I know only what they told me.
The words twisted in Daron’s stomach, about to snap.
Aunt Cata had been right. Maybe to hide what the Patrons had concealed, but she’d never trusted the mayor because she never trusted coincidences. Whereas Daron was desperate to leap at the first hint to land at his feet.
“There’s always someone pulling strings, somewhere, even if you can’t see them,” said Herald. “And those with enough influence, or devils on their side who can whisper sweet nothings in one’s ears, can make anyone into a puppet.”
Just like him.
Daron followed the bread crumbs through the Dire Woods, only to fall for the cage someone had planned for him all along. Whoever held the key must’ve been watching him all this time, waiting to spring the trap.
“But who would want me here?” he whispered. “And why?”
“You might think this is a lie, and I’m not sure if I should even be telling you this, but I don’t know. Not the whole story, at least. The Dealer shows some of his cards, but not others.” Herald made a hard tsking sound as he reached to open a bottom drawer in the counter. “I was merely tasked with keeping you safe, and getting you ready for—”
“I don’t care.” It felt like everything in Daron was sinking. Every bone, like rocks pulling him deeper under the water without letting up. He was tired of sinking. Of drowning. “Whatever game this is, I’m not fucking playing anymore. I came here—”
“Yes, I know why you’re here.” Herald brought up another empty glass, inspecting it for cracks. “We all do, remember?”
Daron pressed his lips hard together. He didn’t have the stomach to even ask how. One more blow, and he might very well shatter.
“Which is why…” Herald dragged that last note out like a tune while topping off another drink with silken green liquid. “Your odds of getting what you want are much better with me than venturing out there on your own. You’re not going to be able to just waltz in and take an Alastor home with you.”
“Why would I want that?”
The magician paused over his drink before he burst out laughing. “Zarose, this is rich,” he said. “Not sure if I envy or pity you for being so in the dark.”
“Glad this brings you amusement,” Daron grumbled.
“Oh, it truly does.” He swished his drink a bit with a slow lift of his brow. “But the real question is, do you really want to know?”
He slid the other drink as one would a pawn across the board. Daron made no move to take it, immediately suspicious, which made Herald snicker.
“It’s safe. I already know you won’t be going anywhere,” he said, raising his own glass. “There’s much you don’t know, and much more you probably should before I deliver you right at your showgirl’s feet.”
“Do you really believe I’m that gullible?” Daron knew a trap when he saw one.
“I swear on every mirror here, it’s the truth. My job is to keep you out of harm’s way, so that you and the diamond can reunite. It’s pure selflessness on my part to ensure you don’t walk in completely clueless.” With a low chuckle, he gave the second glass another push closer. “Trust me, Demarco, you’re probably going to want that before I start.”
It was easier walking through the city wearing another face. No one watched him like a gun about to go off or veered out of his way like a ravenous wolf about to tear through the streets. Hardly anyone even paid any attention to him at all when he wore a servant’s face, especially with the first night of the Show of Hands soon approaching. A new event promising a stage for all, which tore excitement through the city faster than a wildfire.
Fools. Roth picked his pawns too well. Powerful magicians, to be sure, but the kind that would pass a mirror on the wall and notice only their reflection—not the knife about to take them out from behind. Jack knew his place here, all too happy to hide in the background of it as magicians all over scrambled to solidify a feat and reserve a spot in the lineup. Hardly anyone hailed him over for assistance.
But when donning the fresh face and suit of waitstaff in the Alastor Place, not even Jack could get out of the work that accompanied it.
“Oy, window lad!”
Jack bit the inside of his cheeks, carrying on with his cleaning rag. He didn’t mind the work; it gave one purpose in a world without. Though it also gave headliners all the more reason to act more boorish than usual. The usual suspects, in particular, treated servants like target practice to no consequence. From the lewdest compliments to outright insults, it wasn’t as if true harm could actually be done to a legion of waitstaff comprised largely of illusions. They weren’t real. Technically, he shouldn’t even exist.
Regardless, all expectations to serve and please had to be met.
With a clenched smile, Jack paused his work. The ladder beneath him creaked as he turned, already inwardly cursing upon noticing the flashes of red that marked the group as those meat-brained oafs he’d love to launch outside the gate. Especially the leader of them. Filip. The dirty fighter from Kallia’s duel. Once it registered, it took everything in Jack not to go break the boy’s head between his hands like a ripe melon. “Yes, sir? Do you require assistance?”
“Just a question I’d like answered.” Filip spoke with a king’s disdain, his beady stare sliding far out of reach. It was the one thing Jack shared with the servants of this house—rarely anyone looked them in the eyes, for vastly different reasons. Jack maintained his empty, placid expression, trying not to look too interested in the opened leatherbound notebook that seemed far too academic for the Red Death Duke’s hands. Scribbles and letters raced across the empty lines with a life of their own. All to keep pace with the suggestions the rest of the group behind him kept calling out.
“… how about a feast, but where we eat the food off of naked bodies?”
“Or—” one of them piped up, raising a finger in a moment of brilliance. “We have a den where we get the Rings wrestling in pudding?”
Nothing pained Jack more than having to smile stiffly as they slapped hands with more suggestions. Each one more piggish and lewd than the last, the air turned greasier around them.
“Shut up,” the leader hushed them with the wave of his hand. He stepped back before starting a slow, careful circle around Jack. “Tell me, were you designed to fight when you popped out of the factory? With fists or weaponry?”
An odd question, though Jack wished he could demonstrate how easy it would be to fold any of these boys like paper.
“Yes, if you wanted me to,” he said in that practiced puppet voice.
“Would you be up for fighting another?”
The group chuckled as a chorus, watching on like vultures waiting for the scraps. It made Jack’s blood boil more. These headliners had been in this house long enough to know his answer would always be the same. “Of course, sir. If you wanted me to.”
“Same old song and dance.” Exhaling an amused sigh, Filip once more took stock of his notes. “If Roth allows it, I hope you’d be willing to participate in a fun little attraction I’m pitching for the Show of Hands. Obviously, he won’t say no to us.”
“I’m sure he won’t, sir.”
Filip cocked his head in consideration. “Not sure we’ve ever seen illusions fight to the death, but could be fun.”
When his other team members snorted, Jack mirrored them with an unnatural laugh as well. “Excellent idea, sir.”
“Isn’t it?” Patting Jack on the shoulder, the leader leaned in with a terrible grin. “Now, I’d like you to walk up to every room in this house. And then once you’re done, jump out of the highest window.”
Jack almost chose to break then and there. Already, the satisfaction alone was tempting—picturing their faces icing over in abject horror once his mask melted away.
If he gave in to pettiness now, he’d never be able to blend in again without them looking closer. “Happy to accommodate your request.”
Thankfully, the Red Death Dukes grew bore
d as easily as they were amused, moving on from Jack’s monotony with that same dismissal of spoiled children tiring of pets they’d only just received. No doubt to tease the next illusion unfortunate enough to cross their path, minding their own business. Unable to stop even if they wanted to.
Jack kept up the door-to-door act, even when the band of headliners had long since departed. Unbeknownst to them, they provided him with an opportunity.
The Alastor Place was known for its large pool of servants, real or conjured. Those who hoped to rise up the ladder would collect whatever gossip or questionable secret heard in passing, any offering they could toss their master’s way for approval.
A servant randomly searching the Alastor Place, beyond his designated section, was a detail that could draw notice. An illusion marching to a ridiculous command, however, was not.
Door after door of nothing, Jack could only roll his eyes at himself.
This was ridiculous.
He should’ve left this side a long time ago. No one would fight him on it. Kallia didn’t want him here. Hell, he certainly didn’t want to stay.
He also couldn’t help himself as soon as he heard Roth had gone away on business.
The lie wasn’t even a good one.
If running Hellfire House had taught Jack anything, it was that straight-laced men who relished the game of making bets and deals under the table were desperate for an escape. A puzzle that made even less sense, in a city like this. A paradise of escape.
Whatever he was hiding, it was something he could not share with the city. Something worse than even the worst behind its gates.
With every turned handle and twisted door knob, the Dealer was nowhere to be found. But he was here. Jack could practically smell that man’s cologne from the sheer presence of his shadow servants, stalking slowly through the halls like phantoms.
Most kept out of their path. Even headliners shied away from the faces made of shadow.
Jack followed a safe distance behind, absently opening doors while keeping them in his line of vision. It wasn’t natural, seeing them alone, without Roth toting them around like accessories. Others were more concerned with avoiding them altogether, but Jack had never been afraid of smoke. He was born in it, too, knew it led to the fire.
Then he would go.
If he could hold a secret of Roth’s in his pocket, then he could leave this world happily and never look back.
A strange noise erupted further down the hall of abandoned rooms. Dead quiet, with no one around.
Until the noise came again. Clearer now, which only confused Jack more. Persistent, guttural coughing, harsh enough to break the lungs, came from one of the rooms.
On the true side, he would’ve thought nothing of it. Mortals fell sick so often in their world, a fragile place with fragile people and sensitivities.
On this side, no one fell ill. With so much power, there was no reason for such weakness.
When the pair of shadows stopped by one of the doors, Jack paused at the turn of the corner, breath held. If he made himself known too soon in a cemetery like this, there would be nowhere to hide. Even for an illusion.
He only had one chance. Suddenly, there was no more sickness in the air, only the cold, hard thunk of a door closing, and a lock clicking into place.
Jack checked both ways, exhaling at the sight of no devils anywhere. But they were somewhere, just like Roth. Behind one of the identical green doors that ran endlessly down the hall like a fun house trick.
Jack’s ears perked up at the muffled laughter behind one door—
Before the sound was thrown to the door just behind him.
And another few doors down.
Jack cursed as he flew from the outside of one room to the next. Whichever door they were behind moved fast, but he caught a few threads every so often. Established two voices among them.
One hoarse, and one smooth.
“… please … I can’t…”
Under another round of uncontrollable coughs, the whispers were entirely unintelligible. Soft and splintered with a mortal’s fear. The other, the opposite.
“… deal … it’s time…”
“Just wait … of Hands, soon!…”
Jack did not believe for one second those shadow servants had voices beneath the smoke of their faces. Devils had no need to speak, especially not in such a panicked voice accompanied by another vicious round of coughs. As the hacking subsided, the easy smooth drawl that came after.
A voice which sounded so much like—
The door flew open.
It slammed Jack backward until he fell hard on his back.
Frowning, Roth stood over him, his glare deep-set and blazing murderous. “You’re not supposed to be here. Who sent you here?”
An odd feeling skittered down his spine for a moment. It remembered the way Roth shouted, even when he’d followed every instruction, every order. For the longest time, Jack didn’t know what that feeling was, until the true side revealed its name. Fear.
He hated it, the way it never fully went away.
“Apologies, sir.” Jack forced his expression into hollowness, his voice wooden. Unwavering. “I was given instructions—”
“Fucking Zarose.” The man hissed down at his clenched fist as if tempted to throw it at the nearest wall. “If I have to keep releasing illusions from idiotic—”
Jack rose with a start as Roth coughed even harder, harsher than before. The golden, warm tint of his face shined an angry red at the pressure as he brought his fist to his lips, coughing into the ink-stained white silk of a handkerchief peeking through his fingers.
The sight was more alarming than satisfying. Disturbing.
“Please,” Roth mumbled, as though his throat were thick with blood.
If sickness had no place on this side, then death was a stranger. Unlike on the true side, full of so many fragile lives. He’d witnessed enough death there to pity those who met its violent grip. Though he’d never seen it quite like this, had no idea what to do but wait for the shadow servants to finally emerge from the room before—
Don’t forget that I made you, boy.
Jack stilled, cold in an instant.
Which means I can have you unmade just the same.
The stale threat reared its head back at him with a fury, and he scrambled to get the man back on his feet. Delirious, Roth groaned in pain, while Jack’s insides twisted and rioted at every point of contact between them. There was no choice when desperation took over.
It all hit him in one staggering blow.
Like most illusions, Jack had died a thousand ways but came back every time. No blood, no bruises. All things must come to an end, even him. Even with acceptance, it was all still an ongoing guessing game with an extensive list.
Until now.
“We knew that would get you.”
At Roth’s drawl, Jack flinched away. The motion sent the man back down, falling into another fit of violent coughs as he clutched at the ground, peering up with a beseeching, bloodshot gaze.
And Jack ran.
As far and as fast as he could.
The act shattered. He wasn’t even sure if he still wore the illusion’s face or where he was going, but rapidly, he disappeared in bursts of distance between him and that scene. As much as possible, despite still hearing every heaving breath toll in his head.
He still saw them. Eyes so bloodshot, but there was something new to them. Something off and wrong and disturbingly familiar.
Because the moment Roth’s eyes flashed to Jack, it was like being up on his roof. Looking right into the same night that watched down upon them every day.
28
The first night of the Show of Hands arrived with no grand announcement, but with notes.
Every magician in the city received one without explanation. Kallia awoke that morning to find her own golden card perched on her pillow, branded with an undeniable symbol: a flash of cards fanned out in someone’s grasp, with a devilish mas
k sitting underneath.
The sight left her cold. The Show of Hands would have its first celebration of many to lure the gate, according to Roth’s plan.
Tonight started that ticking clock.
“I swear to Zarose, if I catch anyone scratching off a jewel again…” With a threatening growl, Vain jabbed her slick brush toward all of them. “I’m making them permanent.”
“Bite me.” Malice lounged on the bed, while Ruthless chuckled as she admired her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Their costumes were every bit as show-worthy on their own as they were altogether—long, rich gowns with sprawling jewel appliques that vined around the bodice to the hem, with deceptively modest sleeves to offset the devastating plunge in the front. The similarities ended mostly in colors, a clashing rainbow of glittering purple to deep turquoise to metallic black with veins of green.
Initially, Kallia had found her own silver-gold dress too bright for her usual taste, until she tried it on. The fit was impossibly sublime, she almost grieved the thought of taking it off. Like a star, she felt luminous and fallen, with bursts of rubies sweeping from her shoulder down to the hem. A dress that called too much attention for what tonight entailed.
“It’s a shame these looks will go to waste tonight.” Ruthless pouted at the elaborate beadwork along her champagne-purple gown. “Can we at least save our best looks for parties we don’t intend on ruining?”
“And why are we going for these masks?” Kallia’s neck was already stiff from sitting as still as a statue to receive the jewels across her cheekbone. “They hide nothing.”
“Not true,” Vain quipped while she worked. “I can hardly see those shadow bags under your eyes anymore.”
“I wonder how those got there.” It was the closest Kallia had ever come to a complaint since she started training with the Diamond Rings. No matter how many calluses grew on her palm or how violently her arms trembled at the slightest pressure, she quietly took on every challenge: Different lifts and presses to strengthen her muscles. Basic holds and stretches for balance. Spin training to stave off dizziness, which consisted of Kallia being spun while blindfolded for a session.
When Night Breaks Page 30
