“Are you trying to scare me?” she asked.
Jonas circled around the theater aisle, and with every step, Ivory jammed her heel harder into Levi’s side. Levi gasped, but he didn’t resist.
“A lot of talents come in threes,” Jonas continued. “The Augustine talent comes in threes. Chaining comes in threes. And—”
“Don’t,” Ivory warned. She lowered her gun from Jonas and aimed it directly at Levi’s face. Levi cringed and pressed his cheek to the floor. There were countless ways his story could end, but if death had to be one of them, he’d prefer it not to be shot at point-blank range.
“That’s why Reymond and I were such a good team,” Jonas told her. “Because he found the lies and I found the truths. And it’s taken me years, but I know almost all of yours. So if you’re going to kill anyone, you might as well kill me.”
Levi hadn’t known Jonas had one noble bone in his body. He also had no idea what they were talking about, but judging by Jonas’s face, Levi didn’t think he was bluffing.
“I hope Pup is worth your loyalty,” Ivory said.
“Reymond is still worth my loyalty,” Jonas countered. Then he lunged to the side, making Ivory quickly point her rifle at him. But even as she fired—an ear-deafeningPop! Pop! Pop!—she failed to notice that Jonas’s move hadn’t just been a dodge.
Levi’s gun skidded across the floor toward him.
He grabbed it, raised it, and fired.
Ivory fell back, clutching her right shoulder. Blood coated her clothes—some even dribbled down her lips. Levi pushed her off him and scrambled away before she could reposition her rifle.
“Time to run,” Levi panted once he reached Jonas.
They sprinted up the aisle, and Ivory’s gunfire roared after them. They reached the back of the theater and rushed toward the doors, only to find several others waiting there. Levi counted seven faces blocking each of the exits. They had matching white hair and each held a different weapon: a spear, a rope, a saber, a flail, a carbine, a flamethrower, a scythe.
Jonas and Levi skidded to a halt.
“Muck,” Jonas breathed, in a way that sounded like defeat.
“Split up,” Levi told him, shoving him to the right. They didn’t have any chance two against seven, especially when the seven were Doves. But he wasn’t willing to surrender—not here, not yet.
And so the two of them took off down opposite aisles. Levi mapped out his escape route in his mind. He would climb up on the stage, burst through the dressing rooms, and flee out the back hallway. He would find Enne somewhere in the chaos, and he’d tell her to abandon all their plans. He’d tell her to run.
But just as he made it past the curtain, something wrapped around his legs and dragged him down. He crashed onto the wooden floor, the rope from one of the Doves tangled around his feet. He kicked it off as the Dove stood over him, two others flanked behind her. He eyed their scythe and saber with dread.
“We were told not to kill you, but you shot Ivory,” Scythe said. His voice betrayed no emotion, only a cool matter-of-factness. Levi tried to peek at where Ivory had been in the seats, but the stage curtain blocked his view. “I don’t know why she insisted on keeping you alive. You’re not a lord; you’re a show.”
Scythe leaned down and removed something from Levi’s front pocket: the Fool card. He flipped it over so the art faced Levi, and Levi flinched just seeing it. “You want to distribute fakes tonight, but you’re too afraid of your own story.”
Across the theater, Jonas screamed. Levi couldn’t see him, couldn’t get to him, couldn’t save him. He wasn’t even sure he could save himself.
Scythe straightened, his weapon poised against Levi’s throat. “I’ll kill you for this.”
Levi swallowed. “If IvoryinsistedI stay alive, I think you ought to listen to her.”
Scythe grabbed Levi by his tuxedo collar and yanked him to his feet. “Who would spew the wishes of the person they almost killed?” He dropped his scythe to the ground with a clatter. “Your death could’ve been honorable, if you’d deserved that. But you don’t.”
While Levi tried to wrestle out of his grip, Scythe threw him to the floor—with surprising force for an older man. Levi gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, as his head knocked painfully against the wood. Before he could collect himself to fight, Scythe held Levi’s feet together, reached for a rope from the stage floor, and tied it around Levi’s ankles. Behind him, one of his companions pulled the lever of a crank. It spun.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Levi cursed as he was jerked forward. The rope was connected to a piece of machinery that controlled the stage curtains, a short, heavy contraption of gears nailed into the floor. Even as Levi grasped at the ground, the force of the pulley spinning dragged him forward, like a fishing line reeling in its catch. Once he reached those gears, the metal would crush his legs.
“The theatre is soundproof. That means no one will hear you scream,” Scythe said before turning with the others and disappearing into the dressing rooms.
“Wait!” Levi called after them, his voice high and strangled. He struggled to untie the knot, to kick out his feet, but it was impossible while the rope dragged him on his back. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself in time. His death would be painful, and it wouldn’t be quick. He would bleed out on the stage floor.
“Help!” he shouted. His shoes reached close enough to kick at the metal contraption, and he locked his legs, his back still braced against the ground, fighting against the force of it. His muscles burned, trembled. “Someone! Help!”
