The knocking stopped. “Are you really?” There was a strange surge of relief in his tone. Mixed with a trickle of doubt, and disbelief. “I heard a scream.”
Swallowing, Kallia looked over her shoulder to find Jack lounging on the couch. Hands behind his neck, he grinned at her to go on.
“You were imagining things.” She scowled at the door. “I was asleep.”
“I don’t believe for a second that you could’ve slept through that racket.” Another wary sound came against the door, the impatient rapping of knuckles over the wood. “Is your assistant with you?”
“No.” Jack’s chuckle reached her. “He hasn’t come back from the party yet.”
She almost smacked herself as soon as she said it. Why couldn’t she have lied and said Aaros was sleeping off his drunken state in his rooms? The whole conversation would’ve been over, with Demarco gone, and only Jack left to deal with.
“So you’re alone?” The knocking halted for a breath. Two. “Can I come in, then?”
Against all reason, Kallia flushed. “Excuse me?”
“No, not for—not like that,” he added quickly. “You can even just crack open the door. I only want to see if you’re all right.”
“What for? Nothing’s wrong. And you can hear my voice now, loud and clear.”
“Oh, I hear it. And something doesn’t sound right.”
Kallia let out an exasperated groan. She had to give the man credit—his instincts were as sharp as a hawk’s. Frustratingly so. She pressed a hand to the door for stability, and somehow felt Demarco’s stalwart presence instead. Like the coarse, warm feel of his palm, finding hers against the wood.
He wouldn’t leave. Not until she bloody well opened the door.
Muttering a curse, Kallia cast a quick glance to the sofa, finding her audience now leaning right against the space by the door hinges with his arms crossed, waiting. Jack nodded expectantly down at her hand paused over the doorknob.
With a hard swallow, she slowly pulled the door open a crack. Just enough for her to see a sliver of her visitor. “Look, everything is perfectly fine.” Her plastered grin stiffened at his prolonged stare. “What is it?”
Of course, after putting up such a fuss, Demarco went quiet. He only looked over what little he could see of her, trying to piece something together. “Sorry, it’s just … I could’ve sworn I heard a scream.”
“Blame your imagination.” Kallia gestured over herself in one quick sweep. “As you can see, I’m perfectly all right.”
With a tight nod, his lips screwed in thought. “You said you’d been asleep, yet you’re still in your performance dress.”
Curse him.
“Can’t a magician accidentally doze off in her dress and heels?” she snapped, her face flaming up. “What is this, a midnight interrogation?”
“I didn’t mean it to sound like that.” He raised his hands up in defense. “Honest.”
“Good, then. You got what you wanted.” Kallia gripped the door. “Have a good night, Mister—”
“Daron.” He stopped a hand at the door, a few inches above hers. “Call me Daron.”
A slow tide of heat rushed beneath her skin. A prick of fear. In the other corner of her vision, Jack’s head tilt in observation. No longer amused.
She shivered, suddenly hesitant to meet Demarco’s eye. “Why?”
“Because I think I’ve offended you enough times. It’s only fair I give you my full name so you can spit upon it at your leisure.” His tone warmed, the smile in it falling. “It didn’t sit well with me, how we left things tonight. I’m here to apologize.”
“Again?” Kallia groaned. The way he chased down forgiveness was so new to her that she still didn’t know quite how to react. Already, something strange was happening with her pulse. She wanted him gone before Jack could sense it. “I get it, Demarco. Apology accepted—”
He gently stopped the door from closing.
“I’m the last person who should be giving performance advice. I know that.” Inches from her, he pressed closer, keeping the door open. “I’m sorry for doubting you. For doing all the wrong things, it seems.”
A short strand of dark hair fell past his temple, and the urge to smooth it back distracted her. “You should be focusing on other things.”
“Trust me, I know.”
Kallia’s chest tightened. A coiled spring about to snap. Her gaze retreated to the shadows. There, she found Jack’s expression focused and unsmiling, as he pressed closer to study every word. Every cadence, every sound.
Her gut tightened. Thinking fast, she channeled as much viciousness into her expression. “Mister Demarco,” she fired off, nostrils flared. “How many times must you apologize to me before you actually mean it?”
He faltered. “I’m … I do.”
“Oh really?” Kallia cut out a brief cackle, shaking her head in disappointment. “You know, I’ve met men like you. They say one thing and mean another, weaving sugar-coated stories just to get their way. Don’t tell me that’s not what you’re trying, using every line to get into my room at this late hour.”
Demarco’s face shuttered entirely.
Hot shame pricked at Kallia. Had she gone too far? She was no stranger to the scenario, but somehow she also knew that he wasn’t cut from that dirty cloth. The flicker of pure disgust over his face spoke as much.
“Good night, Kallia,” he said tersely, turning from her. Not back toward his room like last time, but down the hall, lost in the lights and sounds of the party still alive down below.
Good. She rubbed a hand across her face. Good for him to think the worst of her. To leave her alone, finally.
“Who is he?”
For once, Jack wasn’t at her back or by her ear. Slowly closing the door, Kallia found him standing over the fireplace. A silhouette shadowed against the dying flames, a sight more threatening than if he were pressed against her.
“He’s a judge.” She scoffed with such disdain, she convinced even herself. “Like the rest of those top hats. I do my best to avoid him.”
“He said he advised you on your performance.” Jack released a harsh laugh. “Him?”
It had always unnerved Kallia, how easily he could intuit knowledge without having to be told. How seamlessly he could weaponize it.
“He’s just a judge, Jack. Leave him alone.” The slice of anger in her whisper betrayed her. It was all the answer Jack needed.
“I wonder how you’d look at him, had I not been waiting here.” His entire form flickered. Eyes raw, burning. “Would you have invited him inside?”
“Go ahead and create more illusions out of nothing,” she snarled, observing the rapidly fading quality of his figure with relief. The sight of a deadly storm coming to pass. “I came here for one thing, and it wasn’t for distractions like him. He means nothing.”
“And what about me?” Jack’s voice went low, unreadable. “Am I nothing?”
He was talking in circles. He’d slithered into this room sly as a snake, and it took a mere moment—a delusion—to lose that lethal polish. Envy always did bring out the worst in Jack.
“I gave you power,” he said quietly. “A life, a stage.”
“You gave me a cage.” Her breath shook. “And now you want to throw me back in it.”
The sharp edges and dark planes of his face shifted under the bitterest of smiles. “That’s where you’re wrong, firecrown. I didn’t throw you in a cage.” He raised a hand by her cheek, close without touching. “You walked right inside and turned the lock. And if you’re not careful, you’ll lose yourself to it.”
The door gave a short rustle behind them. Kallia jumped back from Jack, but he’d already vanished to the other side of the room. Right by the vanity mirror, fixing the drape that had somehow fallen again, as if he had all the time in the world. “Start by keeping this covered. There’s no telling what mirrors will try to show you here.”
When the lock clicked and light trickled in, Kallia whirled around
, everything in her tightening as the door creaked open. Aaros poked his head inside with a droopy, drunken expression that sobered the instant he caught sight of her. “Boss? I thought you’d be passed out by now.”
Brow creased, Kallia turned and paused when she found nobody behind her.
Only an open window, ushering in a dark, lingering chill.
19
Daron,
We arrived at the academies just a few days prior, answering those urgent calls out east I mentioned last time. Strange magic is afoot. It seems there might be a new development from the possible power plight among magicians in the area. Still too early to tell, but never too early to take action.
Hope you’re well. Write back when you can, please.
And remember not to party too much. Especially not on an empty stomach.
—Aunt Cata
The letter had appeared in Daron’s courier case that morning. Wherever he went, his letters found him. Correspondences from old friends he’d rather not hear from, the persistent press still gunning to stage interviews he’d sooner fall into a ditch than give. When he’d left Tarcana, he’d wondered if he were better off leaving the case home altogether, but he’d always find letters from his aunt there. The only ones he read, even if he never answered them. That she still wrote meant she hadn’t completely lost hope in him.
Better yet, it meant she had no idea where he was at the moment, and why.
He ran his thumb over the broken Patrons wax seal, white as bone. Eva would always rip them open excitedly, and together they’d pore over the latest adventures of their aunt leading the Patrons, along with her latest reprimand.
With Eva gone, the letters grew shorter.
Daron still read them, alone. He’d thought it might provide him a sense of ease as he sat in the café of the Prima Hotel, glittering in the cold morning light. Instead, the opposite coursed through him. He was the one dark spot amid the bustling sea of happily filled seats and tables. He couldn’t relax. He overlooked his small spread of untouched bread and barely sipped coffee, his eyes constantly flitting to the staircase.
Still no sign.
His foot twitched impatiently. It was starting to hit the two-hour mark since he’d first sat down, and he wouldn’t have even noticed were it not for the deep creases of his aunt’s letter from all the times he’d folded and unfolded it. Or the confused waiter who kept returning for refills, only to find his coffee cup full. At this point, it would evaporate under the morning sun beaming down through the crystal glass ceiling.
Get up, you fool.
His body wouldn’t obey. Whenever something did not sit right with him, it rooted inside heavy as stone. Until he found reason to move, he would simply sit with his thoughts, for the reason had not yet walked down the stairs.
Daron pressed at his forehead. She clearly wanted nothing to do with him—now more than ever, after last night’s assumption. There was no denying that Kallia was beautiful. Much like a viper, and she’d accused him with all the venom of one, too.
Usually Daron was impervious to all kinds of barbs. Being in the spotlight made you the target of so many, but the one she’d speared him with stung. He owned that he wasn’t a perfect gentleman, but he detested anyone who went around hunting like a foul-minded scoundrel in the night. No one deserved to be sought out like prey, to be expected to fall freely into the jaws of the beast simply because it was hungry.
He’d come to Kallia to properly apologize, and left being accused of just that.
The thought burned like acid in his throat, a wrongness searing through. The malice with which she said it, the kind that actors employed as villains on the stage.
Something wasn’t right.
Daron had heard a scream from her room. Along with a chorus of crashes and thuds that forced him out of his door and close to knocking down hers. And when Kallia answered, cool-tongued as usual, he thought maybe he had imagined the chaos.
But there was no imagining the line of kohl smudged roughly at her eyelids. Her hand clawing at the door, prepared to shut it in his face or run from what lay on the other side.
Fear.
A secret not even her best masks could hide.
Daron jerked at a thick wooden screech. A young man casually pulled the other chair out across from him. Tall and lanky, he whistled and raked his fingers through his jet-black hair, which did not make his appearance any less bedraggled.
“Morning, judge.” He yawned, plopping down in the seat. “Mind if I join?”
Stunned by the intrusion, Daron frantically folded the letter for the last time and slid it into his pocket. It took him a second to place the angular face with sleek, dark eyes, and the light-as-air attitude that said he didn’t give a single damn about anything.
Kallia’s assistant.
“Do I have a choice?” Daron countered, equally dry.
“Actually, I’m the one all out of choices. Rest of the tables are full.” The assistant gestured at the café’s scattered spread of tables that Daron could’ve sworn had not been occupied the last time he checked. Then again, much of the first floor had all but vanished for him except for the stairs.
The assistant tsked in amusement as if he could hear his thoughts, before they darted eagerly to the bread sitting between them.
“Stay, then.” Daron pushed the plate forward. “Fresh bread is a poor thing to waste.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” The assistant grinned rather triumphantly, relaxing back.
Daron lightly tapped at his chin, surprised. There was something easier about his manner today. The last few times they’d interacted were about as warm as watching two cats in a cage ignoring one another.
Now, they were each other’s dining company.
The young man grabbed the slab of bread from the plate, tearing off a chunk with his teeth. Tried to, at least. His face crinkled slightly at the hard crunch. “Fresh bread, my ass. How long has this been out?”
Oh, a few hours.
“The waiter swore it was just baked.” Daron coughed, averting his gaze. “If he comes over again, I’ll—”
Without warning, the assistant reached over to dip a finger in Daron’s cup. “Cold coffee.”
The thump in Daron’s pulse jumped up a beat. “Hot beverages do have the tendency to lose heat over time.”
“Yes, but how much time, is the real question.” He sat back with a glimmer of satisfaction, toying with the bread as if only getting started. “And how long have you been sitting here, judge? Waiting for somebody?”
Both men stared each other down, unblinking, while the sounds of clinking utensils and delightful chatter surrounded them in a wave of morning pleasantries. They couldn’t have been more removed from it, and it was probably best to end the conversation altogether before the tension rose to more questions, and possibly fists.
Instead, Daron surrendered a hand over the table with a sigh. “Call me Demarco.”
The eyes across from him widened, more at the hand itself. As if it weren’t something often offered to him. “Call me surprised,” he replied. “You’ve got notable blood and stage chops, so I’ve heard. You don’t act like it.”
It was refreshing to be in the company of those who didn’t know his life as the Daring Demarco. When he could tuck it away like a secret, Daron breathed easier. “People exaggerate. I don’t perform anymore, which has given me ample time to get my head out of my ass.”
The assistant snorted. “Good thing. I don’t think this competition could take any more egomaniacs.” He leaned forward and shook his hand. “I’m Aaros.”
“A pleasure to properly meet. We’ll no doubt be crossing paths more with the show in full swing.”
“We already have.” Aaros gave a cheeky smile. “All the top hat judges spit on my boss’s name, and she doesn’t bat an eyelash. Yet a word from you drives her up the wall.”
The feeling was definitely mutual. “Please. She would walk on ice like it’s iron, and still reach the other side a
ll right. I’m merely a side player in this game, nothing more.”
Humming, Aaros tossed another piece of stale bread in his mouth. “Sure doesn’t seem that way,” he said, chewing more thoughtfully. “Now that we’re chummy breakfast companions, care to tell me what exactly you are doing with my boss?”
“What am I doing with her?”
“Not an old flame, otherwise she’d avoid you like the plague and pretend you didn’t exist,” the assistant went on, head tilted. “Not a current one, otherwise you’d be … somewhere a little more comfortable, I imagine.”
“Mind out of the gutter,” Daron deadpanned.
“Nor are you spying for your aunt, I don’t think. Otherwise the Patrons would’ve swarmed Kallia the moment she lit the stage on fire.”
Daron squared him with a look of disdain. “Interesting theory. But no, I assure you, I’m no spy. And we’ve never met until this competition.” He glanced back to the stairs, still streaming with well-dressed hotel guests. “I take it she’s asleep.”
“Out like a lamp thrown against the wall.”
The image made Daron cringe. That’s exactly what it had sounded like from his room. A scream, followed by other terrible noises. “Does she need a doctor?”
“Calm down, mate. I knocked on her door a couple of times and got a slur of profanities to not disturb her.” Aaros mixed the breadcrumbs on the plate with his finger, unworried. “You magicians need your rest, right? After all she gave to last night’s show, she’ll no doubt stay married to her bed for the next day or two.”
Daron nodded. The twisting feeling in his gut, which had him acting like some scatterbrained fool, still refused to settle. Especially when, for the first time since he arrived in Glorian, he woke not with the determination to find out the city’s secrets, but worried. Far more than he had any right to be. Nowhere else would he find himself sitting at a café for hours on end, fixated on the stairs to catch a glimpse of someone who wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. No wonder Aaros had picked him out so easily in the crowd. Daron no doubt made a pathetic sight.
Where Dreams Descend Page 17
