"You killed his brother?" Henry's voice came sharp and incredulous, eyes narrowing as he turned toward Avin.
"What? No!" Avin scoffed instantly. "Do I look like a killer?"
Henry didn't answer. His gaze drifted back toward the alley, to the exact spot where Derrick had been sitting—bleeding, trembling, and begging before Avin had almost killed him. The image replayed in his mind, making his brow crease deeper. Then, slowly, he looked back at Avin, one eyebrow raised.
Avin caught that look immediately. "That's only because he tried to kill me many times before," he said quickly, words tripping over themselves as he gestured vaguely toward nowhere.
Henry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "If you didn't kill his brother, then who did?"
Avin sheathed his sword with a clean metallic click. "Not who," he said. "What."
Henry frowned. "What?"
"Yes," Avin replied, his tone completely serious. "What."
Henry blinked, confusion deepening. "What is this what you speak of?"
