Chapter 6 - Vera #2
I circle the perimeter slowly, feigning the distracted curiosity of a passerby.
Guards check manifests at the side entrance, their rifles slung casually but their eyes sharp.
I notice patterns, the way one smokes his cigarette down to the nub before every shift change, the way another taps the butt of his rifle against the stone when he grows restless.
These are the details Lucian would commit to memory. I commit them, too.
At the south corner, I find a cluster of servants waiting with trays and linen bundles.
They gossip in hurried whispers, laughter breaking through their nerves.
I drift closer, head down, scarf tight. No one questions another servant carrying a parcel.
It would be the simplest disguise, the easiest mask.
But the satchel ruins me. I can’t abandon it, not even for a moment. And so I keep walking.
Later, I rest in the shadow of a café across from the opera house.
My hands tremble around the cup of bitter coffee, though I barely sip it.
From here, I see diplomats and dignitaries sweep inside, their vehicles shining, their attendants rigid.
I catch flashes of uniforms beneath tailored coats, the Crown’s insignia stitched subtly but clearly, Cadmus men drifting near like wolves in tailored suits.
The two predators move with practiced civility, but I can feel the tension humming between them.
And then, him. Declan St. Croix. He steps from his vehicle like a man descending onto a stage that already belongs to him.
His suit gleams, his smile practiced, his handshakes linger just long enough to suggest intimacy without offering it.
Cameras flash. He drinks the moment like wine.
I shrink back into my chair, bile rising in my throat.
Even from across the street, I can feel the pull of his presence, the confidence that bends crowds to his will.
I force myself to look away before his gaze can sweep the café. My pulse hammers. He cannot see me. Not yet. Not like this.
When he disappears inside, the air seems to lighten, but only slightly. I know better than to believe the danger has lessened. Declan doesn’t enter a room; he infects it.
I linger too long. A man in a gray coat takes the seat two tables away, his newspaper angled unnaturally. I recognize the tilt, the false casualness. My fingers curl around the satchel strap. Without finishing the coffee, I rise and slip into the crowd. The man waits a beat, then follows.
I spend the afternoon shaking him. Through alleys, through markets, across bridges. Each turn is a test. Each pause, a gamble. By the time I finally lose him in the labyrinth of the old quarter, my legs ache and my lungs feel raw. But I’m free. For now.
At dusk, I return to the boarding house.
I sit by the window, the satchel on my lap, and watch the city cloak itself in lamplight.
The opera house glows like a jewel, its windows blazing gold.
The summit has begun. The world believes this is the birth of prosperity. I know it is the sharpening of knives.
I whisper to myself, to the satchel, to the ghosts that follow me: “Tomorrow. Tomorrow we show them what they’ve built.”
The night stretches long, taut with unease.
Old Vienna glitters outside my window, a city draped in jewels, but beneath the shimmer lies something poisonous.
I can almost hear it breathing, the Crown’s arrogance, Cadmus’s hunger, Declan’s ambition.
All of it coiling together in the opera house, lit by chandeliers and guarded by rifles polished to mirrors.
I sit on the floor, back against the wall, the satchel beside me.
I’ve opened it a dozen times tonight, each time running my fingers across the ledgers as though touch alone can anchor me.
My notes bleed between their margins, evidence layered over evidence until it becomes a palimpsest of betrayal.
Each page is a knife. The question is where, and when, to cut.
Restlessness drives me into the streets again.
I move like a shadow through alleys and arcades, keeping to the edges.
Near the Hofburg Palace, vehicles stand lined in neat rows, guards stiff at attention.
I linger just long enough to hear fragments of conversation, plans for a gala, whispers of new alliances, and laughter too polished to be honest. It sickens me.
These men sip wine while the world starves, while blood spills unseen.
And tomorrow, they’ll clasp hands with Declan as if clasping hands with virtue itself.
I slip away before eyes can linger too long.
The satchel thuds against my hip as I climb a narrow stair that opens onto a rooftop.
From here, the city spreads beneath me, spires and domes, bridges glimmering over the dark river.
The opera house stands at the center, blazing with light.
It looks untouchable from here, but I know better.
Even the brightest jewels can be stolen.
For a moment, I let myself imagine Lucian somewhere in this city, walking these same streets, watching the same building. The thought tightens my chest. I don’t know if I wish for it or fear it. He is fire, destructive and unstoppable. And yet, part of me aches for the heat.
Footsteps on the roof snap me back. I drop low, pressing into the shadows.
Across the way, on another rooftop, a figure kneels with a rifle, silhouetted against the lamplight.
My breath catches. The distance is too far to see his face, but the shape, the stillness, feels familiar.
My heart hammers. Lucian? Or another hunter?
I blink, and when my eyes focus again, the rooftop is empty. Gone, like a ghost.
Shaken, I retreat. By the time I reach my room, exhaustion drags at me.
I secure the door, wedge a chair beneath the handle, and finally collapse on the bed.
My last thought before sleep takes me is of the satchel, how it feels less like evidence now and more like destiny.
Tomorrow, it will tip the balance, one way or another.
At dawn, bells shatter my sleep. The city stirs, vibrant and expectant, banners snapping in the wind. I rise, splash cold water on my face, and sling the satchel over my shoulder. My hands shake, but my spine is straight. Today, masks will fall. Today, Old Vienna becomes a crucible.
I whisper a single word to steady myself, “Endure,” and step into the tide of the crowd heading toward the opera house.