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A drunk man stumbled into my table. I’d hardly noticed until he turned with a sloppy smile, bearing exactly three yellow teeth. Eyes too heavy from alcohol scanned me in a sweep of realization as he stumbled backward, slamming into another table.
“Mai—
“Shh,” I cut him off, gripping Chaos on my thigh.
He froze, pissing himself as I stood. Something in that moment, the fury, the edge of my self-control, the magic maybe, wanted me to lash out. To fall victim to the desires of bloodlust that ran deep in my veins. To whip my arm across the innocent man’s throat and watch him bleed, just as the harbingers that came before me would have done. Watch the people scream and scatter. See the look in Orin’s eyes when he saw me standing in a pool of blood, confirming every thought he had of me.
And I would have fucking smiled. I would have waited for Death to come just to watch the entire place fall into chaos because I was so angry. Odds were the drunk wasn’t so innocent. He’d probably done vile things, as we all had. As I had, even in my poisonous thoughts.
I shoved myself away from the table and walked out, heart racing. Breaths staggering. Drowning in the thought that this could be what the others had felt before the madness took over. This could be the breaking point. I willed myself to see reason. Think logically. Be smart. Everything revolved around one single person. Each piece of the puzzle led me back to Drexel Vanhoff, the Maestro, the monster. Including Orin, but I’d rather have poked my eyes out with toothpicks than deal with him when I was so furious.
As if the world was slowly fading to madness, each of its dwellers more desperate for reprieve than ever before, the faint smell of smoke coalescing from the opium den blocks away from Misery’s End turned my stomach. I wondered if Drexel was there, with his red mustache twisted into a fresh curl as he sat upon an imaginary throne in his favorite section, watching the lower ranks of Silbath slip into their drug-induced haze. Or was he barking orders to his lackeys, forcing innocent people to pay him what few coins they had, threatening to break them if they didn’t comply? Perhaps he was sitting in Icharius Fern’s castle, discussing the capture of Quill and the loss of his guards.
Either way, the theater was quiet. I clung to the opposite side of the street from a woman barely dressed, with her long, slender leg hung over the shoulder of a man on his knees. She made eye contact with me, but I couldn’t tell if the gasp was for me or him. I adjusted my hood, glad to have the mask across my face, and circled the back of the building. I’d wanted to get back into Drexel’s office, but there were fresh bars covering the windows. Thea’s handiwork, most likely.
Even when the city slumbered through the night or the day, the theater itself was likely guarded. But the warehouse behind, the one with the tunnel that passed under the street, might not have been. And if it was, then I’d test my luck and see how far it carried me.
The building had no windows, and there were so many decaying marks along the side that one might wonder how this could belong to the same man who took such care with the details and beauty of his grand theater. But that was likely the point.
Much to Drexel’s dismay, I was sure the warehouse was easy to break into. A well-placed pin in the lock, a few shakes, and she gave way with ease. But when the door slammed shut behind me the second I stepped inside, a sense of dread began to seep in. The fear I held was not from the possibility of confrontation, but rather the way the door had slammed. The finality of the sound, as if stepping into this world had exposed me to the man that hunted me my entire life. His absolute control over his magically bound men meant, regardless of their fear, they would not stop if he commanded my capture. A soft creak underfoot echoed through the space as I began to explore. The warehouse was a treasure trove of items essential for running the burlesque.
Corsets of various colors and sizes were draped over ornate dressing screens, their intricate lace and silk hinting at the allure of the performers who wore them. Feathered headdresses and sparkling hairpins adorned vanity tables, indicating a place of opulence and glamor. Though the outside of the building was in ruin, the inside was exactly as I’d imagined.
A cluster of delicate handheld fans, some bearing exotic painted scenes and others with intricate patterns, rested on a nearby table alongside a stack of posters that beckoned patrons to witness the spectacular performances. Rows of costumes caught my attention, dresses that shimmered with sequins and beads, tassels swaying sensually with every imagined movement, and gloves that extended beyond the elbow. They reminded me of Hollis and the care he’d taken with his needlework. Bathed in the dim light of the sitting room, a needle pressed between his lips as he took so much care with each stitch.
Mirrors lined one wall, reflecting the ghosts of twirling dancers and passionate rehearsals. Unmoving, I listened to the static in the air for a breath or a step, any sign of a guard or a performer that might have stayed or snuck in for shelter. But none came, and the outside world felt a million miles away from this space.
I placed my fingers on the ivory of the polished piano, holding my breath as I plinked a black key. Again, I listened for the sign of anyone at all. But none came. I took only a moment to admire the contraptions Althea had likely built. Large mirrors and swings and even a giant jewelry box with moving pieces for a dancer to poise upon. She was far too talented to be wasted on the likes of the Maestro when she could have truly done something for this world. I wondered about her debt as I searched the dimly lit space for the access point to the tunnel.
Something in the air changed. A charge, raising the hair on my arms, my spine going ramrod straight. I hadn’t heard the warehouse door open, but I knew, deep in my soul, as if there were a tether between us, that Orin had crept inside. And gods, did he fill the massive space. His presence was like a full-grown, otherworldly beast being shoved into a box.
“Deyanira,” he hissed, the sound of his voice making me shudder.
I’d been caught. There was no way I could search the theater or get back into Drexel’s office with him following me. The only real option was to escape while I was ahead. To cross under the street and take out Drexel’s men at the front of the theater on my way out. Or I could turn around, make Orin a target, and leave him on the warehouse floor. At least with him, I knew what I was getting. One man. Easily subdued.
Silently, I scoured the wall, staying hidden as I held my breath and shifted until my fingers moved over a hinge. Perhaps I could spare him. But the door was massive. Tall enough to move all the props and performers back and forth on a show night. There was no way Orin wouldn’t hear it open. And if, by some miracle, he didn’t, he’d certainly see it.
“Come out, come out wherever you are, Nightmare.”
Having no choice, his footsteps creeping closer, I slid the door open and darted into the tunnel. I hoped there would be something to use as a barricade, but the space was nothing more than an upper landing of a wide, dingy stairwell.
A small blue glow from somewhere below beckoned me forward, and I gladly ran for the light. My stomach fluttered, not from the prospect of being caught, but from Orin, my husband, chasing me.
His boots scraped against the threshold as he followed. I felt the curse on his lips moments before he uttered it aloud. Still, I ran, aiming for the other end of the chilly tunnel. I felt him before I saw him closing the distance. As if something within me had spent these last days more aware of him than anything else, even if I’d hardly seen him, and when I had, the words were short and the glares long. He silently gave chase, but I was faster.
I expected a second set of stairs to lead me back up to the theater, but the opposite end of the tunnel showcased a door instead. Keeping within the walls of my hood, I twisted the knob, but it was locked.
There was no keyhole. Panic rose as his footsteps drew nearer.
“Deyanira, stop,” he commanded.
But I didn’t listen, frantic to open the door and get away from him. Based on his footsteps echoing, he’d already made it halfway through the tunnel. Heart racing, I felt the shaft of the knob, searching for a switch or anything to trigger the locking mechanism. Nothing. I stepped back. Scanning. Three metal buttons glimmered in the faint light.
I tried to imagine Althea. What kind of contraption would she have created with the buttons? But as he closed the distance, there was no time to mull it over. I slammed a palm over all of them, just as a firm hand landed on my shoulder and yanked me backward, saving me from the stone door that plummeted from the ceiling of the tunnel.
“Tell me, Maiden,” he said, moments after the dust settled. “What part of the word stop was difficult to understand?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I finally laid eyes on him. His brutally handsome features twisted into something vicious. Something so beautiful, it would always make me falter. And I hated the vulnerability that came with that. Trained to be nothing more than a killer, the sound of my husband’s voice lured dangerous desires to the surface. His very presence was an alarming distraction.
