever it was he was covering on his side of the bond—sparked a fresh flare of anger.
“And what, then,” Mayan snapped, “makes us any different from the animals who saw fit to inflict undue torture upon a teenage boy.”
The words were sharp with intent, prodding at the images they both held in their heads—would hold in their heads for as long as they lived—of a beaten and dead-eyed Rune Saint John. In a hospital bed. Spread across every newspaper on the island. Standing in the front hallway of the Pac Bell apartment with a single bag of his worldly possessions slung across his one good shoulder. He knew they landed, because it finally earned a response; just the slight flicker of an eyebrow Anton wouldn’t have let slip in front of anyone else.
“Undue?” he challenged. “Dalton is still in intensive care. I’m sure he will appreciate that you asked, by the way.”
That last tidbit didn’t deserve a response, so he pushed right past it. “And that?” Mayan took a step forward. “You would look me in the eye and tell me you think Dalton’s punishment was undue?”
“It is not Brandon Saint John’s job to dole out punishment to the son of an Arcana.”
“It is exactly his job,” Mayan cut through him before he could finish that statement, “to eliminate a threat to his Scion. Is that it? Do you not believe Rune’s version of events as he told them? Because you know as well as I do that Dalton—”
“I know well what Dalton is capable of. You know this wasn’t about him. Not really.”
“And you know that’s bullshit. Lie to yourself but not to me. This was about your pride.” He was toeing the line that many Companions didn’t come close to, but the memory of Brand’s scorned flesh—crossed over with gashes so deep that even the strongest healing spells hadn’t been sufficient to eradicate them—propelled him forward like a fire at his back.
Anton stood, flattening his hands on the desk in a manner that would have had anyone else cowering toward the exit. “This,” he spoke lowly, “was about teaching both of our young wards a lesson in control and accountability—something, I’m sure, you’ll agree will be necessary when they inherit the kind of power and responsibility that awaits them.”
“For the record, I would have done the same thing,” Mayan shouted.
He wasn’t accustomed to this loosening fray on his control. It was a disquieting feeling; he knew better than to allow strong emotion to reign over his actions like this, but he couldn’t seem to still the trembling in his hands as he pressed them down on the opposite side of the desk, leaning in close.
Their foreheads were nearly touching when Mayan ground out, with complete conviction, “If I had been Brand. If it had been you. I would have done the same, or worse. I think that Brandon exhibited a more than reasonable, borderline saint-like, show of control in granting your son the mercy of not finishing the job.”
He didn’t wait around for his answer. He didn’t need one now; it was too late. Anton had made his decision, and the damage was done.
Before he could reach the door, Anton stopped him—both with his words, and the small flame of something he could have convinced himself was guilt flaring at their bond.
“How is he?” The Tower asked. “Brandon?”
Mayan blinked, hard. “It will scar,” he said simply.
It was enough. He didn’t need to look at his Scion to feel the weight of his acknowledgement at that simple statement of fact. It was almost satisfying, if not entirely quelling.
Behind him, Anton cleared his throat. “And Rune?”
“He isn’t speaking.”
“To you or to me?”
“To anyone.”
After a long, empty silence, he heard the squeak of leather as Anton settled back into his chair. “He will be okay,” he said. “They both will.”
“They will,” Mayan confirmed without missing a beat. “That doesn’t make this right.”
Mayan didn’t know what, exactly, he was waiting for; only that he didn’t get it. Not that day.
“Your feelings on the matter are noted,” Anton said at last.
Mayan left without another word, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.