Act I Scene XI
“No deal,” I hiss at Jude the moment Silenus excuses himself. I watch the door shut behind him longingly, that Script still somewhere in his pocket.
Jude stares down at me. “What are you talking about?”
I huff a breath, unsure what game he’s playing at. I can’t fathom why Jude would choose me as his contender, but he’s one of the Players. The Lead Player. Silenus’s second-in-command and supposedly the keeper of the Playhouse’s magic.
His reasons are not good; I’m certain of that.
“Whatever this is.” I gesture vaguely at the dressing room around me. “Players always want to make a bargain. No deal.”
His smile turns coy. “A bargain would imply you get something out of this.” He strides across the room. “Come. You’ll be expected in the arena—then at the cast party.”
Fear cuts into my veins. I’m marked. I cannot enter this casting call, even if I wanted to. I’m not even convinced I could get back up if I sat down right now.
I panic. “Wait!”
Jude crosses his arms over his broad chest, taps his foot dramatically.
RIVEN: “I—” I wince, bracing myself and hating the words I force out of my mouth. “You have a voice like velvet. The copper of your hair is more beautiful than even the papers give you credit for.”
Jude blinks. “What?”
RIVEN: “You’re twice as handsome as the other Players.”
Jude’s mouth falls open.
I breathe, angry and humiliated. “That’s three compliments. Now let me go.”
JUDE: “The Three Compliments Rule is a myth.” A note of pity pinches his tone as my face hardens.
“They still teach that? Just like the North to believe something so foolish. Sweet words cannot satiate Players. It’s kind of you, though, considering you can’t lie about them. Do say more! I’m curious.”
My face burns with embarrassment, and I think back to the other things we were taught in school, unsure what else could’ve been a myth.
“Open it,” I growl, pointing at the gold-encrusted mirror braced on the wall.
“You know I’m not qualified for the competition.
I know Players travel through mirrors. Open the mirror and let me out. ”
JUDE: “No.” He shrugs. “The casting call has closed, and I’m bound by contract to the Playhouse. I can’t summon a portal out.”
RIVEN: “Then just do it!” The shriek leaves my voice exhausted. I’m exhausted. Clearly, this is some sick form of live entertainment to him. I try to scrape more vicious words from my throat, but the tone that escapes is small. “Why are you dragging this out?”
JUDE: “Do what?” To his credit, he feigns confusion well.
RIVEN: “Just tell them I’m marked and get it over with.”
He hollers a laugh and shakes his head. “Oh, Alistaire. I didn’t trap you here to kill you.” His tone drops, quiet as the tick of the old clock as he steps closer, like a shared secret between us. “You’re here because I need you to win.”
Win.
My mouth forms several words before landing on: “What?”
A Great Dionysia only ends in one of two ways. One, the mortal manages to kill the competing Player during the final performance, seizing fame, immortality, and power for themselves.
Or two, more commonly, the mortal’s remains are scrubbed off the arena floor.
I guess triumphing in such a grandiose performance is too tempting for creatures that delight in blood and ego. Cassia says this is why all the original Players are gone, their lives eventually lost to their own hubris, their places taken. Every Player in the cast today was once mortal.
Even Jude.
“Whichever contender makes it to the finale will compete with me,” he says. “You, love, are here to ensure there’s no match in the arena. Once all the contenders are gone—”
“Dead,” I offer helpfully.
“Once you’re the only one left,” he rephrases, “then I tell Sil the truth. That you’re marked! That you don’t qualify. Sil won’t want the bad press—there’s already so much tension with the North. He’ll send you away quietly, believe me.”
RIVEN: “Believe you?” He must be kidding.
JUDE: “The Great Dionysia will be forfeited. I’ll hold my place as Lead Player, and you can go home.” He steps back and takes a low bow, peeking up to offer me a roguish grin.
Jude hasn’t chosen me in spite of being marked. He’s chosen me because I’m marked. And probably the only marked within a mile of the Playhouse tonight.
My eyes narrow. “I thought it was an honor to kill in the arena.” Isn’t that why Players throw their gruesome festival anyway? Every Great Dionysia builds the Lead Player’s reputation. Some theorize each kill makes them stronger.
And for some reason, he wants out of it.
My mouth drops open, a mocking grin pulling at my lips. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“Dear heart, I fear one thing in life, and it is not death.” Jude’s own smile strains at the edges, like some dreadful thought has caught him off guard. Come to think of it, he hasn’t stopped smiling once this entire conversation. “I have reason to believe someone in this Playhouse wants me dead.”
“Yeah. Me.”
“Unfortunately,” he goes on, “the only way I can ensure a fair match in the arena is if there isn’t a match at all. Just a little favor, you see. Do we have a deal?”
A deal. Only a Player would make this sound like anything other than a hostage situation.
I’m not sure what possesses me. My hand grips the hairbrush from the vanity, brings it over my head, and hurls it at Jude with all my might.
It bounces pitifully off his shoulder. He stares at the brush as it clatters to the ground at his feet. “I’m relieved you’ve chosen to be mature about this.”
Before he so much as looks up, I launch at him, blade aimed for his eye this time.
Jude curses and grips my armed hand like he’s swatting a fly, lifting me right off the ground until I’m eye level with him.
“Okay!” he relents as I kick viciously at his legs, his touch burning through my sleeve. The Player’s eyes flicker nervously to the clock, then back at me. “A trade, then! There must be something you want. Money?”
“No.” Rage and exhaustion weave into the refusal that comes out of my throat as he begrudgingly sets me down, my ribs searing. “I don’t want your godsdamned—” My voice breaks, and I cough violently into my elbow, lungs wringing.
When I pull away, the ice from my lungs has wrapped its way around my throat.
Jude tenses, steps back. His eyes scan me up and down, uncertain and seeming to take me in for the first time. A revelation dawns plainly on his face. “You’re unwell.”
I clench my teeth, ball my fists.
He nods. “Dying, then.”
Some desperate part of me responds to those words. I never say them out loud.
His eyes narrow in suspicion; a warning threads his tone. “Why did you come here?”
I try to lie, pointlessly open my mouth to make a claim about stealing prized stage props or something. But my tongue won’t form the words. The truth falls out. “I wanted to find…I wanted the—” I know I’ll regret this. “Script.”
Jude’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “The Script?”
RIVEN: “I’m not sick. A Player—a Player hurt me when I was young. Poisoned me, I think.” Even as I say the words, my jaw aches. There’s a crushing, heavy feeling in my chest, like I can’t breathe.
Jude walks a circle around me, the disbelief plain on his face. “A Player did this to you? A Player couldn’t have—”
I cough, and he jumps. “You can…” I hate myself for the words. “You can help me? You can get me the—the Script?”
“No. If you value your life, you’ll leave that cursed book alone.” He mulls the words over a moment. “But yes,” he says finally. “I can help you.”
It exists. An antidote exists.
“Do this one thing for me, Alistaire.” Jude’s gaze locks on mine. “And I promise you will safely return home. Healthy.”
Never make a bargain with a Player. The lesson from my childhood battles my ego as I consider. There’s a catch. There has to be.
RIVEN: “I—”
JUDE: “We’ll work out the finer details later.” His gaze dips to my throat, like he can see the mark beneath the top buttons of my coat. “Including what to do about that.”
Do about what? My mark? What does he mean—
To my horror, Jude turns and presses his palm to the oversize mirror on the wall beside us. My heart stutters at the way the glass ripples, swirling beneath his hand like water.
RIVEN: “I thought you couldn’t conjure a portal—”
JUDE: “To outside the Playhouse. Within it, yes.”
Our reflections sink into the glass, replaced by a shadowy hall that definitely looks haunted.
He gestures at the mirror—the portal.
“For both our sakes, don’t say one word to anyone down there.” He plucks the blade from between my fingers and catches my wrist when I lunge for it.
RIVEN: “Give that back—”
“Not a good idea for you to be swinging this around. You might hurt someone!” He winks, a lock of copper falling across his kohl-rimmed eyes. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
I ball my fists, moving away from the mirror, but Jude catches my elbow, and I sneer, “Wait, wait, this is not what I—”
JUDE: “Think of this as a little introduction!”
RIVEN: “No, no—I’ve changed my mind. Now give me my—”
Before I can finish the sentence, Jude hurls me into the glass.