Act I Scene XIX
“That,” declares Titus, pointing the wet blade at each of our stunned faces.
My heart hammers against my chest as my eyes drift to where Parrish’s throat used to be, gold spilling out on the marble. Her eyes are turned toward the spotlights, glassy and distant.
No, no, this is wrong.
TITUS: “That is what you want. Shock your audience. No matter how many times they see it, they will never be immune to death. Which is why you must be.”
She isn’t dead. Certainly not.
I swallow, suddenly unable to feel my feet as I grip hold of the red curtain to steady myself.
This cannot be Reality Suspension. It can’t be. This is just…
Death. Murder.
Lost for words, I look to Jude, waiting for an explanation. Something. Anything.
He doesn’t look back.
Titus throws his weapon to Mattia. “We’ll return shortly.
” With that, Titus scoops up Parrish—her corpse—and saunters for the wings.
“You’re in good hands. And if this is your mentor”—he lifts Parrish’s limp body up, and she looks so light, so vulnerable.
There and gone in an instant—“I promise to return her shortly.”
But there’s something different to his walk now. What had been a lazy, catlike stride shifts into a stagger, like he’s carrying an invisible weight draped over every inch of his being.
Meanwhile, Mattia looks right at me and moves. I tense, not even having time to react when she swings the blade at Jude’s neck.
In a breath, he catches her arm and forces the blade back on her so hard, the silver slices into her bicep.
Mattia pulls back, an easy laugh parting her maroon-painted lips as she clasps a hand to the slit in her arm, where gold has begun to bleed. “Don’t ever underestimate your opponent,” she announces to the group.
Jude flashes her a grin. “Ruin this shirt, Mattia, and you won’t get the chance to.”
“You’ll all be dismissed to rehearsal rooms to train with your mentor,” Mattia announces, gold seeping between her fingers. “We hope to see you alive at dinner tonight. Unless anyone is eager to try now.”
She means it jokingly, I think.
“Your first death is the hardest, don’t worry,” Arius says, as if it’s comforting.
“This way, Alistaire,” Jude says quietly, nodding to the wings, which lead back into halls of rehearsal rooms.
I frown. “I thought you weren’t going to help me.”
“I’m not. I can’t if you’re going to be stubborn about it.” He lowers his voice. “But at least I can make it quick.”
Make it quick.
I can’t think straight. Panic paints little dots across my vision until it numbs, turns red as rage. There’s blood on the stage. A body carried away. And what I thought might be my saving grace—Reality Suspension. It isn’t some deathless curse breaker.
It’s a sick, disgusting stage trick. One that I can’t even perform.
When I look around, all I see are arrogant, ego-driven Players, just like the monster who ruined my life. One of them, or maybe all of them, is responsible for killing my father. But he didn’t back down from the challenge of these monsters, even though it cost him everything.
Rage boils under my skin at the thought. I will not be quietly executed by a Player.
Especially not by Jude.
That anger will be the death of you, Galen’s voice repeats once more. But that anger is curling hot and quick beneath my skin, throttling the fear in my bones. Bottle it up and keep your mouth shut, all right? Use your head. Never open your mouth when you’re angry.
As auditionees prepare to disperse, I open my mouth. “I volunteer.”