Chapter 25 Gaetano
Gaetano
The closer I get to my sacred goal of collecting three hundred souls, the more often I find myself revisiting the dreams of my past.
There’s a difference between goals and dreams. Goals are what you chase. Dreams are like pink bubbles floating around. They’re there, but you never reach for them because you can’t. Until one day, the wind carries them far away… and they vanish.
Which is why, over time, I’ve gradually let go of most of mine. But some still bother me in moments of weakness.
Nicole peers cautiously over the cliff, one hand holding her hair back against the wind.
“Every dream leaves an energetic imprint,” I say. “If you abandon it without destroying it by conscious choice, it doesn’t die. I drains away. Into this river. They say it’s one of the most beautiful sights you can witness.”
Nicole’s eyes reflect the same intense hue of the sky. “It is beautiful!”
I step right to the edge of the plateau and sit, letting my legs dangle over the drop. Glancing over my shoulder at her, I pat the bare rock beside me. “It’s even better from here.”
She narrows her eyes, then shakes her head. “No way I’m sitting there.”
“Is the Little Baroness afraid of heights?”
“I’m afraid of you. Do you think I’m going to just walk over so you can push me off?”
I laugh and pat the stone again. “The contract protects you from real harm, remember? Come on, you want to see it from here. I can tell.”
She frowns, clearly weighing her options.
Then, her black stilettos with delicate ankle straps approach along the rock.
She’s cute while trying to figure out how to crouch down in that tight red wrap.
I offer her my hand, and she studies it for a moment, lips pursed.
Finally, she places her fingers in mine for balance and eases herself down onto the plateau beside me.
We stare at the river in silence. Over time, the shapes become clearer, rising from the surface, sinking again a moment later. Toys. Houses. Cars. People…
“The river is also dangerous,” I say. “It entices with its beauty, but anyone who touches it becomes twisted beyond repair. Forever haunted by dreams that aren’t their own.”
“It’s real?” Nicole asks.
I lean over the edge, studying the way the colors swirl together.
Just as I’ve always pictured them. “The River of Forgotten Dreams is real. It exists on the border between two worlds unknown to us. But what you’re seeing here is an illusion.
One I created based on the descriptions I’ve heard. The actual river…I’ve never seen it.”
But I’ve always wanted to. Bitterness creeps in. For years, I refused to distort its true beauty by turning it into an illusion. But tonight, driven by the clock ticking louder and louder in the back of my mind, I gave in.
I was supposed to give Nicole her second trial today.
I’d pictured her thrashing in the river, gasping while the current dragged her under.
She had to understand that the only way to reach the shore was to surrender, to let go of her breath.
Of course, she wouldn’t have died. The river’s just an illusion.
But the fear she’d release, while struggling?
It would have been more than enough to fuel me.
Except… I don’t want her fear.
I want her secrets.
By now—midway through the second week—I tend to get bored with my harvest. The novelty wears off, their spirits fade, and I start counting the days. But with Nicole, I’m nowhere near finished. I’m eager to peel away every layer of her.
How did she pierce through my illusion in the labyrinth? What’s lurking beneath the shadows of her past?
What else is hidden behind the mask of the Baroness?
She glances sideways at me. “None of this feels like an illusion.”
I face her, and the river’s beauty seems to dull. “There’s always a difference between truth and illusion. Truth is rich. Full. Illusion is hollow.”
I study her profile while she’s still mesmerized by the river. When she finally faces me, I take in the rest of her. I can’t remember the last time I was this captivated by another person. “I could create you, you know. I could recreate every curve, every detail of your eyes…”
Her lips part, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“I could shape your mouth and make it whisper filthy things to me. Make it say all the things I want to hear. I could make the illusion kneel before me the way you never would on your own. And I could do things to it you’d consider unforgivable…”
Her pupils dilate.
“But when I ask it something real—something about you—the illusion wouldn’t be able to answer. It can only do what I programmed it to do.”
Her expression changes, suspicion settling in. “Why did you bring me here?”
I raise an eyebrow at the sharpness in her tone. “You mean, why did I save you from getting caught at the scene of a crime?”
“I had the situation under control. At least I did, before you showed up.”
“The only thing under control was the precision with which you destroyed that cake, Baroness.”
Her spine straightens just a little. Then, as if she gives up on the argument, she exhales. “What can I say… Something about crowns. I just can’t resist.”
The smile that plays on her lips is faint, as though she doesn’t know whether she’s making an excuse or congratulating herself. Then she seems to remember who she’s talking to and frowns. “I hope you, of all people, aren’t judging me.”
I’d be lying if I said I’d never tried to knock a crown off someone’s head myself. And really, what’s more tempting to a joker than a sneaky, underhanded trick? A quiet laugh escapes my throat. “Feeling guilty, are we?”
“No. Those hyenas had it coming,” she says, this time with conviction.
“It would have disappointed me if you’d felt any regret.”
“You’re going to sit here and tell me you’re never haunted by it?” She locks eyes with me.
What is she hoping to hear? That the Black Joker has a conscience?
For a split second, that damn invisible clock ticks in my ears again. The reminder that I’ll have to turn this bright, burning woman into a shadow weighs like a leaden boulder in my chest.
I swallow it down, just as I’ve swallowed everything else I can’t change, and reply with a casual shrug. “A bad reputation’s enough to cope with. I don’t need a bad conscience on top of it.”
She laughs, loud and unfiltered. Satisfaction builds in me at the sound of those melodic, clear vibrations. I don’t remember making a harvest laugh in a long time. Never cared to, either.
“Still, will you share why you went for their crowns with such passion?”
She presses her lips together and shifts her focus back to the river, where the silhouette of a child surfaces from the waves, only to dissolve into a cascade of colored droplets.
Just when I think she won’t answer, she says, “I found out the twins have been saying things. About me. And my father.” There’s a tightness in her voice now, at the mention of the man I once saw hurt her.
A sudden, sharp discomfort runs through me. “Your father… is he the man who was introducing you to his friends at the ball?”
“Yes. The Construction Baron.”
“Do you love him?” I ask, not quite sure why.
Her mouth opens, ready to fire off a response. Nothing emerges. There’s a brief pause, and then, “I understand him. Everything he does is for my own good.”
The image of their conversation in his office flashes through my mind. His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her neck back. The annoying protective instinct rises again. “What is that good, exactly?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes drift, as if she’s lost in thought. After a moment, she lets out a brief laugh. “Do you actually care?”
I’ve always enjoyed delving into the inner struggles of my harvests. I do it with sharp accuracy—casting lines, uncovering secrets, exploiting hidden wounds. Impartially. Nourishing my magic. And, to some extent, for the fun of it.
This time, irritation bubbles up in my chest. “Do you enjoy being a trophy?”
Nicole clenches her fists in her lap. “Excuse me?”
“What else is a woman who’s paraded in front of a potential buyer like a prized possession? Hoping she’ll be sold for a higher price.”
Her spine stiffens as if each word wounds her. “I’m many things. But a trophy, no. Never. Though yes, I shine. I’m valuable. Not everyone can afford me.”
“And who can, Little Baroness?” I say the nickname with a hint of irony.
She’s ready with an answer, I can tell by the fire in her eyes. But something shifts at the last moment. Her gaze drifts down my body before returning to meet mine. “Someone with taste. With means. Someone who doesn’t need to steal my soul to have me.”
She tilts her chin up in that familiar defiant way, as if testing whether her words hit their mark.
They did. Just not in the way she thinks.
I try to smile. It doesn’t land. “Taste is a matter of perspective. Means are a matter of circumstance. And trust me, any man who wouldn’t burn through Hell to steal both your soul and your heart doesn’t deserve you.”
Her eyes widen for a split second, but quickly regain their usual expression of self-control. Or so she’d have me think. Her hands betray her—the way her fingers trace the fabric of her dress, as though trying to ground herself.
That’s when it hits me. Tonight, I wasn’t just trying to recreate one of my impossible dreams. I wasn’t sneaking kindness between threats to see where she’d crack.
I was hoping to feel like the kind of man who could seduce a woman with romance and intimate talk. Without stirring up emotions that lie somewhere between desire and fear. Without reaching extremes.
Well. That didn’t work.
“Good night, Baroness.” I flick my hand through the air, dissolving the illusion.
Nicole finds herself once again standing on the street in front of the house where I took her from.
And I… return to the walls of my prison.
For years now, a ravenous urge has lived inside me—some monster I keep promising to feed.
One soul at a time.
Until I reach three hundred.
Tonight, that promise isn’t enough to tame it. It thrashes in my chest, starved, as if it’s never devoured a single soul. Tonight, it feels more tethered to the past than the future, crushed beneath the weight of Madeline’s magic, her presence thicker than it’s been in five centuries.
I scan the realm, inspecting the wards for a breach. Then I pace the castle, checking its wards for any faults. Nothing.