Chapter 45 - Gaetano
Gaetano
This is my moment.
Time to perform.
My favorite challenge has always been to manipulate the audience into doing the unthinkable, the unnatural, the immoral—and to make them enjoy it. I should be on fire tonight, yet the only thing burning is the time I have until midnight.
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours scheming how to escape Madeline, but the more I think about it, the more I realize she won’t rest until I serve her Nicole’s soul on a platter.
I settle into the armchair tucked between the wall and the easel.
Nicole lingers near the entrance, pretending to be a recent arrival as she studies the card she pulled from the box.
Her expression tightens when she reads her role for the night.
The Baroness. Our eyes meet across the room, and the corner of my mouth lifts.
The first guests—aside from Nicole—also draw their cards. The two men do so with raised eyebrows and mildly skeptical looks, while the woman with them lights up with a bright smile, as if she already suspects she’ll be the star of the evening.
The illusory hostess tells them that Signor Neri usually starts each soirée by sketching his guests. Later, the portraits he chooses become part of his next collection, displayed in galleries around the world. The woman’s eyes open even wider.
A trio of blondes drifts into view behind them, indistinguishable from one another in the faint blue light. Nicole slips her card into her clutch and strides across the room. She spots me—the artist tucked away where the brightest light is, separate from the rest.
“Signor Neri, may I be your first model?” she asks. The music muffles her voice from everyone else, but everyone’s attention shifts in our direction.
I rest my ankle over my knee and let my gaze trail down her body. Slipping easily into character, I channel the eccentric artist: mildly aloof, faintly intrigued. With a subtle wave, I indicate the empty chair across from me.
She lowers herself into the seat with deliberate poise, her elegant heels crossing at the ankles. Her posture is flawless—shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted. The Little Baroness. My stomach tightens. I want to soothe her and whisper that I have everything under control. Except I don’t.
So, I begin sketching in swift strokes. Most of them I apply not with my hand, but with magic pouring from my fingertips.
Every movement follows not simply her form, but my hunger for her.
My eyes trace her curves with ruthless precision.
I’m not seeking perfection. Every feature, every line of her body, reminds me of what I stand to lose.
The easel faces the wall, concealing the blank canvas.
That doesn’t stop the few guests from drifting closer, their curiosity stirring as they lean in, trying to catch a sneak peek of the sketch.
Five minutes later, the portrait is finished. I lift my gaze from the easel and tell my model, “Just one final ingredient, and we’re done.”
The moment I speak, every head turns. My voice carries the hard edges of Bulgarian, softened by the warmth of a Mediterranean accent.
“What do you mean, Signor Neri?” Nicole asks, her tone laced with delight.
I lean over the case beside me and retrieve a thin, sealed needle. “A drop of blood. Only then does the portrait come alive. Only then does it seal not just the shadow… but the soul.”
A soft gasp escapes from the crowd. One of the men pulls out his phone to record. He’ll soon realize the footage shows nothing but an impenetrable haze.
I hand the needle to Nicole, along with a small white plate, then glance at the clock on the wall.
I check how many minutes remain until midnight, yet to the crowd, the gesture will seem like boredom.
They’ll assume the model is wasting the great artist’s time by fussing over something as trivial as a drop of blood.
Nicole lets out a quiet, nervous laugh. She surveys the needle with feigned panic, then glances at the onlookers around. “Just so you all know, if I die, it’ll be on you,” she says with theatrical seriousness. “Every single one of you.”
Someone in the back laughs. “Do it! I want to see what happens.”
Without rushing, she tears open the packaging, inhales deeply, and studies the needle once more. “My grandma uses one of these to check her blood sugar.”
I watch her with a calm expression. “It’s sterile. You’ll barely feel it.”
She raises her eyebrows with fake determination. “All right… just one drop.”
The needle pierces her fingertip. A small bead of blood wells up. Her eyes search mine, and I nod toward the plastic plate. She presses her finger against it. A thin stream of red trails down, collecting on the white surface. Then, with a quiet, resigned smile, she hands it back to me.
I take the plate with her blood, set it beside the palette, and dip the tip of the brush into the thick red.
Touch the canvas. A single stroke, and the magic unfurls.
The colors quiver, blur, and the layers shift.
I weave the spell into the technique, just as my father taught me.
Conceal what must remain unseen. Season with illusion.
At last, I turn the easel toward the crowd.
It’s in black and white, but the shadows are deeper than ink, and the light glows with a brilliance no canvas should hold.
No one speaks. It’s unclear what they perceive—each sees something different.
Whatever it is, it keeps them spellbound.
One woman covers her mouth. The man beside her squints as he leans in. Even Nicole holds her breath.
They’ve fallen into the same trap as every soul who’s ever gazed upon a masterpiece. Talent, enhanced by witchcraft.
“And all those colors from just a single drop of blood?!” someone exclaims.
“And in just a few minutes!”
I meet the gaze of a young man in a sharp suit, a drink poised in his hand. “There’s magic in blood,” I say, my voice a blend of artistic detachment and languid disinterest. “Next.”
The woman, whose entire being lights up at the prospect of becoming a star, nearly pushes Nicole aside in her eagerness to take the chair.
I sketch her. And in the end, she offers her blood to the Black Joker of her own volition. As the summoning demands.
One.
* * *
I count the portraits stacked against the wall. I count the minutes until midnight. I count my options.
The room is packed with people; music and chatter fill the air while the bartender I conjured keeps pouring drinks. Occasionally, I catch fragments of the words from the back of the card drifting through the crowd. They’re enjoying themselves, chasing the Black Joker. Pity he isn’t one of them.
“My compliments, Signor Neri. I’m a fan of the arts, but this is the first time I’ve seen someone paint with blood,” says my current mode—a young man in his twenties, with an angelic face and an arrogant posture.
I don’t lift my eyes from the painting. “Offering their blood frightens people by nature. I channel that fear from their faces into the canvas. That’s where I believe the magic lies.”
“You might be right. I dabble in painting myself, but merely as a hobby for now.”
My gaze moves to the crowd, searching for Nicole. Her role is to nudge the guests into playing the game and repeating the words of the spell. I spot her talking to a man her age, and he’s giving her a look that crawls under my skin. My jaw tightens, but I can’t do a damn thing about it.
Just like I can’t do a damn thing about Madeline. Because, as much as it guts me to admit, the witch outmatches me in every way that matters. If she sets her sights on Nicole, nothing—not rage, not love, not even magic—will stop her from turning me to ash and taking her.
“What do you paint?” I ask, handing the model the sealed needle and porcelain plate.
He opens it without hesitation and pricks the pad of his middle finger. He presses it to the dish and offers his blood to me. “Landscapes mostly.” He passes it back.
Thirteen.
I add the final strokes to his portrait and turn it around.
“Incredible!” He shakes his head as he devours the details. “There’s something in your portraits, but I can’t tell what. And the speed you work with…”
I smile, lifting the canvas from the easel. “Would you like to know the secret? I use blood to define the shadows in the eyes. That’s the only way the soul comes through.”
I glance back at Nicole. She’s no longer talking to anyone, just staring at me. My chest tightens with emotion—warmth, and an overwhelming sadness—as the truth slowly dawns on me.
I’ll do anything to ensure Nicole’s safety.
‘Love clouds your mind, dulls your senses, steals from your power.’
Don’t be so sure, Madeline.
Two girls lean toward me. “Can you paint us together?”
I gesture to the empty chair, my thoughts elsewhere.
* * *
I’ve been drawing for over two hours straight. Canvases pile up in front of me, some bearing a couple of faces. Thirty-two people in total, each one offering their blood to the Black Joker of their own free will.
It doesn’t feel like enough, but time is running out, and I don’t want to leave everything until the last minute. One wrong move, one misstep, and the whole plan could fall apart. I wouldn’t risk Nicole for anything in the world.
The apartment is now crowded. The guests have forgotten all about their eccentric host and are enjoying themselves beneath the pulsing bass of modern music, surrounded by a horror-themed atmosphere and top-shelf liquor.
Not long ago, Nicole came over and whispered that the Black Joker’s summoning spell continues to spread from person to person, through jokes and laughter.
Good. It’s time to seal the contracts.
Without rising from my seat, I conjure the illusion of the hostess. She materializes as if emerging from the bedroom, microphone in hand. The music cuts off. My thoughts pour out from the speakers, shaped into the melodic voice of the illusion.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins, “how many of you have managed to catch the Black Joker?”
“I did!” slurs a young man, raising his drink, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“No, I did!” another shouts, swaying as he points to himself with exaggerated flair.
Actually, none of them have caught the Joker. That card doesn’t exist. Yet.
“And how many of you have been caught as the Black Joker?” Laughter erupts, voices call out.
“How about we all try to lure him out together? I think you already know the spell, don’t you?
” More laughter. “C’mon, then. I summon you, Black Joker, wanderer of shadows, whisper in the abyss.
Come forth from the darkness to hear my wish. ”
Nicole’s voice rings out first. She’s front and center, standing in the half-circle that has formed. Enthusiastic, she’s rallying those around her to repeat the incantation. Though I control the performance with my thoughts, I can’t tear my eyes away from her.
I summon you, Black Joker, wanderer of shadows, whisper in the abyss. Come forth from the darkness to hear my wish.
Again. And again. Each word cements itself in the air.
The space begins to vibrate. The crowd is no longer merely an audience—they’re a conduit.
At the hostess’s feet lies an invisible altar, covered in spilled honey and tiny plastic plates still bearing faint traces of blood.
Now, I need ten of the painted faces to speak the words, just once.
I summon you, Black Joker…
The room swells with dark energy. Static electricity rushes over skin like a wave. If these people were alone, they’d tremble in fear. Together… they’re simply exhilarated.
The first tear slides down my cheek. One contract. That invisible rope coils around me again. The curse stirs—not the soul-bond link I share with Nicole, but something else entirely. A craving for spectacle, a hunger for harvest. The Black Joker’s dark magic rises from the depths of my being.
More tears fall. The second, third, and fourth contracts.
The magical lasso of their energy binds my entire body. I know this sensation. It’s the call of several contracts activating simultaneously.
And then, two more. Fifth and sixth contracts.
The dark energy wraps around me like a python. My skin starts to feel too tight. The invisible pull becomes painful. It penetrates beneath the tissue and stabs into my cells.
The crowd cheers, “I summon you, Black Joker, wanderer of shadows, whisper in the abyss. Come forth from the darkness to hear my wish.”
Seventh contract.
The surrounding air thickens to the point of suffocation. Dark energy rips through me like thorns piercing from the inside out. I’ve never made this many deals at once.
Eighth contract. A blazing essence, woven from curse and hunger, engulfs me.
Ninth contract. The Black Joker’s magic pulses through my veins. The voices in the room blend into one chant, but I can no longer understand the words.
Tenth contract. I force myself to focus, directing the magic toward the illusion of the hostess. She shouts into the microphone, “Thank you for your help, friends! Now take another look at your cards and let the Black Joker come forward.”
Ten people gasp and shout at once, claiming with surprise that they are the Black Joker.
I use the temporary chaos to start the next phase of my plan. I whisper the words I’ve been preparing for nearly five centuries. Not long ago, I dared to think I wouldn’t have to. But I do, and I do it willingly. Each syllable burns my lips. My heart melts into shadow.
The last tear slips.
“Gaetano!” Nicole’s voice reaches me as if through a fog. She leans over me, dark fiery hair brushing my face, her gaze filled with worry. “Gaetano, your eyes… they’re bleeding!”
Beneath the layers of shadow, beneath the pressure of bound souls and the agony of tearing magic, my heart flinches. That special connection to Nicole pulses, trying to ground me, to yank me back.
But I don’t want to come back. If I do, I’ll lose everything.
I grit my teeth and rise, torn between how I feel about her and the only choice I can allow myself.
“Gaetano?” Nicole’s voice dips into a fearful whisper.
My instincts fight me, but I walk past her. The only thing I permit myself is a fleeting touch on her shoulder. One last hint of something real.
“It’s time to harvest,” I say, and step into the crowd, leaving behind everything that ever mattered.