Chapter XCI: An Unexpected State of Affairs
Ten minutes later.
It was the first sign of things falling apart, Allegra feeling ill as she saw, among other things, the sight of tea dripping from her gown, followed by Freyja, and then Morrigan sweeping out of the hall. The first having to leave out of principle—followed by every Northerner in the hall—and the second likely seeking the nearest telephone. Magnus was gone…and she could only wonder at it briefly with so many things vying for her attention. Chaos surrounding her, an uproar of voices trying to draw her in with questions. Demands. The crowd starting to get unwieldy until Raze abruptly stood up from his chair, removing his mask and raising the two fingers of his left hand.
Tall and commanding, the sign visible by all and drawing them into silence. Like sheep who'd forgotten they were wolves. His gaze, stable and stern, passing over them in peace, reminding them to stand rather than falter. Before signing what they already knew: Keep to the shadows, survive the war. A beacon for those who were too young to remember the last time and the time before that.
So that as they left the hall, it sounded like a ship's deck being swabbed. Servants quickly rousing from the sidelines, working to clean the blood off the wooden floor. She could hear a hundred breaths being released. The musicians starting a jaunty tune as some of the older folk suggested an early refreshment until the rest of the ball could commence. Their respect for Raze—the second lord of their existence—causing some to drop to a knee as he passed. Allegra reaching for his arm, his hand over hers as they did what they always had to do, picking up pieces and mending damage. And yet, she wondered still where Magnus had gone.
The thought fleeting as they proceeded without him, the two of them, Raze and Allegra, synchronised in purpose and intent on finding their quarry. The trail leading quickly to the lycan-master's quarters where a picture began to form. A vaulted door unlocked, and the next three rooms they encountered, left unbarred…
…and spotless.
An expected state of affairs if they had not happened to see the interior a few days prior. The great disarray that had mysteriously vanished. No more vomit-stained shirts on the carpet. The stacks of bowls with dried blood in them. Or empty bottles. Langley nowhere to be found, but the scent suggesting he had wisely vacated the area shortly before their arrival. Perhaps uncomfortable with explaining why one of the wardrobes was empty. Why everything was not only clean, but displaying a relentless thirst for order, save for the recent addition of blood on the carpet. A trail of footprints leading to his bathing room.
Locked.
Allegra looked at Raze…
…who entered first, breaking the handle as though it were a twig. Then pushing against the door until the chair behind it gave way. Crossing the threshold and then reaching back for her hand, squeezing it once and pulling her forward. Safe. Her husband keeping just enough distance that she could Change easily if the situation required it. Her eyes reflecting first on the claw-foot tub and the marble sink, so focused was she on the blood, that it would be a further minute before she saw the real danger, that which would rock their future as a Council for years to come.
A room that was still magnificent, filled with an endless supply of heat after the Council sought to increase the lycan-master's enjoyment by supplying hot water from the same pipes connected to the swimming pool. An achievement in engineering, one that rarely had the opportunity to shine, given that so many of their society were forced to hide in plain sight, using problematic infrastructure and regressive technology, despite having spent six hundred years ruminating on how to build a better toilet.
Yet in spite of it…
…in spite of all they had done, trying to keep him…satisfied…in their world, they were now confronted with his absence. A chill lingering in the air. A window left ajar, allowing snow to fall on the radiator. The smell of Lucian—so infrequently sensed by those who were younger than centuries—still there, marking his presence only a few minutes before, followed by a hasty exit. A pile of clothes discarded by the bath, filled with a few inches of steaming red water, next to a dozen plush towels, once white, now covered in blood, shoved haphazardly into one corner of the black tile.
He was gone.
A thief in his own house, she realised.
Still trying to understand it.
Why on earth he had stabbed Erling…
…and as she stood there, staring at the window, it occurred to Allegra that she had missed the more obvious point. It had not been a chair behind the door, but a desk. Turning back to the door, she stepped as a ballerina on glass around the blood, so she could reach it: the ornamented cylinder desk he'd dragged into his bathing room. Its revolving top, left unlocked and pulled up, revealing four folios. The dark red indicating Horde business, and the quantity indicating she was about to be horrified. The first folio containing a copy of the original annulment sponsored by Morrigan and signed by Erling and Lucian. The second containing the Vienna amendment, sponsored by her and signed by Erling and Lucian, surrounded by a dozen of their advisors…
…but the third containing a nightmare.
A third amendment.
Nearly identical to the second, only the signatories were different: sponsored by Magnus and signed by Lucian…and Freyja. One who now had a stake in the sand, formally aligning herself not just with Lucian, but with one of the pack-leaders of the North. And her eyes widening in the expected horror as she saw the more pressing issue…that every clause of this third amendment was exactly the same as the second one…
…save for a single line.
Not Vienna.
Nordland.
Territory of Magnus…
…and the last pieces falling into place as she breathed, preparing herself for the worst. The fourth folio. The reason why Erling had been stabbed on the fourth day of feasting, thereby forcing him to leave immediately for a safe-house. For in that moment, the authority to sign Horde documents passed temporarily to his sister, Freyja…who had picked up the mourning knife and left the hall…very quickly after the stabbing.
As did Magnus.
Its contents giving her insight into why Freyja would sign this third amendment. A final…fourth…document that spelled the end of their good relations with Gottfrid's den. Another contract…this time between Lucian and Freyja alone. Signing over all his shares in the Northern Pass, provided she became his wife in twenty years. It was an exchange of power, unprecedented in the Northern dens, that gave a woman—the daughter of Gottfrid—everything she would require to surpass her brother. Something Gottfrid had always failed to understand about his daughter. That Freyja was hungry for power…and willing to fight for it.
A powerful move…
…made by a powerful couple.
Raze perhaps already having seen it, for he'd moved on to the window, staring out into the night, but making no move to follow. No longer seeming to fight it. All of the actions that seemed unnecessary until they were tallied side by side. The true quandary that they faced, lying not in the contrasting signatures on the documents, but the area of discrepancy.
Location.
A seemingly minor clause, but one that had legal ramifications after Lucian spent a year in the late 1870s—out of principle—refusing to approve the next location for their annual Gathering, after spending four consecutive nights during the last one, listening to Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen or 'seventeen fucking hours' as Lucian had informed them in subsequent letters. His decision at first seeming petty until a year later, Parliament had yet to open, a government could not be formed, and they were negotiating the end of his house arrest—solely by Line missives.
All of them on his Council agreeing shortly thereafter that in future, if the lycan-master chose to abstain from signing his approval on a Horde-approved location, then all contracts, annulments and amendments would remain in stasis until—at most—the following year. And if he again, chose not to sign…it would become a standstill agreement, which could then be formally dissolved by their Council.
As would be the case…
…for Miss Jeanne-Antoinette de la Roche, whose tenancy was now under debate. All of their signatures cancelling each other out. Thereby leaving the annulment and her contract in limbo until the lycan-master made his choice between Vienna and Nordland. Immortality requiring patience, so that—if he truly wanted—he could refuse to sign for the rest of his natural life. No more visions. No more Council-approved watchers following her movements. At which point, the Council's only recourse would be to dissolve the contract of Miss Jeanne Antoinette de la Roche…in its entirety…and start afresh.
In short…
…he had annulled everything.
Not just her contract with the North as Freyja had done…
…but her entire deal with the Council.
Finished.
And yet it struck her that she ought to be pleased by the state of affairs. For he had indeed changed the Rumour—as she herself had tried to do over the past six weeks. Her knowledge of how quickly Morrigan worked—and how swiftly each Council Member would be receiving notice of the trade on the following morning—giving her full confidence that in twenty-four hours, no one would be talking about a torn dress…
…or a jilted affair.
Instead, they would be reading about a dance of politics. The gifting of an infamous mourning knife. A ceremony filled with joy and hope. A show of unity, as he'd called it. Followed by a stabbing…and an extremely generous transfer of shares. Which…in light of Erling's dismissal from the hall…would be interpreted now as a bold move in support of Freyja.
Yet Allegra was not pleased.
Not by a margin.
Rather, she felt as she had forty years ago. Returning home from abroad…and finding it in tatters. Realising that it still hurt. That horrible feeling of something…secret…occurring behind her back. That a trust was now broken. First by the sound and then the sight of Lucian fucking another woman, whose name he did not know, while she was left holding papers. Council papers. That he was meant to be signing. And the diligence of her past life, forty years ago, causing her to wait in the other room…until he finished fucking…so he could sign the papers and then watch her shred them into a thousand bits before she destroyed a wall, while he tried to argue semantics. Until there were no more excuses…
…only pain. And anger. Things that drove her first into the arms of anger…and then into the love that was her all. The pieces of her that Raze mended. While the pain remained at its stem. The secrecy. And the lies. The greatest of betrayals. That Lucian could use her in this manner. Her trust. Her signature as a Council-member. Asking her for help when he knew full well that he was lying to her. That her talk on the roof had done nothing but plant a seed, forcing him to confront how great a wall he'd have to climb in order to get what he wanted…and instead of storming a different castle, he threw his finances into building a ladder.
And all of it…
…so he could fuck Reinette.
Likely for a year. Maybe two. After which he would cast her aside as he'd done with all the rest of them. All the women who'd come before her. The ones who'd fallen to the wayside and never quite gotten up again. And it suddenly…shockingly…became all too much. A thing that rarely happened. A moment when Allegra ought to have sat down to catch her breath. Powder her nose. Anything to hold back the rage starting to tear at the seams of her gown. For she was truly…at her limit.
She growled.
Feeling her neck jerk once…and her teeth start to lengthen. Each joint struggling to extend itself. Like the edge of her skin had become too tight. And her couture…her beautiful couture…splitting along the seams as she began to Change from beauty into the beast. She could feel the silver taking her eyes. Each lock of golden hair turning black and sinewy. And her nails growing into talons. Still in shock. Gripped by anger. Feeling the Change take hold until a voice called her back.
"Allegra," she heard.
Finally.
Her husband…
…who had been so silent for the past few days. Always thinking. Weighing the situation. Waiting for his friend to come to him. And she felt his palm resting gentle on her fur. Her Solheil al Fard of the night sky. Reminding her that he was there through all of it. Whether there was tea on her dress. Whether she'd lost her place after years of orchestrating…everything. And it stopped. All of it stopped, like her lungs were expending all the air out of them. Until her heart began to slow. And her frustration began to quiet again. Her nails causing one of the tiles to crack as she let go of the window, turning back towards the warmth.
Raze.
Burying herself in his chest.
The only place where she could remember herself…and give weight to the true source of her anger. That she had ignored it. From the moment she created the quadrille, she'd ignored her instincts. Warning Lucian to stay away from Reinette…and then allowing the woman to be escorted by Erling. Allowing her choices to be ruled by her head rather than her heart. Ignoring the dress…and how stiff the woman had been sitting. How distant she'd been. And now she was feeling the guilt of those choices. That she'd allowed one of her own to be placed in that…moment…for the sake of others. Putting that merge…and all the people who relied on its existence…before herself…
…and those who needed her.
Not just lycans.
And so Allegra wept. For the harm she had caused. Raze holding her to his chest. Raze who knew her. Murmuring soft words as he stroked her hair. No longer blond, but auburn again—with the few strands of grey that always came back, however much she dyed them. As every Change forced it to be. Able to see the pressure beneath her mask. How entwined her life had become with the Horde. All the sacrifices she'd made for the merge. For her people…and this future that was now in tatters. The sniffs making her feel pitiful. Unable to hold it in any longer. The weight of her own power…that which did not allow for weakness.
Or time.
Or children.
A long…messy…period of weeping that only ceased when she saw the outcome. That her dress was torn. Her curls were ragged. And there were smears of lipstick all over her face. An homage of weakness across the silk masterpiece that was her husband's waistcoat. Embroidered by an army of seamstresses. Each panel, white on white, showing a stag surrounded by oleanders. A piece she herself had worked on sporadically for the last six weeks. Or twenty-two years, if she counted planning.
Ruined.
And the matching handkerchief from Raze's pocket soon to match, she thought, drying her eyes before blowing her nose roughly on the silk. Trying to decide whether it would be better to change her dress now or simply give up on the rest of the evening. Claw her way up the sides of the building. Growl from the ramparts. The likelihood of either reaction limited, for the etiquette of upper-class lycan womanhood allowed very few occasions for transforming in public, let alone tearing her dress.
Which she'd already done, she supposed. Allowing herself to be kissed…and then wrapped gently in one of the few clean towels left in the bathroom. Feeling some relief that the Change had passed—or the Size Alteration as she liked to call it when teaching classes—but incredibly weak now that she was no longer…put together. And yet it never failed to strengthen her. The way Raze was looking at her in that moment. As though she had never been more beautiful. And in the end, it was Raze who put her first, as he always did when she sacrificed too much for the sake of their Council. Drying one of the last tears on her face…and to her surprise…
…turning away from the window.
To which she sniffed.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to the ball," he said.
Simply.
Melding with the turmoil of her fears, giving her a sense, as he always did, that everything would be alright in the end. And yet, she could not help but think it was the end. That by standing for Freyja so early in this dance of politics, Lucian had put more than one target on the field. Causing dissent in the North.
Chaos for those who wanted it.
Possibly war.
"We should still go after him," she said bleakly, still staring at the papers. Some of them starting to swirl now as the wind began to pick up. An icy chill trying to come in through the window.
"Allegra, we have tried," said Raze. "…and whatever we do, he finds a way out." His face was set. Compassionate…but set. It was the reason so many recruits followed him—not for his strength and size. But for his warmth and stability. It never changed, regardless of the years they'd been at war. How kind he was. How thoughtful of others. "I think this time," he added, holding out his hand. "…it is up to him to come to us."
And she nearly wept again.
Staring at his hand.
The one that held all.
And knew all.
Her darling Raze…
…yet it was a wishful jest to think Lucian would ever seek them out. Because it was not them that Lucian needed.
It never was.
But she was not alone in this.
Raze would be with her.
Always, thought Allegra, wiping her face. For a moment despairing on what she would wear, and then very quickly deciding it was a moot point. She was Allegra…and if a maid saw her wearing a towel, then it was in vogue, she decided, feeling the warmth of her husband's smile…and then taking his hand. Back to the ball, she thought. Or at least their quarters first…because it was still a towel after all. Still having no notion of how she'd face Reinette after this…
…only that there was a need to do better.
For all of them.
o…o…o
Meanwhile.
The opposite was occurring in the East Wing. Not a plethora of feeling, but a dismissal of one. Reinette walking in a fog, up staircases and through corridors, past broken windows and glass, now swept away and boarded by guards who were now present. Two of them back at their posts…and neither daring to meet her eye, allowing them all to ignore the smell of cleaning supplies. Vinegar in bowls. The housekeeper and a trio of maids on their knees down the hall, still working a rag through the carpet, trying to rid the air of sweat, blood and urine. Anything faint enough to suggest the heir of Gottfrid had been there. Everything soon to be clean…like clockwork. But her cogs feeling stuck. As though even standing in the hallway was too much for her. Making her suddenly fearful of the memory. The fear that she had killed him. That things might have happened…and she was unaware of what they were.
And she could not sustain it.
So she did not.
Instead walking past the feeling. Seeing that it held too much emotion and therefore seeking its opposite. Aware that Rena and Sabine were behind her…and now beside. Taking each of her hands and leading her forward. The one opening her door and the other quickly locking it behind them. Away from the eyes. The whispers. Able to vaguely sense that her clothing, the torn dress was being carefully removed by Rena. Peeling the layers away so she could sit, wrapped in a blanket by the fire.
Ruminating on a different memory…
…a feeling of being beautiful…for just that moment. Before it was all taken away. Shredded into pieces. Or clawed. Like that mask. All of her bitterness starting to feed the dress into the fire. Watching the crêpe-paper burn, and the plumes of smoke rising up. In her apathy, trying to remember exactly when she lost her way. When the coals she tended in the North began to wrap themselves around her purpose…and desires.
At first disturbed by her inability to cry…and then welcoming it. Deciding she had no capacity for such things…and the only reason she had lived for so long was her ability to forget. Forget Erling. Forget his hand on her back. Forget that she could not remember what had happened…
…and move on.
This time to her bath.
A spiral of thoughts trying to take hold, winding themselves tight around her skin…while the rest of her continued to perform. Listening to the taps running. Rena going to the door, fetching the pails of hot water from a maid. The sight of Sabine coming into the room again, carrying a tray filled with everything she might need. Bathing salts. Candles. Tinctures.
For her.
Seeking to soothe her, she realised. Dutifully allowing them to tend her. Each moment a balm on the foul whisper of his breath. So that as she lowered herself into the bath, she found herself keeping hold of Rena's hand. Feeling the water drip on her back. Reminding her of all the times Rena had been there for her in this place of quiet…and warmth. The smell of rose petals and citrus. Formed out of memory. Right down to the candles sputtering.
And yet.
It was not enough.
She could feel the truth of his absence this time…and what it meant to her. That if she were to spend eternity in a place…it would always be missing something. Because of that thought still present beneath the water. Idling its way through the apathy she could no longer sustain. Until the feeling rose from below, threatening to swallow her. A feeling that he ought to have come by now.
That she was listening for the sound of him. That she expected him…even after pushing him away…to follow her. She'd expected Rena…or Sabine…to tell her that he was waiting outside her door. Seated on the bench, unable to sit still to save his life, yet forcing himself to remain present. Wearing out his soles beneath that dreadful painting of Hamlet. Because he ought to have been there. Not just now…but earlier. Awkwardly waiting for her to make the first move, even though he'd spent the first ten years of their acquaintance doing the opposite. Refusing to let her rest in the apathy of immortality. Yelling her name, once, perhaps twice at most, before leaving for the carriage. Always making it seem as though he would be gone…and yet always there, waiting for her.
No matter how long it took.
And she wanted to blame him. For the dress…and the mask…
All the horrible things that happened that evening.
But it was not Lucian that was the problem.
It was something else.
She sat up.
Hot water sloshing over the sides as she stepped out of the bath, reaching for the nearest towel. A feeling of momentum taking hold, causing her to move without explanation, leaving a puddle on the floor. Sabine trying to protest, but rendered silent as Reinette put a hand gently on her cheek, as Rena had done for years, not knowing it was a sign used by lycan mothers for their children, that all would be well…
…and carrying on her way.
Dressing quickly for there would be little time to do what needed to be done. Rena already conscious of the destination, having already shared in detail all her findings after following Lucian during the previous evening, and choosing to help rather than hinder, now finding the warmest coat from the wardrobe. The old dress she'd worn the previous evening. Her veil. The few clothes she'd left out for her journey…and sending her on her way.
Reinette signing her thanks, opening the door…
…and again, stopping.
The second time that she'd received an unexpected visitor. Nothing like Erling. No sense of ego or impending danger. Instead, she saw an extremely well-built, albeit sheepish, young man standing before her door. His features, his nose and jaw, thin in appearance, making it feel like his build was an extra coat he was wearing. His face difficult to place due to her habit of ignoring those around her, but his uniform identifying him as the head valet. Lucian's head valet, and yet he carried himself like a boy in that moment, seeming to dance on his feet, so great was his desire to leave her corridor. As though at any moment, he expected to run.
The name escaping her.
And then abruptly finding its way to the surface.
Langley.
"Yes?"
It could have been her tone.
Perhaps too sharp.
The valet audibly swallowing as he looked over his shoulder. Giving the impression now of one who'd come too far to turn back. His voice cracking as he held out an envelope. "I was…t-told to deliver this, ma'am."
She took it…
…and without taking her eye off the boy, she used her nail to slice open the edge. Already having seen multiple versions of Lucian's hand-writing—this one a style he used in haste—and her name on the front. Nette. Peering inside, she found the old photograph. Worn. Her face staring back at her. And beside it, the silver key from Hrafn's pocket…and a black playing card. The Queen of Spades. Curiouser and curiouser. Turning the card over, she saw a message written along the white edge. Four…extremely short…sentences, followed by an initial.
Stay in quarters.
Do not talk to anyone.
There is a reason.
Sorry.
L.
He couldn't have, she thought, reading it twice…and then allowing her gaze to pass from the card to the messenger. Disobeying the second instruction immediately. "When did he give you this?"
"It was…" The valet seemed unwilling to cross her. "…on his desk, ma'am?"
"Why?"
She could hear how sharp she sounded.
Angry at another soul, and now cutting the air because of it.
"I…think he may have…" He looked at Rena and then quickly returned his gaze to her. Looking truly apologetic, but his resolve seeming to strengthen as he conveyed his lord's message in the best manner he could. "…wanted to warn you, ma'am."
She opened her mouth to ask…
…but it was unnecessary.
Because she could hear them coming.
Three sets of steps.
In time.
Her instincts choosing to observe rather than act, watching as guards came around the corner at the end of the hall. One tall, one short. Black and white. Opposites. Their faces easy to remember for she'd seen them that evening, guarding Lucian, who by the tenacity of his nature, was now nowhere to be seen. Instead, his guard rota was now occupied, flanking a different soul…
…Weylan Jones.
Who himself was now looking flustered. The fine hair sticking up every which way as though he'd been roughly forced to walk down this corridor, rather than choosing to do so of his own accord. His mask no longer on his face, but the rest of his suit suggesting she'd been correct in assuming he was indeed the goat. A similar envelope in his hand. Open already. And its interior holding the cause of his distress. Not so much a note as a treatise, written on identical paper with an identical hand, that Weylan proceeded to read aloud as he stood before her, first clearing his throat. The words sounding like nonsense until he handed her the page and she could properly read it…
…that due to the incident in the main hall, the den was now operating under Horde rule. Therefore, her status as a servant of the Horde took precedence over her right of movement. Until the Council had an opportunity to revisit her case, she would remain under guard at all times and was—as of that moment—restricted to quarters.
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
No visitors.
And beneath all of it…
There was a line.
Signed.
By Lucian.
And now she was lost. Feeling Rena's hand on her side, steadying her as she swayed. Hearing Sabine start to come up from behind, asking what on earth was going on. For she realised now what the men before her already knew. That he had broken the peace of the Horde…and was unlikely to remain for any consequences. The weight of the second instruction holding her voice now. Until the silence began to make those around her uncomfortable. Until even she was forced to reach for something. Anything to stop it feeling like a horrible dream.
"When did he leave," she asked.
Weylan glanced at Langley…
…who nodded.
"Approximately..." Weylan did a swift calculation. "…forty minutes ago."
"And am I still to travel to the Lady Morrigan's estate?"
"I am…afraid not, ma'am."
Ah, she thought.
It might have come across as a sound. Her acceptance of…so many things. So many thoughts…and scents…that she wished could come across as neutral. And yet, Mister Weylan Jones was starting to look uncomfortable. As though even for him, the news he was imparting made no sense.
"Do you have any further questions?" he added.
She shook her head.
No questions.
It seemed to stump him further.
He was looking at the letter again. "You, uhm…" He was looking for an out. "…do you need any…clarification, ma'am?"
"No," she responded, looking now to her playing card…and the fourth sentence. Sorry. That word, his apology, taking on new meaning. Because he'd left her behind, she realised. Backing through her door and crossing over her threshold again. Removing the coat and dropping it. Walking past Sabine, whose target had already been found, her voice vicious and starting to lay into Weylan for the poor news he had brought. But Rena taking it in stride, hanging her coat again…before Sabine hugged them both as though it would be the last time she'd see them. Until she was alone again with Rena, hearing the guards take their places on either side of the door…
…and taking her sorrow to the window. Like she was a prisoner again, she thought. Feeling as she had done that night when she'd come upon him in the dark. Seeing now that it was more than just his strings that were broken. And now wishing that she'd never met him.
A/N: This one was a hard one to post. It should have been posted months ago, but I had to take a brief hiatus to feel better. As stated previously, I write for readers who enjoy the tale. I write for readers who are kind, polite, positive, invested, and who review in a manner meant to uplift rather than tear down. I write for readers who stay for the end. You know who you are. The rest of this story is dedicated to you. On that note, if you enjoy the story and you wish to encourage, please feel free to read and review. Any form of encouragement (or even just letting me know you are reading) really does help me write faster. It reminds me that people are still enjoying the story and it is indeed worth posting the next chapter instead of holding it close to my chest and refusing to let it fly.
Love in Halsey: Thank you for leaving that review. It was very encouraging during a crummy time for me. It looks like FF hides Mature stories in their default search, unless you update the filter to show them. I've added a note to the top of the previous chapter so readers are aware of that. Thank you for still reading!
Ursiearielw12: So glad you're still enjoying the story (it always starts one way in my head, but then as I'm writing, the characters sometimes do not go in the direction I expect, so I end up having to follow the tale wherever it goes). I can confirm however that Lucian has definitely wanted to stab Erling for about six weeks now, so it's a long time coming for him. Thank you for leaving that review! I hope to post the next one soon so you don't have to wait too long.
Claire: Agreed - he is definitely letting that side of himself come out a bit more (at his core, though he can be kind, he is still very dangerous).