Chapter 18
The Trickster
I drag Eve from the booth, not caring if I hurt her. The night air hits us like a slap, cold after the incense-thick interior. The fog seems to have thickened, wrapping around us in tendrils that cling to our clothes and skin.
Her stomach growls, the sound barely audible above the carnival din but loud enough for me to catch. It’s been at least twelve hours since she last ate—my fault, I realize with a detached sort of awareness.
I already know that the hunger pangs aren’t enough to break her. Though they add another layer of vulnerability I can exploit, that’s not the reason I haven’t fed her. I’ve tried, she just refuses most of what I offer.
A starving performer won’t give the show I want, so when I spot a food vendor through the mist, I move us closer. The grill is hissing and popping, releasing the scent of roasting meat that cuts through the artificial fog like a blade.
“Want some?” I ask, nodding toward the stand.
Eve’s eyes follow my gesture, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. “No, I’m not hungry,” she lies, her pride still intact despite everything.
“Liar,” I say, not unkindly. I s teer her closer to the vendor, my hand firm on the small of her back. “You’ll need your strength for later.”
The vendor’s stall is draped with strings of tiny orange lights shaped like skulls. Behind the counter, a woman in elaborate Day of the Dead makeup arranges skewers of meat on the grill. The flames leap up, casting grotesque shadows across her painted face.
“We’ll take two, please,” I tell her, holding up two fingers. She nods, not speaking—part of the Sanctuary’s immersive experience.
While we wait, I study Eve in the flickering light. The aftermath of captivity has left its mark on her in the shadows beneath her eyes which are deeper. But it’s not enough to hide the fierce vitality to her that’s strangely compelling.
Her hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, the orange ends catching the light like embers I can’t look away from no matter how much I try to. With a reluctant sigh, I run my fingers through the soft locks.
“You better not pull any hairs out,” she sniffs, which makes me laugh.
The vendor hands over two skewers of meat and vegetables, dripping with a dark, sticky sauce that smells of smoke and spice. I pass one to Eve, our fingers brushing in the exchange. She doesn’t pull away immediately—an interesting development.
“Thank you,” she says, the words formal and precise.
I guide her to a small standing table away from the main flow of traffic. From here, we can observe the crowd while maintaining a bubble of relative privacy.
Eve takes a careful bite of her food, then closes her eyes briefly, the simple pleasure of eating after deprivation evident in the slight relaxation of her shoulders.
“Is it good?” I ask, watching her mouth as she chews.
She nods, swallowing before answering. “They’ve achieved the perfect balance of char and tenderness,” she explains, examining the skewer with clinical interest. “The smoke compound is artificial, though. Liquid smoke with additional chemicals to enhance the sensory impact.”
I laugh, surprised by her analysis. “Most people would just say it tastes good.”
Her eyes meet mine, sharp and un compromising. “That’s boring, and it doesn’t actually explain anything.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighs as if my question is bothersome. “Good is a relative term. You can’t compare it or measure it.”
I nod. “But you can compare the perfect balance of char and tenderness?”
“Probably not,” she shrugs. “But at least it explains why I find it good.”
The statement hangs between us, heavy with implication. I take a bite of my own food to avoid responding immediately, letting the flavors bloom on my tongue. She’s right about the perfect blend. Damn her.
“How long are you really going to keep me for?” Eve suddenly asks, her gray eyes locked onto my green ones.
Shrugging, I take another bite, not intending to answer her. But when she scoffs and rolls her eyes, I do. “Why? It’s not like you have a job you need to get back to.”
“What did you just say?” she hisses.
I arch an eyebrow, amused despite myself. “Are you hard of hearing, wife?”
She takes another bite, chews thoughtfully. “So… it was you.” It’s not a question. “You’re the one who made me lose my office space.”
“Is that so?” I retort.
“Mhmm, yes, I believe so,” she chirps. “And I’m guessing you brought it up in a seemingly innocent question to gauge whether I already knew or not.”
Laughing, I nod slowly, impressed with her deduction.
“You might not know this, husband, but you have all the finesse of a sledgehammer.”
“The fuck does finesse have to do with anything?” I chuckle.
She eats the last of her food, looking away from me and toward the group of people passing us by.
“It’s often the best way to reach a desired outcome.” Her tone implies it should be obvious.
“And what outcome do you think I desire, Dr. Deat h?”
Her gaze is steady, unflinching as she looks back at me. “Control. Vengeance. Absolution for your failure to save Ruby.” She pauses, watching my reaction. “But mostly distraction from your own pain.”
I lean closer, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re analyzing the wrong person. Your psychological tricks won’t work on me.”
“They already are,” she counters, her voice equally soft. “You’re engaging with me. Conversing. Finding me intellectually stimulating despite yourself.”
She’s right, which irritates me more than I care to admit. There’s something compelling about her mind—sharp, observant, unafraid to cut deep. In another life, under different circumstances, I might have…
I shut down that line of thinking immediately. Eve Mortis is not a woman to be admired. She’s the instrument of my sister’s destruction, and now, the vessel for my revenge.
“Come on,” I command, straightening. “We have places to be.”
I dispose of the skewers in a nearby trash receptacle shaped like a grinning skull. Eve wipes her hands on a napkin, the mundane gesture at odds with our surroundings.
For a moment, the scene feels almost normal—a couple sharing a meal at a carnival—until I grip her elbow and pull her back into the flow of the crowd.
We pass vendors selling caramelized apples that smell of burnt sugar and cinnamon, their glossy surfaces reflecting the flickering lights overhead. Eve’s gaze lingers on them, but I pull her onward.
Past a contortionist whose body twists into impossible shapes on a small circular stage. The performer’s spine bends backward until his head emerges between his own thighs, face painted in a permanent scream.
“They use vagus nerve stimulation to achieve that level of flexibility,” Eve murmurs, her scientific mind still cataloging, analyzing. “The pain threshold would be extraordinary.”
“Is that professional interest I hear, doctor?” I ask, my thumb tracing small circles on the inside of her elbow where I know her pulse beats close to the surface.
“Professional observatio n,” she corrects, but I feel the slight uptick in her heart rate beneath my fingers.
The path narrows as we approach a section cordoned off with velvet ropes. There’s a warning sign flashing. Sacrifices only. Explicit content ahead, viewer discretion advised!
“Sacrifices,” Eve murmurs.
“Yeah, the highest tier,” I absentmindedly explain. “Most areas are open to Spectators and Shadows as well. But the best ones are only for Sacrifices.” I wonder if she knows those are the names for the different ticket holders.
“Right, right, the tiers,” she mumbles, unknowingly answering my question.
We walk closer to a passage where two guards in blood-splattered executioner’s hoods stand at attention, their axes gleaming dully in the low light.
“This way,” I say, nodding to the guards, who immediately step aside. Perks of ownership. The atmosphere shifts from carnival to something darker, more primal.
Slaughter Stage H display features a realistic beheading scene—an actress strapped to a wooden block, her severed head projected as a hologram while her real head remains hidden beneath the structure.
Blood pumps from the neck stump in rhythmic spurts, splattering the front row of observers who shriek with delighted disgust.
Eve’s breathing changes as we watch—quicker, shallower. Not fear, exactly. Fascination.
“The arterial spray pattern is accurate,” she notes, her voice clinical but her body betraying her with the subtle press of her thighs together. “Someone did their anatomical research.”
“My brother’s team consults with medical professionals,” I explain, my mouth close to her ear. “For authenticity.”
We move deeper into the restricted area, where the displays grow increasingly explicit. On another stage, performers engage in a grotesque orgy—bodies writhing in stylized movements that suggest sex and gore.
It’s so real I can’t tell if it’s fake or one of the troops Carolina found on the dark web. Their skin is painted to resemble classical marble statues cracked with black veins, as if corruption spreads through their stone flesh.
One woman straddles a man whose face is hidden behind a shattered porcelain mask, his hands clamped on her hips as she grinds down on him. Blood—real or staged—slides between her exposed breasts, pooling in the dip of her stomach before streaking over marble-painted ribs.
A second man is behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other locked around her throat, holding her still while he bites deep into her shoulder until her head snaps back in what’s half scream, half moan.
Beside me, Eve’s breathing changes. She doesn’t make a sound, but I catch the subtle tightening of her thighs, the way her gaze sticks to the scene as if she’s trying to decide whether it repels her or drags her under.
Her eyes flick to mine for half a beat, the corner of her mouth curling before she looks back at the stage—as if daring me to acknowledge she knows I’m watching her.
That tiny, knowing twist in her lips makes my cock stir—not at the scene, but at her letting me see the effect it’s having on her. She’s not the type to ask me to take her there… not yet—maybe not ever. But she’s imagining it, all the same.
“Aroused, wife?” I murmur, my hand sliding from her elbow to her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her hip.
“Just analyzing theatrical technique,” she counters, but the lie is obvious in the flush creeping up her neck.
With a dark chuckle, I lead us to where we need to be. The crowd thickens as we approach our destination.