Read Every Last Drop for Free Online Page A

—Sure, Mr. Lament.
Laments hand ducks into the pocket of his robe and comes out with a
honed carpet knife. It flashes once as he uses it to hook the underside of
Lows upper lip.
—Something to say? Something pressing, yes? Say it, boy! Say it while you
still have lips to make human sounds! Say it before I cast you into your proper
station as a maker of animals mewling!
—Honestly, Alistair, the boy is simply doing as I asked. You might try an ounce
of civility just now and again. We are none of us above the use of good
manners and simple kindness.
Lament and I look at the door where the old woman stands between an efficient-looking  young  man  and woman   in  matching  black  suits,   holding matching machine pistols that look every bit as efficient as they do. —We are not savages, after all.
She takes a step into the room, into the light, luster on the single strand of pearls she wears at the neck of a white cardigan with buttons that match the necklace, a faint greasy sheen on the warty gray orb that's half grown from the scarred pit that used to be her right eye socket. —Put the knife down, Alistair. Try to effect the gravity of your years.
Lament removes the blade from Low's mouth. —This is my domain, Maureen. How I conduct affairs is my business.
She places a hand on Low's head and looks at his face. —How you conduct your business has proven ineffectual. At best.
She shakes her head. —A dismal failure is a far more accurate assessment of your affairs.
She pushes Low toward the door. —Go out there with your friends.
Low looks at Lament.
Lament bares his teeth, snaps his fingers, and Low goes out the door.
He looks up at the old woman. —A dismal failure? I think not.
She inclines her head at the two young people and they come farther into the room.
—Fear as a control is limited, Alistair. Your instrument is dulled by it. Incapable of independent actions. They will never serve as anything but your lackeys. Sad prison wards. A pathetic, if necessary, fate for them. Truly, it's as much as mongrel races can or should aspire to, but the added indignity of being lorded by yourself seems all but cruel.
He grunts, opens his mouth.
She shakes her head. —No. No further comment is required.
She lifts a hand and the young man takes the handles of the wheelchair and pushes it to the door. —Go join your proteges.
He twists about in the chair, looking back at her as he is wheeled out. —This is my place, Maureen! This conclave is my doing and I should be present.
The old woman looks about for a place to sit. —Yes, Alistair. Yes, yes.
His further comments cut off as the young man closes the door behind them.
The young woman finds a folding steel chair with a cracked plastic seat cushion, wipes dust off it with a few tissues from Lament's box, and places it for the old woman.
She takes a seat, runs her hands over the legs of her light wool slacks, then folds them in her lap and looks at me. —And tell me, Mr. Pitt, how have you enjoyed Alistair Laments hospitality?
I shrug as best I can.
—He's not quite up to your style, Mrs. Vandewater.
I glance at the door and then back at her. —I mean, he only let me bite his toe off. You let me take a whole eye.
—He was, hard to imagine, a quite remarkable student. Attentive, frighteningly able, insightful in a manner quite unique. An eye for weakness. A sense, if you like, for frailty. Vulnerability. Not a virtue, I admit, in the normal course of things, but essential to certain ends.
She looks at the floor, raises the glasses that hang by a chain from her neck, and brings the discarded pigs feet into focus. —Over the years, obviously, he has rather deteriorated.
She lets the glasses hang free. —His eye is no less keen, but he himself is blunted. Become vulgar.
She looks about the filthy backroom.
—The isolation. He seemed to have inward reservoirs. No lack of self-confidence, I'm sure you have noticed, but more than that. Or so I believed. A mind and