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My heart did not beat. My breaths did not come. He could not really mean that Death’s hound would appear. The beast of nightmares would devour this entire theater. I gripped the edges of my seat, dread turning my skin ice cold as the Maestro’s gaze finally landed upon me, and absolute delight filled his dark eyes. As if he spoke to me alone, as if he walked down that platform, stood before me, and shoved his hand into my chest, just to be sure I knew he had seen me.
“Orin Faber, bonded husband to Death’s precious Maiden, please join me on stage.”
Chapter 17
Based on the way Orin’s shirt clung to his side, it was clear he’d been the one attacked on the rooftop, and Drexel and his henchmen hadn’t bothered to stop the bleeding. I watched from my seat as my prick of a husband stood ramrod straight, staring at the back of the theater as if the red spotlight held him in place. But the bruises were there upon his face, and the wound in his thigh still dripped blood. And though he was dressed for the show, black coat with tails and a fresh peony stuck into his chest pocket, he looked like complete shit.
My gaze found the hands that had washed my hair so tenderly, the mouth that whispered his hatred, the eyes that burned into mine. Orin Faber was a conundrum. A murderer and liar. He’d ruined the trajectory of my entire life. Perhaps he deserved to stand before Death’s hound. Especially if he was hiding the power of Life and letting this world go to waste. But he didn't feel like my counterpart. He wasn’t the balance. Just the thorn.
The Maestro gestured to his side, and the kind old man who’d led me to my seat struggled onto the stage, carrying a cello that was taller than he was and likely heavier. He glanced at the little girl in the cage and managed a very subtle shake of his head, but she’d turned away, her sucker loose in her fingers as dread filled her tiny face. She opened the door to her cage, sneaking out, and somehow, no one had noticed. She might as well have been a wraith.
“Please,” the Maestro said to Orin. “Play for your audience.”
The beautiful man did not balk or flinch or even scowl. Orin simply swept his coattails to the side and sat before the instrument, taking the bow from the old man, who then scurried off the stage.
The world faded away as that first haunted chord pierced the silent theater. The magic of Misery’s End pulsed, enrapturing the crowd as Orin leaned into his cello, closed his eyes, and graced the world with his exquisite, tormented melody. His hands moved as if he wasn’t dripping blood, his face, that stunning fucking face, changed, feeling each and every note, coating the theater in his song. He was a performer. But at this moment, he was also a god. Transcending time. Taking every one of us to a place no one deserved. With a song. A lament.
Tears filled my eyes, and I could not wipe them away. I couldn’t move. Only feel the burn of our bond pulsing in my wrist, telling my heart, no matter the history between us, that man was mine. If only for these few precious moments before reality returned. He was a disaster. But so was I.
The woman in the chair next to me gripped my hand. I jerked, the spell Orin had spun, breaking. Only then did I see the fiery ruby eyes. Only then did I remember Drexel’s promise.
My heart dropped into my throat as the violation of the theater’s magic had once again controlled me. I hated it. All of it, but I could not look away as a giant black hellhound moved from the shadows, each paw, each massive claw, digging into the stage as he padded forward, straight for Orin.
I believed the man to be so lost in his song that he had no idea of the danger he was in, but a scream from off-stage ripped him back to reality just in time for him to roll from his seat and watch as Death’s hound pulverized his precious cello.
He wasn’t as lucky the second time. The claws of the hound collided with his stomach, ripping into his skin so thoroughly the tear was not a sound anyone here would forget. And, just as I expected the audience to protest in horror, a great round of applause and cheering rattled me.
But that sound, that horrifying sound was muted by the deep, jarring growl of the beast. Two men and five women, one of them Althea Washburn, appeared on the stage, holding groupings of golden bars. It wasn’t until they moved in, their faces horrified, Althea’s stained with tears, that I realized what they meant to do. Coming together as one, they trapped Orin in a pop-up prison, stealing any chance of escaping from Death’s hound.
“No.” The word left my lips in a whisper, though I didn’t mean to make a sound.
The woman beside me finally turned to look. All color left her face as she realized who sat beside her. She was more scared of me than the beast meant to butcher beyond repair.
Orin’s back collided with the cage, and the audience began to boo him, desperate for a show. He ducked and rolled, dodging the snap of venomous jaws, but the audience only grew louder. Heart pounding, I looked over my shoulder at the exit. If I stood and walked out, who would notice? Who would peel their attention from the mutilation of a man?
Looking back at Orin, who stood only to the beast’s shoulder, blood dripped. His bruised face stared at the hound, feigning right, moving left, just as another swipe came for him. When the beast’s paw hit the stage, Death’s shadows billowed out in a cloud, smothering Orin.
His scream was the last straw, my complete breaking point as I rose from my chair, audience be damned, and stormed to the back of the theater, throwing the doors open, no matter how much that toxic magic tried to pull me back in, and descended the stairs.
I almost made it to the front, my peaceful escape, before I was stopped by the woman with one green and one blue eye. Apart from her beauty, it was her most recognizable feature. Paesha, they’d called her. “Going somewhere, Maiden?”
“Get the fuck out of my way before I drop you where you stand.”
I hadn’t seen the little girl until she stepped out from behind the woman, clutching her hand.
“She doesn’t mean it, does she, Paesha?”
The woman’s deadly smile was a contradiction to the lace corset and the row of feathers that showed off every inch of her long, golden legs. “I think she does.”
“She absolutely does.” I scowled, drawing my knife and holding it to the woman’s throat before she had time to blink. “I will not repeat myself.”
She stepped backward, pushing the blade away with a finger. “I don’t think Orin’s mother will appreciate the fact that her knife was just pressed to my throat.”
“You say that as if I should care.”
She made a weak attempt to take the knife. The little girl gasped, and in three steps, I had Paesha’s back slammed against the wall.
“Rule number one, asshole. Never try to take a knife from Death’s Maiden.”
