Her nostrils flared as she watched him bat away a few from his face, spearing right through his hands instead. Every inch of his torso, entirely impaled, in a manner no one could survive. The blood loss alone would be devastating.
The way he ripped out the arrows by the handful without so much as a wince was not half as terrifying as the sight of his shirt: still white and pristine as ever.
In all of her memories with him, she never once saw blood. No cuts or bruises or injury, despite the fights he’d often need to break up in Hellfire House between club patrons who’d had a bit too much to drink. A small scar lay across his eyebrow, a designed imperfection to sell the act. Any time she noticed it felt like trouble.
As Jack tore out the last of the arrows from his body, only then did he look up as though he heard the call of his name.
When his eyes finally found hers, there was quiet.
No violence, no fury. Not even an apology.
Everything was there, all the signs she hadn’t seen before. The one word she’d shoved into the far corners of her mind, hoping it could never fool her again.
“Illusions can’t become magicians,” Kallia bit out. “They’re made from magic.”
That was always the tell. Like clay, magic was an element that could be molded. It couldn’t simply move around and form itself into any shape it wanted. The purpose of illusions on stages such as these were all for show, nothing with intent.
She heard how naive she sounded to her own ears, reflected in Roth’s gentle smile. “That’s what I thought, too,” he said. “But not all magic is the—”
The crowd shoved them both back. A few elbows caught Kallia by the side, then in the gut as everyone parted for the fight moving outward into the lounge area.
More devils appeared, as if more had flown in out of nowhere or the two had split themselves again and again for reinforcements. The floor between the adversaries was flooded entirely with smoke. It was mesmerizing how they maneuvered around each other—fast as lightning, shadows trailing at their feet. As intricate as a dance.
Kallia had seen smoke like that before at Jack’s feet. Every time he had visited her in Glorian like a nightmare rising, it went unquestioned. Just like everything about his power, inevitable and nothing more.
Whatever expression overtook her face, Roth delivered a gentle pat on her shoulder as though she needed soothing. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear. He may be powerful, but he can’t hurt you anymore,” he said. “No matter how strong, the lone wolf rarely survives against the pack. We’ll find a way to get rid of him eventually.”
It didn’t seem likely. Jack proved he was unstoppable against the devils, which meant he could most likely take out every magician in the room in one go. “How?”
They turned at the excited surge of screams.
All of the devils held Jack by each limb while he thrashed in their hold. A beast caught in the trap, but still standing. Still thrumming with power.
The pulse of the room peaked and waited for the next violent act. The next piece to break.
“Does it please you to see this, Kallia?” Roth watched with pride. “There’s nothing more satisfying than to see someone who wronged get exactly what they deserve. When trust is broken, it is our right to break them back.”
As he spoke, the devils weren’t quick with their punishment this time. They waited for no command, but pulled slowly at every limb. Thrashing to pull free only made it worse, so Jack held still. Waiting. Kallia felt all her joints lock up just watching it. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of pain cross Jack’s face as his shoulder looked close to dislocating. Both of them.
Did he even feel pain?
Whether or not he did, the crowd went wild and begged for more.
“You’ve been at his mercy for so long. Now, it’s about time he’s finally at yours.”
From his encouraging smile, expectant and waiting, this was a gift. One designed perfectly for Kallia to give the final order of violence that would be hers to enjoy. It might not kill him, or it could just be enough to take him apart like slaughtered meat. Jack’s life, whatever life was in him, had been placed in her hands.
And just as he’d done to her, she could do whatever she wanted with it.
She’d been waiting for this moment, longer than she’d ever known.
It’s impressive that he even cares at all.
If that were true, they wouldn’t be here. In a room thick with bloodthirst, calling to Kallia. Every moment in Hellfire House returned, every memory forgotten and twisted away, every doubt he lodged at her in Glorian. Every lie he’d ever told and secret withheld, to keep her away from this—this world of more power and even more liars waiting for the next kill.
It wasn’t all lies, Kallia.
If that were true, then she could use that.
Kallia watched the scene a moment more, letting it burn in her memory before looping her elbow within Roth’s with a conspiratorial smile of her own. “Stop the fight.”
Every part of her wanted to take the words back, to choose fury and be done with him. Even Roth’s face scrunched, hoping he might’ve misheard her. “What was that?”
He wanted her to change her answer. She could hear it in his voice, in the curses that erupted from the crowd when the fight came to a halt.
There were other ways to have him at her mercy, and Kallia wouldn’t waste them.
“Don’t worry.” She spoke in that same gentle voice, sweetened with pity. “He’ll get exactly what he deserves.”
14
Hardly anyone wandered by the Alastor Fold anymore. The cursed corner of Glorian once more, it had slipped back into the ominous shadows, preferring the solitude after some days in the sun. Balance restored, in an odd sort of way.
The only mark of change was the Conquering Circus tents still parked outside the Alastor Place like an immovable, dark-striped serpent. The tents lay dormant as the sector itself, but the whispers of music and laughter ringing within betrayed the hidden life inside.
Daron entered on a deep, wary breath, greeted by a sight as icy as he’d anticipated.
Music continued reeling from the corners, but his presence brought a noticeable pause. Performers he noticed from past circus nights in the city streets shot him looks of confusion, distrust. A pair of dark-haired twins he’d met once stretched on the ground in mirroring movements, breaking formation at his arrival. He’d remembered how one of them excitedly asked if he was the Daring Demarco, the way many of his admirers used to.
They all looked ready to claw his eyes out right about now.
“What are you doing here, showman?” a lady with knives asked. Her fingertips danced along the handles sheathed along her belt. “Who said you could come in here and—”
“Knives away, Camilla.”
A wall of patchwork curtain to the back end of the room slid open, revealing Canary on the other side. Not at all surprised to see Daron there, nor her fellow Conquerors watching him like target practice. “We’ve got things to discuss, so leave him be.”
Without another word, she jutted her chin at him to follow her. It was a slow, tense trail, bypassing the one with the knives and the twins on the ground watching him like vultures. Only when he reached Canary did Daron let out a full breath. “Thank you.”
“You’re lucky the one with the lion decided to take her out for a walk right now.”
He blinked as she kept on walking, expecting him to follow. “Why did you ask me to come here?”
“The others insisted there are new developments, and I was feeling hospitable,” she said over her shoulder. “Given how the Patrons have descended like a swarm of bees, I’d say places to gather without drawing notice are scarce.”
“I thought…” Before she slipped through another set of curtains, Daron stopped her gently by the arm. “I thought you didn’t want to help.”
Canary didn’t immediately recoil from him, but he withdrew anyway. Which was clearly the right de
cision, as she met his gaze head-on. “Look, I don’t know you, Demarco. But I know your kind,” she said, flexing her fingers. “My performers and I, we all fight for a moment in a light that can’t really see us. Something which you pompous showmen have never known, and never will.”
Her jaw clenched sharply, cutting shame right through him.
But they were words he needed to hear, so he listened.
“And on top of using your light to lie to the world, you lied to my friend. She trusted you more than anyone, and now she’s gone.” Canary’s face crumpled for a harsh second as she gritted her teeth. “Why would I ever want to help you?”
It was the very question he grappled with, for Aaros and Lottie. Now Canary. He wasn’t there to fight or defend himself. He was simply there to do better. “I … I really don’t know.”
An insult must’ve been ready on her tongue to fire off, but something in her faltered slightly. “I saw you in the hospital the other day.”
Ah, that’s why he was there. Daron dug his hands into his pockets. “I know. The two intruders in my room told me a bird sent them.”
Her snort was perhaps the warmest noise to have come from her. “Your aunt seems as delightful as a tombstone.”
“She has her moments.” His smile went bitter at the weight pressing hard on his heart. A shadow now hovered over their relationship, something he couldn’t see past in her, and all the things she wouldn’t hesitate to do. “There’s … a lot I never knew about her. So much wrong I’m only just learning now.”
No matter what, there would still be love. As her nephew, that could never change. She would always be his aunt who had looked after him and Eva all their lives.
But she would also be this, too.
“Don’t blame yourself for having a screwed up family, Demarco. There’s a lot we don’t see until it’s too late. And from what I saw…” Canary cocked her head. “Looks like you could use all the help you can get.”
She slipped through the curtains. A wordless command for Daron to follow, and he breathed a little easier as he did, grateful for the invitation.
He almost walked face-first into a rack of clothes, the room was so crowded with costumes, boxes, and mannequins. Closed off from the main entrance, the space must’ve been a changing room that had become a place for overflow storage. They navigated around towers of boxes and junk toward the center where a pair of familiar silhouettes waited—Aaros and Lottie, gathered around a makeshift bed of two mismatched love seats pushed together.
A scowling older woman sat atop it, blankets bundled around her as she restlessly tapped at the deck in her hand.
“Ridiculous,” she grumbled at her captors. “I’m dizzy, children. Not dying.”
“Dizzy is not ideal, either.” Aaros leaned back against a few stacked crates. “Just trying to make you more cozy, Ira.”
So this was the famous Ira. The seamstress. Daron had never encountered her before in all his time in Glorian, nor seen her among the audience of Spectaculore. Not that she seemed the type to enjoy a spectacle. She looked like she could hardly tolerate being in a circus tent.
“Cozy, indeed.” Lottie frowned at their tight surroundings. “Though a far cry better than that wooden cot at your shop.”
“Sorry I wasn’t born in a pot of gold, de la Rosa.” Canary emerged from the back with a scoff, bracing her elbows over the top of an empty standing crate. “Remind me again why I need to sacrifice my favorite furniture rather than turn her over to the professionals?”
“Look, firebird, if you really must know—” Ira’s eyes flared, dimming briefly when they latched onto Daron as she deftly shuffled the deck of cards between her hands. Her technique was impressive and sly. And the deck itself was unlike any numbered cards Daron had seen, flashing hints of familiar symbols at the edges before disappearing into the fold.
“You don’t know who you can trust in this town anymore…,” the woman continued, drawing her gaze carefully back down at her lap. “And I’d rather not follow in Mister Mayor’s footsteps, the poor sod. It’s either bed rest on my terms, or theirs.”
The Patrons. Daron swallowed hard as the mayor’s cries returned. His desperate words and hoarse pleas.
The cold slide of Aunt Cata’s gloveless hand upon his arm.
Her worry was warranted. There was no trusting anyone in Glorian, especially not the ones who claimed to be there to save it.
“So, you brought the young Patron boy to keep me company?” Ira’s shuffling remained uninterrupted, even as she shook her head on a disappointed sigh. “You’ve got honest eyes and a strong jaw. Of course she took to you.”
The knot tightened like stone inside him.
“You and your tricks,” she added, until the rush of cards ceased. The deck, now split evenly in each hand. “At Casine’s, one of the first lessons they teach us is to be careful, for true power only favors a few. And there will always be those who want to take it. I can only assume they preached the opposite at Valmonts. Is that right, young Demarco?”
Guilt knifed deeper through his ribs, and he took it. Silently. While Daron was sure he’d never met Ira before, she certainly knew much about him. And Kallia.
Clearing her throat, Lottie took stock of everyone gathered. “Look, we didn’t all gather here to put Demarco on some bloody trial.”
“Says you.” Ira arched a weathered brow. “I’m not chummy with the Patron boy. How can you be so certain there aren’t any strings on him, either?”
Daron pushed down every rising instinct to apologize, to clarify, to express every mistake he needed to right. That wasn’t what they were looking for, not that it would matter. There was only one person who deserved to hear everything, and she was not there.
“That won’t be a problem, seamstress.” Canary’s hand clapped hard upon Daron’s shoulder. “If any strings emerge, he’ll have a hell of a time trying to get out of this city in one piece.”
Not just him. They all would.
A fresh wave of dread crashed through him. Everything Aunt Cata had told him, he could all too easily envision now: everyone in this room, back to complete strangers at the very beginning. Forgetting days as though they never existed. Not even a force like the Conquering Circus would be enough to stop it. In a few days’ time, no one would.
“I’m not a Patron,” Daron stressed, his breath calm. “And I’m not asking anyone to trust me. Zarose knows I’ve done more wrong than right. But I fear for what’s happening around us—and will happen, sooner or later—if we do nothing.”
The air cracked under a stilted silence. “What do you mean will happen?” Lottie perched herself atop an armrest with a troubled frown. “I take it the family card worked.”
Too well.
He relayed all he could remember. All the details of the Patrons’ involvement—from hidden histories and marred memories, to conspiracies and cover-ups that manipulated their world in invisible ways. From the truth of Zarose Gate to the truth about Glorian, and the mission to bury both no matter how it fractured a people. It all cobbled together in a tale too unbelievable to forget that turned everyone motionless as statues. At one point, Ira stopped shuffling her cards altogether.
Through every revelation, no one appeared more ill than Aaros.
“So what the mayor said, it’s all…” The tower of crates toppled behind him as he staggered back a step, blinking slowly. “They can’t just … do that to us—how can this be?”
“You tell us, assistant,” Lottie said quietly. “You’re the one who’s actually lived in this place for years.”
Aaros’s head creaked in a nod. “I-I don’t know. No one knows what they can’t remember. But I wasn’t involved in any of that, for Zarose sake. I don’t think—” The question hung as he dug a hand through his hair. “Ira’s been here longer. Maybe…”
Daron had never seen the assistant more shattered, not since those first days following Kallia’s disappearance. His eyes watered at the edges in doubt, processing a tr
uth as immense as the lie. This was the side Aunt Cata never saw in her work. The truth of how taking, even a little bit, broke more than it fixed.
“No need to get all sniffly, boy. It was long before your time.”
Everyone stilled as the sharp shuffling of cards resumed.
“Wait—” Canary almost choked on a breath. “How do you remember?”
“I’ve been feeling strange for a while … and nothing ever made sense until now. Even when it’s just bits and pieces, coming together.” She went quiet for a few beats, staring straight ahead. “You feel nothing when you forget, but everything starts hitting you when you’re free to remember.”
“And what do you remember?” Lottie pressed. “Anything that could help?”
“You’re a little leech, aren’t you?” Ira snapped self-righteously, turning on all of them. “How do I know you all won’t send me away? Or that the Patron boy’s loyalties won’t drive him back to auntie dearest?”
“I’m not on her side in any of this.” Family or not, Daron knew exactly where he stood. “Nothing leaves this tent.”
Everyone slowly nodded, except Ira. “All right then, Demarco. Let’s see if your intentions are true.” She studied him. “Give me a number below sixty.”
Over her head, Daron’s confusion paralleled the rest of the group’s. “Why?”
“If you want me to play, then you have to play, too.” Undeterred, she stacked her deck altogether. “A number, please.”
Young miss, just who do you think you are?
Number twenty-four.
The memory slammed into him. His chest seized at her voice, spinning back into his ears as though it never left. “Twenty-four.”
A short hmph sounded from Ira as she began patiently counting out cards. One by one, they dropped facedown over her lap in ordered chaos. “Memory is a funny thing. A strong element that’s surprisingly malleable.” She spoke as the cards continued to fall. “We forget, and don’t question why. I can only assume he saw it as a mercy, every time he came into the city and left behind his trail of nothing.”
“Who?” Patrons never traveled alone, especially not for an undertaking such as this. “Was my aunt there?”
When Night Breaks Page 14
