“Who are you?” he asked her. The shouts grew louder as a crowd began to form around them. Quinn didn’t spare the slave master a look. She’d never killed before, though she’d come close. Despite her slipups with that cold impassioned madness that sometimes took hold, the honor of her first kill was reserved for someone who owed her restitution, and therefore she didn’t want or care to know if he was dead or alive.
Quinn took a step away, slowly lowering the dagger to her side. She didn’t put it away. Not yet.
“No one,” came her reply as she moved back towards the crowd. There was a ringing in the square, and the occupants of the market scattered in confusion and fear.
The bells meant only one thing.
Soldiers. City guards, to be exact. She froze.
“No,” the man said. He didn’t move. Neither of them did, even as the people in the streets scattered like rats around them. “You’re someone.” She began to shake her head, and he stopped her with a calculated look. “You’re someone like me.”
That made her pause.
Did he mean…
The streets thinned as the pounding of hooves against mortar thundered through the city. She needed to get out of here. If they caught her with the evidence of her actions bleeding out behind her, she would never even find out if Jada’s latest attempt at keeping her magic under control would work. She’d be hanged before the end of the morrow.
Quinn turned to leave when something stopped her. It was startling; a whisper of air blew across her face. The cold chill of winter that didn’t belong.
“I’ll find you after I take care of this,” he told her. She didn’t have to ask what this was. Nor did she want to know what he meant. As much as he intrigued her, Quinn just made herself a wanted woman one too many times.
Still, she looked over her shoulder. With a frown, she replied, “Unlikely.”
Then she disappeared into the shadows where people like her belonged.
Where she should have stayed.
Dark Masquerade
“Mirrors reflect the monsters no one else can see.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, possible murderess
Quinn stared into the shimmering reflective surface of her dressing room mirror. Just outside, she could hear the distant bustling noises of the rest of the night’s acts getting ready. Lifting the opal stone from between her breasts, Quinn examined the cracks in its surface. Although not by much, the magic Jada had enchanted the stone with had already faded since that morning. Sighing, she slipped it back under the collar of her dress.
A knock on the door echoed throughout the small room just a moment before it swung slightly inward. “Are you ready?” a familiar voice asked. The top part of a sandy blond head peeked around the wood.
“Almost,” Quinn said. “I will be shortly.”
“Good,” Caine replied, his dull brown eyes looking her over before sliding away. “Hastings is looking for you.”
Quinn narrowed her gaze on the young man. He rarely looked her in the eyes when he delivered bad news, meaning that whatever Hastings wanted—it wasn’t good.
“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
He nodded and then quietly backed out, letting the door click shut behind him. Quinn turned back to her mirror and snatched up a container of white powder. If possible, the dusty mix made her appear even paler. That was what she needed tonight. On nights when she was the primary act of the show, she needed to look like a ghost—not that it was difficult to do. Cool, glassy eyes stared back at her as she smeared the powder over her cheeks, forehead, and down her nose. Just before she was done, she dabbed a bit over her lips so that even there, she was void of all color.
Laying the container back in its place, she picked up her white skirts and headed for the hallway leading out to the main stage. Several stagehands saw her coming and veered away. She could hear Hastings shouting at someone in the main theater as she entered from behind a tall musty curtain.
The theater was falling down around them. The roof leaked, the walls were thin, and it rarely held any cool relief from the eternal summer Dumas seemed to be in, but it had given her sanctuary when she had none. It may have not been home to her, but it was useful for the time being.
“You needed me?” Quinn asked.
Hastings, a ruddy-faced man with a curly red beard, turned and fixed her with an irritated look. “I heard there was an incident in the market today,” he said.
“Was there?” Quinn stared back at him, her face impassable.
“Mmm hmm.” He stroked his beard. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Why would I?” Quinn replied.
Hastings stopped and dropped his fat sausage fingers away from his face, squinting at her with a dark look. “If I find out you’ve done something to interrupt my business, I’ll—”
“You’ll throw me out,” Quinn cut in dryly. “So you’ve informed me. Many times now, I might add.”
Hastings grumbled his response before brushing past her. “Just make sure you’re ready for your act. The doors open in twenty.” And off he went, yelling at passing stagehands as Caine—his ever-present assistant—came slinking out from behind the curtain and trailed after him.
Quinn watched them go before turning towards the open room where rows upon rows of benches were anchored to the hard floors. In just under a half an hour, the room would be filled wall-to-wall with people of all shapes and sizes and colors. All of them wanting to see a bit of themselves that so rarely came to light. And she was more than willing to give it to them.
For a price.
As the lamps dimmed, Quinn removed herself from the stage. The echo of hushed whispering began to fill the air as Hastings, dressed in his ragged coat, took center stage. His booming voice ricocheted up the walls, silencing the crowd.
“Welcome, faithful citizens, to the Dark Masquerade. If you’ve been with us before, then perhaps you’ve seen some of our acts. Perhaps your curiosity has brought you back. If you’re new and not sure what to expect, then just hold onto your seats, ladies and gentlemen. The show you’re about to experience is like no other…”
When the warning reverberated into the silence of the theater and then teetered out, Hastings raised his thick fist and threw a small vial to the floor at his feet. It shattered against the wood, and a large plume of smoke appeared. A moment later, his big body slipped behind the curtains and he rushed the first act out on stage—a pair of fire-breathing twins with dark black masks covering their faces.
Quinn stood to the side, her own mask—retrieved from her dressing room vanity—clutched in her hands. She watched as act after act approached the stage, wowing the crowds with their strange talents. Near the end, Hastings stepped up alongside her.
“You’re almost up.”
She nodded, raising her hands and tying the soft strands of fabric around her head. The mask wasn’t to conceal her features—merely to accentuate her eeriness to the crowd as she played her role in Hastings’ Dark Masquerade. He glanced down at her as she stared between the curtains, eyes fixed on a point in the distance beyond the crowd.
With a shake of his head, he strode out from behind them as the latest act moved backstage and then off towards the hallway. Something was different about the crowd tonight. They fell in a hush as Hastings lit a single candle in the middle of the dais. His voice carried throughout the room as dark figures moved several large mirrors in front of the curtains, spanning the length of the stage. People’s reflections stared back at them.
“Tonight,” Hastings said, “we have something special for you.”
Quinn closed her eyes as he spoke, listening to the wind whistling through the cracks of the doors at the back of the theater, and the breathy excitement humming from the crowd.
“From a distant land, the Dark Masquerade brings you something”—Hastings paused, his words catching in a melodramatic tone—“unique,” he finished. “A phantom from
the in-between. Please welcome to the stage—Mirior.”
The curtains parted slightly, and the crowd’s breath nearly stopped as Quinn rounded the wall of mirrors. Absolute silence greeted her as Hastings faded into the background, stepping away from the light of the candle.
Moving with grace-like beauty, Quinn glided across the stage, her footsteps making no sound. That was when the whispers began. It started low, a dark tingle in the audience. But as Quinn stepped up to the candle, allowing the dim fiery glow to flicker over her features, it grew.
Black tendrils, like rising smoke, lifted from individuals in the crowd. The more opaque the strands, the more fearful the person. Quinn closed her eyes, reached out, and extinguished the flame with her thumb and forefinger. The strands of fear turned into rivers, flowing out and around her as darkness descended upon the room.
Stagehands hurried to light the candles placed on the top edge of each mirror. Quinn turned her back on the audience and lifted her pale hands. She pointed the tendrils towards the mirrors, and they followed.
The reflections of the audience rippled before her and there were several gasps at her back. Quinn’s expression did not falter. She lowered her hands and moved forward, passing one mirror, and then another, until she was on the other end of the stage. She glanced at the audience, noting the people were enthralled with what they saw before them—then she moved across the stage, skimming the tips of her fingers across the glass as she passed it by. The tendrils she controlled were brought to life inside the mirrors.
Images appeared. People began to whimper and cry. Some gasped for breath but found no relief. Several turned their faces away, clenching their jaws as they prayed that what they saw was not real.
As Quinn came to a final stop at the end of the stage, at the very last mirror, she met a pair of glittering eyes in its reflection. With a frown, she turned and followed that gaze to its owner and a shock of recognition seized her.
It was the man from the marketplace.
He had found her.
The candles above the mirrors were snuffed out before the crowd became too agitated, and Quinn disappeared behind the curtains as the mirrors were removed and Hastings hurried out to calm them with the last act of the evening.
Quinn had no clue what the people saw in the mirrors, only that it showed their deepest, darkest fears. Each person’s fear was different, but in the mirrors, it was expounded upon and brought to life.
Tonight, though, one of her own fears had come to life.
She had never expected to see him again, much less here. But there he had sat, his eyes fixated on her, watching her every movement. She wondered if he knew. She wondered if he would look for her again. If he would tell Hastings about today.
Quinn strode quickly through the backstage area, ripping her mask away from her face. Caine scurried after her, attempting to stop her, but she waved him away with an irritated scowl. Quinn stormed into her dressing room and slammed the door in his face, leaning heavily against the wood as she stared at her pale image in the vanity mirror across the room.
As much as she worried over the stranger, she didn’t detect fear in her own eyes. No. Instead, she saw something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.
Stranger in the Night
“There’s no such thing as coincidences. Only unknown motivations.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, possible murderess, and reluctant performer
The dull roar of the crowd trickled to a comfortable silence as Quinn stripped away her stage persona and the amphitheater emptied out. With a sigh, she hung up the white gossamer gown with care and cleaned away every trace of face paint from her skin.
Clad in nothing but her undergarments and a loose burlap shirt, she grabbed one of the three books she owned and an apple with its skin already beginning to pucker. It was a day past ripe, but it and the hunk of bread were all the free room and board Hastings was prepared to give his performers. He needed them alive, but well-fed wasn’t a requirement.
Quinn padded over to the rickety ladder at the back of her dressing room and climbed up to the small loft where a lumpy bed and old blanket resided. She sighed softly, not happy, but content for the moment. Tonight would be her last night here after the stunt she had pulled in the market. It was only a matter of time until the guards came looking for her, and while Hastings might not rat her out, she wasn’t so sure about Caine. The boy was an opportunist if there ever was one. Regardless of whoever’s expense his small gain came from. Then there was the fact that she had seen the man in the audience tonight. But there was no way he would be allowed back here. Hastings never let audience members meet the performers.
She settled into her makeshift sleeping area and struck a match, lighting the oil lamp at her bedside. Picking up her book, she let it fall open to wherever she had left it last and began softly reciting the story aloud in her native language. The one she had not spoken to another in over ten years, but she refused to forget.
Because one day she would need it again.
A knock came and Quinn frowned, her eyes snapping up to the door. When it didn’t immediately open, her lips pressed together. No one bothered her after a show, not when fear was still running so rampant in her system. It didn’t affect her as it did them, instead acting as a drug that lowered the barriers containing her dark power as the magic tried to rise.
No one who knew better would disturb her right now.
Quinn closed her book and set it aside, clambering down the ladder.
There was another knock, and she braced herself as her fingers curled around the wobbly handle. Standing partially behind the door, she twisted the knob and opened it a crack.
A hand paused before the door, obviously raised to knock again, then lowered.
Her heart pounded faster as the dark eyes of the stranger from the market settled on her.
“Who are you?” she asked, her fingers curling around the doorframe as he slipped his boot into the tight space to stop her from possibly slamming it shut on him. How had he been allowed backstage?
“That remains to be seen,” he murmured. Quinn cocked an eyebrow, tilting her head. She’d met some determined ones in her time. Silver hair and cream-colored skin made her an oddity in Dumas. One considered exotic, beautiful even, if not for her brands.
Never had there been a man that could find her when she didn’t want to be found.
Nor one that had the audacity to stop her from shutting him out.
“Why are you following me?” she asked quietly, not as perturbed as she should have been. Quinn was paranoid by nature, but she’d be leaving tomorrow.
There would be no finding her after that.
“Because I’m intrigued by you,” he replied, as though that meant something to her.
“And do you regularly follow women and knock on their doors in the middle of the night if they intrigue you…” She trailed off, searching for the name he clearly wasn’t going to give. “Sir?”
“You aren’t like most women…” He left it open-ended, waiting for her to give her name first.
“Mirior,” she obliged, offering him the only name he currently knew her as, “and if that’s the best you can come up with, I’ll have to pass. If you’re looking for a quick fuck, the brothel is two doors down.” Quinn stepped back, prepared to force his foot through the door when a large, gloved hand closed around the frame. He pushed, and try as she might, she was forced to yield with a scowl.
“I’m not looking for the brothel,” the stranger said. There was no hesitation in the man’s expression, no apology on his lips as he barged in. Quinn crossed her arms as his eyes dropped from her face to her bare legs. She didn’t blush or even reach for her robe. Modesty, after all, was for the privileged.
“If you lay a hand on me, I’ll make what happened in the square look gentle,” she said with a narrowed look. Her hip smacked against the side of the door, and it swung shut. He lifted an eyebrow, the makings of a smirk ghosting acr
oss his mouth.
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am,” she answered without hesitation. “This world isn’t kind to women or slaves, and at one point, I was both. You don’t survive that without developing a few skills.”
The stranger seemed to consider her words as he moved about the room. He came to a stop in front of her mirror and turned around to face her. His hands rested on either side of her vanity, his fingers curling around the aged wood as he leaned back against it, taking in the rest of the nearly barren room before returning his unsettling gaze to her face. “Is that what made you do it?”
There was no need to ask him what he meant. She knew. He had seen her bludgeon a man with his own whip today. Gods, she might have actually beaten the slave master to death. She had no clue, but if she had … well, she still felt no remorse.
“No,” she answered honestly. “Not entirely.”
“Then why did you?” There was no admonishment in his tone. No judgement. No condemnation. Only curiosity and something else … eagerness, but for what, she couldn’t tell.
Her gaze strayed to the other two books on her shelf. They were written in the language of her homeland, their spines worn and letters faded. If the stranger noticed her wandering eye, he didn’t mention it as he waited for a reply she wasn’t going to give him.
“If you came here for answers on why I did what I did, you’re going to be sorely disappointed,” Quinn said. There was something strange about him that made her suspicious of his motivations.
“You didn’t kill him, you know,” the stranger replied with a tilt of his head. He eyed her. “In case you were wondering, that is.”
“I wasn’t,” she said.
“He could still have you hanged.”
Quinn narrowed her eyes, uncrossing her arms to reach up. Absently, she tugged on a lock of her silver hair. Fidgeting wasn’t a fault she really had, but people were so often disturbed by her stillness. As a result, she had taught herself tricks to make her habits seem more normal, things that gave no bearing to what she was actually thinking or feeling.
Fortune Favors the Cruel Page 2
