Page 129 of Fallacies

There’s someone at the end of the hall I’ve just turned down.

When I freeze, he creeps forward, stumbling into a stream of moonlight.

It’s the man I served dinner to. Older, thin white hair slicked back, deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He’s clearly drunk, white teeth stained red, yellow eyes more glazed over than they were in the dining room, but there’s recognition on his face.

He knows Alesi.

At his next shaky step forward, I take a step back. It doesn’t deter him.

His lips twitch, his strides towards me becoming more confident. Purposeful. “When did you get back?” he slurs.

I steel myself, remembering the part I have to play. “Not…not long ago.”

Alesi’s accent must have come out perfectly, because a slimy grin spreads across his face. “And you didn’t come to see me?” he drawls, coming close enough that I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

It hits me then, like a bucket of ice water to the face.

The Baron.

It takes everything I have to keep my expression blank as I pour all of my focus into the illusion. I have to. He’s drinking in every square inch of my face. I’m willing to be that through half-hooded eyes, and in a dark hall, his vision isn’t the best, but I can’t assume anything.

I’ve never wanted to not be Alesi more.

The Baron leans in, the wiry, unkempt hair of his mustache scraping my cheekbone. “Why?” he grunts out.

I take a bold step backwards, planting my feet in the carpet. “Because I didn’t want to.”

The Baron sits with my answer for all of one second before deciding that he loathes it. He rushes forward, catching me a bit off guard as he forces me back against a nearby pillar. My hands come up between us, pushing at his chest.

“Excuse me?” he growls, teeth gritted in my face.

I hold in my instinct to burst into flames, grinding my jaw tight as I search the hall for anyone who might be around to catch whatever he’s planning on trying.

But there are too many shadows, too many dark corners, and the Baron has just pushed me into one.

No witnesses in sight, I strengthen my illusion, magic spilling into my veins. “I said,” I repeat, dragging in a deep breath, “because I didn’t want to.”

“Oh?” The Baron rears back, but keeps his body pressed into mine. “You didn’t want to?” His tone is condescending, and I watch as his hand raises, deciding that if his fingertips meet my skin, it will be the last thing he ever touches. The fury roaring through me insists on it.

“Darling,” he tsks, pale fingers inches from my cheek, “when have I ever cared whether or not you want to⁠—”

I drop the illusion, break free from its limitations on my magic, and snatch his wrist, twisting until I hear it crack.

At first, the Baron is too stunned by my sudden change in appearance to fight back. It takes only a second for him to inhale, preparing to yell or scream, and I slam my palm over his mouth before he can make a sound. Bringing my knee up between his legs in the same second.

It’s the oldest trick in the book, but it works like a charm. Always does. And the Baron is drunk enough that his knees buckle, and he folds to the floor.

I’m too far in to stop now. He’s already seen my face.

Magic pours out of me, and I can’t tell if it’s Solian or Rogue. It’s some new vicious mix of both. The beast and the saint finally decided to work together.

Heat saturates my palm, melting the wrinkled skin around his mouth, and gathering shadows creep up his chest, thick black tendrils circling his neck.

The Baron screams against my hand, shoulders thrashing, and I yank tight on the shadows, shocked when they adhere to my command.

His golden eyes bulge, black veins splintering over his throat, blood vessels popping around his eyes from the pressure. I grimace at the smell of burning flesh and push my hand tighter against his mouth. Heat dances with the bitter cold in my veins—burning and soothing. Steaming through my pores.

It feels good to use it in tandem. It feels great, actually. I think the wicked thing my father passed down enjoys wreaking havoc with my mother’s fury.