I want revenge.
Sil tilts my chin upward, draws the bottle to my lips. I don’t fight.
Act III: Scene II
This musty cell turns out to be a fine place to stew over my plan. One I won’t be able to do anything about if Jude and I are both executed today.
Not that I can think clearly with Eleutheraen cuffs chafing against my wrists. My head swims as I lean it against the cool cell wall. That small sip of Sil’s tonic still burns in my throat with a vengeance that made the journey here horrendously dizzying. Enough so that I’m not actually entirely certain where I am.
If a single drop of Eleutheraen gold could neutralize the Craft in me, I shudder to think what more would do.
A thought occurs to me, and I reach into my pocket to extract the vial hidden there, trying to remember the last words Galen spoke when he passed it between us.
It’s Eleutheraen gold. Pure, judging by the label—no dilution. I can’t fathom how he got the money for such a thing. It feels like a message, one I’m not sure how to decrypt.
I turn my attention to the cell across from mine, seething. It’s empty.
Until the door shrieks open and two men pile in, leading a third. At once, I’m on my feet.
Jude walks primly into his cell as if two heavilyarmed guards aren’t dragging him by the elbows. The cell door slams and the guards vanish, leaving us mostly to darkness.
In a breath, I cross my cell and grip hold of the bars separating me from Jude. “How do you know my name?” I demand, my nails biting into the rust.
Without so much as wincing, Jude answers, “How could I not? The world may not recognize you under all the glitter and gold, but I saw you the night you wandered into the Playhouse. You had his face.”
Suspicions confirmed, I feel my chest tighten. “Michail’s.” My father’s.
He sneers at the name. “That’s the one.”
The admission slices through me. My muscles lock, waiting for the punch line. For Jude to look up, laugh, and apologize for making such a cruel joke. But no punch line comes.
Jude knows who I am. He’s known since the day I walked into the Playhouse and lied to me every day since. My mind clings to disbelief, claws for something—anything—to contradict that it was all a sham. This bond between us more than my imagination.
“Gene Hunt. She ties into all of this.” My eyes narrow, accusing. “She knew my name, too,” I breathe. Gene recognized me. “Did she know my father?”
“We all had the misfortune of meeting him.” He huffs.“Peacemaker.”
“Did you kill him?” Jude says nothing. Nausea gathers in my throat. “My father,” I repeat, certain I don’t want the answer. “Did you kill him.”
He raises his chin, bares his teeth. “I’d do it a hundred times over, Riven.”
The shadows clear from my vision. Whatever rose-colored gauze I’d cast over Jude dissipates. He is what he is. A Player. Players always lie.
Somehow, I let myself forget. This is my fault.
Before I can swallow my anger, I push on, frantically reaching for answers and throwing out the first one that makes a little sense. “Did you love her? Gene?”
Jude looks like he might explode with laughter. “No, Riven. I’d go as far as to say the two of us didn’t get along.” He rolls his eyes. “She’d fall in love with anything.”
Anything.The degrading jab sparks a new, awful thought.
“Michail,” I whisper, shocked, the pieces falling together like broken pottery. Part of me has wondered since the night I saw Gene, saw my name on her lips, like she knew who I was. “My father—heloved her.”
Jude says nothing. But his face tells me everything.
My mind reels. A picture begins to take shape. Gene took her own life—onstage in front of thousands. The night Michail was found dead outside the Playhouse. She died, and then Michail wasn’t far behind.
“You killed Gene, too, then,” I conclude, visualizing her notorious onstagesuicide.
