Chapter Thirty-One
LOLA
I get little sleep, spending most of the afternoon stressing about whether everything is in place for round two. To stop the spiraling, I sneak into town to help Estelle lug the lumenoring equipment to the theater, then make it back to the Brig in time for the others to awaken.
Now it’s ten o’clock in the evening, and I lean my forehead against the cab’s windowpane, rattling my fingers against my knee as the city lights trickle away and the hulking shadows of hills and trees rise around us on our way to the Warthington Theater.
Everything should be fine. The voratium and lumenoring devices are all where they’re supposed to be.
And there’s been no further sign of my father, Ostena, or Forsyth.
We should be okay.
But my fingers knot in my lap and sweat collects in the back of my dress as our cab trundles over cobblestoned roads.
Enzo places his palm over my hand. “It’s going to be all right,” he soothes as Septavia wraps herself around my wrist. “We’re going to win.”
I force a smile, stroking one of her suckers. “I’m nervous.”
“Me too.”
The cab pulls in front of the theater alongside a few others.
It seems we aren’t the only players who thought it would be a good idea to arrive early.
Three men lounge on the front steps, while an older woman pries open the bolted-shut front door.
Estelle should be somewhere inside planting the voratium clues I gave her this afternoon. Decoys to keep people preoccupied.
We mount the stairs to the slumping theater, nodding at other contestants as we pass. A few of them watch us warily, their gazes lingering on the slip of tentacle visible on my hand. I tug my sleeve to cover Septavia.
“Why don’t we take a look around?” Enzo asks, pulling on the door. It creaks forward, hinges mewling like a feral cat.
“I imagine Nocturne’s clues aren’t going to work until midnight,” I say, eyeing the darkness within.
“If that’s the case, we’ll be able to tell they’re new when they appear,” Arden points out, his words clipped sharp as slaps. I glance at him, but he’s avoiding my gaze.
I frown. The Tentacles have been stiff all evening. Even Jade, who usually laughs with me, shoves past without a second glance.
“Come on,” Enzo says, tugging me forward.
I sigh. “Fine. But if there’s an axe murderer inside waiting to hack off my head, you’re in trouble.”
“If someone hacks off your head, I promise to kick him in the shins.”
“That makes me feel better.” I shuffle past him into the cold, dank interior.
The door slides shut, and darkness swallows us entirely. With the windows boarded over, not even the moonlight penetrates.
“I can’t see a thing,” Jade whispers.
“Hang on,” Arden grumbles. With a scrape, a yellow glow sputters to life on the end of a match.
He grins, and the light illuminates his face from below, casting shadows over his eyes.
“Ha. Just as I thought.” He crosses to the wall and pulls down two lanterns, sniffing them before dipping the match inside each.
When they ignite, the light spreads, staining the deep mahogany walls an orangey crimson.
“Come on, Liver. Let’s look around,” Enzo says as Arden hands him one. “The rest of you, split up. Check the changing rooms, the restrooms, and the box office.”
All three of them avoid looking my way and shoot distrustful looks at Enzo’s hand grasping mine as they slink into the dark.
I venture with Enzo down the hall. The Tentacles’ obvious suspicion is a wrench in my plans I didn’t anticipate, but once Enzo’s, Nic’s, and Laurel’s magic is safe inside the moonshard and the curse is broken, I’ll be able to tell them everything. Hopefully they’ll forgive me.
I shove those thoughts away as we shuffle along heavy, motheaten curtains and peer beneath gilded, plush chairs coated in a heavy layer of dust.
The hour approaches midnight. More players join us, and their echoing footsteps do little to soothe my conviction that a phantom might jump out around every corner.
But I make sure to subtly direct Enzo back to the spot where I placed the voratium through which I’ll set off the boundary walls of illusion.
This time, I slipped it between a crack in the boards over one of the windows.
When midnight hits, I pretend I’m inspecting behind the curtains, then press my fingertips to the icy metal, unleashing the illusions. They spill forth, snaking out to the other voratium chips I planted in regular intervals all around the theater exactly the way I did with the library.
“Oh, the walls are coming up,” I whisper to Enzo, peeking between the slats as illusory shadows steal over the building.
Enzo nudges me aside to look. “Damn. It’s even darker out there than before.”
“Didn’t Mother teach you not to cuss?” Nic’s voice makes us both jump and whirl.
He stands with his arms crossed, his glowing scar crinkling into a self-satisfied smile.
“What are you doing here?” Enzo snaps.
“You know how I feel about winning games.”
“You’re not going to win,” Enzo retorts. “Because Lola and I are going to win.”
I stifle a snort. “No need to turn this into a Sinclair feud,” I say. “Come on, Enzo. The sooner we find the way out, the sooner we can get away from him.”
“Why not work together?” Nic asks silkily. “You know, like the old days.”
Enzo laughs. “Nah.” He pulls me toward where plush seats lurk like bowed heads in the shadows.
But Nic follows, his glimmering shoes thunking along the dusty carpet.
Even if I couldn’t feel Enzo’s emotions through our heart, I’d be able to sense his irritation in his rigid movements, the grinding of his teeth, the clenching of his fingers around my arm. Finally, he whirls. “Why are you still here?”
Nic shrugs. “You are aware everyone here is looking for clues, same as you, right?”
Enzo scoffs. “Well. Don’t look so close to me.”
“Suit yourself.” Nic’s laugh is soft and hypnotic, like a distant bass thrum. He moves past several rows of seats and crosses to the next aisle.
“Something is off about him,” Enzo whispers to me.
“You noticed, too?” I ask.
“He seems especially . . . cold. I can’t put my finger on what it is, though.”
I chew on my lip. “Has your magic felt . . . different at all lately?”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Just different?”
He thinks for a moment, raising his fingers to stroke Septavia until she uncurls from my wrist and returns to her place on his. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you think the curse could be affecting him?” I ask as Nic plops into a chair and crosses his ankles on top of the one in front of him.
“Maybe . . .” Enzo frowns, and a trickle of fear sinks through our heart. Then he shakes his head, shoving that emotion away as though reminding himself how much he hates his brother. “Why don’t you search backstage? I’ll scour the front corridors and check the box office.”
“What about me?” Nic calls. “Don’t I get a job?”
Enzo opens his mouth to respond, ire erupting in our heart. I place a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Play nice,” I warn. “Don’t want Nocturne kicking us out of her game over your petty squabbles.”
Enzo rolls his eyes, shoving the lantern into my hands. “You keep this. I’ll find another one.”
“Don’t murder him while I’m gone,” I warn.
“But it would be so satisfying,” he grumbles, sulking off.
Nic throws a wink in my direction before disappearing into the shadows.
Rolling my eyes, I raise the lantern and make my way toward the stage. Once I’m sure Enzo is gone, I pull Nic’s list out of my belt. I have just a few hours to draw out several players for round three. Best get it over with.
It’s nearing four o’clock by the time I’ve directed all twelve of the people on Nic’s list through the illusionary set piece I put in the basement—an old, worn cottage with a false back that hides the cellar door.
With that finished, I shuffle through the backstage area.
Now all I need to do is plant a clue or two for Enzo to find, and we can get out of this place.
My lantern gutters as I make my way through a hall stuffed with costumes.
Dresses and bonnets and corsets and trousers hang on every side, wispy as ghosts in the blinking firelight.
A shape ahead catches my eye. A man standing utterly still dressed in gleaming buttons and silk like some kind of officer.
“H-hello?” I stammer, approaching.
He does not move.
Heart gargling in my throat, I skirt around him, only to glimpse a featureless face.
A mannequin.
I blow out a steadying breath, willing my heart rate to slow as I turn away. Several other mannequins lounge nearby in varying states of dress, and I try not to let my imagination run off with me as I pass them.
I’m nearly running by the time I glimpse the door.
My lantern blinks away to smoke, plunging me into darkness. I slam to a halt, pushing my glasses up my nose and squinting. The wick gives off the subtlest orange light, and I crouch to illuminate the floor in front of me so I can continue toward the door.
A black pair of dress shoes on the feet of a nearby mannequin gleam.
And then move.
I scream, leaping backward, dropping the lantern, which smashes against the floorboards.
A deep, silky laugh fills the room, and my terror melts into rage. “I’ll kill you,” I snap.
“Good luck with that, little thief.” He lifts his fedora away from his face, revealing the glowing scar I missed when I was so focused on his feet. “What in the stars’ names are you doing on the floor?”
I scowl, shoving to my feet. “You scared me.”
“Oops.” He grins.
I jab him in the chest. “That wasn’t funny.”
“Wasn’t it?” He catches my finger, and my lungs squeeze. Every single retort flees my brain, and all I can see is the faint blue glow of his eyes and the sparkle of his scar crinkling in a grin so familiar it makes me ache.
And suddenly, I’m not here with him the way he is now.
When his breath gusts warm over my mouth, I’m back in the moments before our last kiss when he whispered that I’d been glamoured.
When his smile fades and the scar smooths out, I find myself raising my free hand to trace its trail along his cheek, just as I did what feels like an eternity ago.
I try to pull away, but his grasp tightens on my fingers. “Little thief.”
That nickname on his lips stops me, as though he’s spoken a thousand words in just those three syllables.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper, and it comes out quavering.
“What don’t I want from you?”
Those words peel me open, exposing every vulnerable part of me.
It’s not fair that he can stand there, so beautiful and dangerous and unfeeling while I’m over here coming apart.
My eyes catch on something just behind him. “What is that . . . ?” I tug him forward until his scar illuminates the barest outline of what appears to be an aerial hoop tipped against the wall. He digs in his pocket, extracting a cigar lighter and stooping to reignite the flame in my lantern.
“They must have done a circus show here at some point,” he says, running his fingers along the spanset still attached to the top.
The memory of him twisting among silks back during the tournament—the first time I glimpsed true feeling on his face without glamour or deceit—filters through my mind, sparking an idea.
Every time I’ve caught a glimpse of the true Nic inside, especially with that last instance up by the telescope at the library, it was sparked by something that forced his feelings to the surface.
What if I could incite something like that on purpose?