Page 151 of Fallacies

One by one, broken wall sconces flicker to life, lit with the same golden hue she was made of.

One by one, shelves come into view. Hundreds or thousands of books—tattered and strewn across the floor.

I take a step forward, crossing the doorway, and a dark energy slams into the center of my chest.

It’s violent and tragic and so devastating that I’m consumed with the feeling. It wracks my whole body. I feel it everywhere. A hollow thump that spreads like wildfire, twisting my gut and forcing tears to my eyes.

My knees hit the floor.

This is death. Or what I imagine it to be.

I scream, but no sound comes out. I move to stand, but I’m slammed back down.

Through the shadows in front of me, the silhouette of a man emerges. He’s the night itself, his yellow eyes the only thing I can see over the mask obstructing his face. As he approaches, I scream with everything I have, but the room stays silent, save for the slow and steady stomp of his boots.

He crouches before me.

I know those eyes.

“What do you want me to do with her?” someone I can’t see asks.

The man’s stare never leaves mine, and when he replies, his voice sparks recognition so violent I nearly fall backwards.

“Round her up with the others,” my father says, “she’s just a scribe.”

I shoot up, gasping for air, and nearly smack my head on a broom handle. My hands tremble as I raise them to my face, scrubbing away that image and attempting to rid myself of that feeling too.

It was agony. Pure agony. Not physically, but emotionally. Arguably the worst pain I’ve ever felt—and I’ve been through some shit.

There’s a knock on the closet door, and I flinch, gripping my jacket to my chest. Panic rushes through me. Stiffening my muscles and short-circuiting my heart.

Until I hear, “Rise and shine.”

My shoulders slump, the breath I’d been holding blowing past my lips. Standing, I straighten my clothes and open the door.

He takes up the entire doorway—Salem. Why he decided to finally share his name is beyond me, but it feels like confidential information. Which, if used correctly, might be leverage should I need it.

Crystalline eyes sweep down my frame, and I take a step back when he inhales, nostrils flaring. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

His stare darkens. “I hate liars.”

“And I hate busybodies.” I let go of the door, and he catches it before it closes, inviting himself inside. Mercifully, he doesn’t ask about my feelings again, allowing me the silence I need to focus on my illusion.

I’m halfway into Alesi’s disguise when he snaps for my attention. Snaps. Like I’m a fucking dog.

“No.” The Hound blocks the exit, leaning back against the closed door. This closet is hardly big enough for one person. Two average-sized people would even be a tight fit, but his shoulders are wider than the doorframe, and if he were only a few inches taller, his head would hit the ceiling.

I throw light into the broken bulb above us, illuminating the closet. “What?” I ask.

He’s less menacing without the cover of shadows, and I quickly notice that one of his hands rests on the doorknob—as if he’s worried I might fight him for it.

“You’re done with Alesi,” Salem tells me.

I wish. “No, I’m not.”

He exhales, and I get the feeling he’s searching for patience. “In a few hours, the Baron won’t show up to breakfast. People will start asking questions. And who do you think will get the brunt of those questions?”