JUDE: “Don’t worry over it, love. Death can’t be all that bad.” He shrugs, gaze empty. “And anyway, you seemed so scared to live.”
For a second, the words knock the air from my chest, each burrowing deep inside and twisting until something snaps.
“Jude,” Sil says. “Go back to your dressing room and wait for your castmates. Avoid all this unpleasantness—”
But before he can finish his sentence, those taloned shadows at last prowl onto the platform, the whispers echoing my name in my ears as Nyxene encroaches on that delicate radiance that shimmers around my skin like a live flame.
“What, and miss out?” Jude meanders past me, laughing. The cutting sound of it echoes and punches swiftly through my heart like a drum. Nyxene’s grotesque clicking looms closer while Jude saunters on, bored. “You know me.”
There’s a slight stiffness to his gait, to the set of his shoulders. He wanders behind Sil like he’s searching for a better view of what’s about to happen to me as Nyxene’s menacing limbs stretch across the marble.
But when he looks down at me, his steps come to a sharp halt, and there’s an all-too-familiar mischievous gleam in his eye. “I cannot resist a spectacle.”
At the familiar words, my gaze narrows on his, searching.
Jude winks.
Oh gods. It’s him. It’shim.
Well. I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked he couldn’t resist one last performance.
But just as fast as the wave of relief unclenches the terror from my chest, something even worse takes its place.
I barely have time to register it—the intent behind this charade, the calculation playing across his eyes a mere second before he moves.
Jude can’t hurt Sil.
But Nyxene can hurt Jude.
And as Nyxene circles me, ready to strike, Jude lunges for our director’s throat.
“Well then, Sil!” Jude announces.
He grits his teeth through a bitter laugh.
It’s as Nyxene’s shadows go dead still—and change direction at Sil’s startled roar of rage—that the Script tumbles from Sil’s hands and Jude growls, “To the godsdamned finale.”
Act III: Scene XXXVIII
It feels like years ago now. Years since the first night I stepped into the Playhouse and Jude gave me its most important rule.Nyxene protects Sil above all else.
And for the first time, in every memory as anyone I have ever been, Sil looks terrified.
“Over here, love!” Jude shouts at Nyxene, gripping hold of Sil and dragging him backward. “Come this way. I’ll be dealt with first, yes?”
Do not—ever—lay a hand on Sil, Jude warned me. We can’t. Our contracts won’t allow us to kill him.
Jude can’t kill Sil. He can’t snap the neck that he hooks his arm around, can’t break the arm he uses to haul him toward the wings as the director thrashes and furiously bellows at Jude to release him.
But my heart plummets as I realize what Jude is doing. What he means to do.
Nyxene follows obediently, lured away.
He’s buying me time.
“No!”I push to my feet, bolting after Jude, but I can’t hear my own voice over the high-pitched growling of Nyxene’s shadows, the demonic clattering like a violent storm tearing through the Playhouse.
Roaring in Jude’s direction.
