Chapter 18 #2
The rush hits like another spotlight. She’s watching me, and every trick I’ve ever practiced feels worth it. I twist midair, silk sliding through my hands, a perfect inversion, the kind that gets me those standing ovations.
For thirty blissful minutes, everything’s right in the world. I’m on top of it.
Then my gaze skims past Willow. For no particular reason. Back a row, more toward the center. I don’t typically scan the crowd. That’s not even what I’m really doing.
But a familiar face freezes my gaze.
My mother.
“Oh, fuck me sideways.”
Next to her is my father. And beside him—Mormor, my grandma. And my aunt. Both uncles. It’s an entire section of Torviks.
My heart drops. Then so do I.
Literally.
I miss my mark by an inch—just one inch—but that’s all it takes. My grip slips, the silk whips away, and gravity reclaims me like an ex with bad intentions.
I drop hard. Twelve feet. The thud echoes. The audience gasps. Pain flares bright in my ribs and my left elbow, sharp enough to knock a curse loose in my head.
Then I hear it:
“Gutten min!”
Mormor’s scream ricochets off the walls like a holy alarm bell. I swear, even the pyrotechnics guy freezes mid-cue.
“Oh my Herregud,” my mother shrieks. And then she’s moving. Over the seats she climbs, no hesitation. She pushes people out of her way and finally breaks free of the first row. She scales the stage like a panicked mountain goat in a designer dress. “Oh my Herregud! My baby! Are you bleeding?!”
I am. Spiritually.
Gasps ripple through the audience as she barrels toward me, blonde hair whipping behind her, mascara already running. Somewhere behind her, my father shouts. “MOVE! He’s hurt!” and then, he too, is climbing over people like this is a family fire drill and they’re just in the way.
For the first time, I’m looking into the faces of the people I never thought I’d see again. They’re the ones who made me. The ones who molded me into the man I am. The reasons why I felt like I had to fake my own death.
My parents.
My brain is short-circuiting.
The crowd is watching with bated breath, unsure of what the hell is going on.
I’m on my knees, trying to look like this is intentional, while my mother pats my face, “You could have broken your neck! What were you doing up there, like gravity is a fucking joke?”
She tries to pull my mask off, only I yank it back down before she can expose me. “Stop!”
I am literally in hell.
Hell has velvet curtains and spotlight glare.
“Mom, Dad, please—this is my show,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Hold still, what if you have a concussion?” Mom fusses, turning my head side to side, staring into my eyes.
My father turns and waves at the crowd. And the audience laughs.
Like, oh, maybe this is part of the show.
Maybe he didn’t just break his neck. Maybe the clowns are about to come out, too.
I mean, Mormor’s praying to every Norse god she can name—loudly.
Fantastic.
Down in the audience, still in her seat, I see that my aunt’s got her phone out, recording this chaos for who knows what purpose.
But no.
Oh no.
My uncles are disappearing backstage.
Oh, no.
Oh, no no no.
That can’t be good.
I scramble to my feet, wincing at the pain in my side and elbow. But I throw my arms wide and step forward. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call improv!”
Oh, they like that. I’ll have to keep this in mind for future shows. The audience erupts. Applause. Laughter. A standing ovation for my suffering. I bow, praying the stage will open and swallow me whole.
Then I straighten—and my eyes lock on the crowd.
Someone is moving down the aisle. Which isn’t that weird, people have to get up to use the bathroom. But there’s something about the way they walk. The height of the figure. That flowing hair.
My stomach drops through the floor.
Phoenix?
No. That’s me being paranoid. Why the hell would he be here? He doesn’t know who I am. Can’t be Phoenix. That’s just unreasona—
BOOM.
A pyro detonates. Right fucking beside me. Because I’m not supposed to be standing here. This isn’t a mark.
But there shouldn’t be fire right now. And oh shit, my pant leg is on fire!
Of course it is.
The crowd loses their minds.
What is wrong with these people? Can’t they tell the difference between life-altering chaos and entertainment?
Guess when it comes to Saint Shade, no.
There’s screaming. Laughing. Phones go up. They all think it’s part of the act.
I drop and roll, smothering the flames, the scent of singed fabric and ego thick in the air. Pain sears my thigh, but I pop back up like a man possessed, one desperately trying to save his show—arms wide, grin manic, cards bursting from my hands in a glittering explosion.
The audience roars.
They love it.
They’re howling.
I’m dying inside.
In my earpiece, I snarl, “Marco, CUT THE SHOW! NOW!”
The music switches dramatically, playing the finale bit. The lights drop. The curtains sweep closed. And finally, blessed darkness.
But the insanity doesn’t stop because five thousand people can’t see my whole existence unraveling.
My family rushes me like a herd of hysterical reindeer.
“You fell!”
“You’re burning!”
“You faked your own death?”
“How could you do this to us?!”
Mormor’s crying. My mother’s patting me down like I’m still smoldering. My dad’s shouting orders at no one.
But the image of that figure stalking down the aisle is burning in the back of my brain.
I shove through my family and extremely confused and concerned crew, pulse pounding, eyes locked on the audience beyond the curtains.
The theater’s emptying fast, people laughing, chattering, filing out with their videos of my humiliation.
But the aisle—where I saw him—is empty.
Instantly, my eyes rip to Willow’s seat. It’s vacant.
My gaze rips up the aisles, to the door that heads backstage. I sweep the wings.
Not there.
Not there.
Not there.
Cold slices through me like ice water.
Willow would never disappear. Not after that. Not after seeing me fall, not after watching my family storm the stage.
Which means only one thing.
That was Phoenix.
And he took her.
“Willow!” her name roars from my chest as everything falls apart.