JUDE: “I— One thing at a time, yes?” He sets that thin box on a chaise between us, popping it open to reveal an arrangement of silvery gauze and tinctures, half of them encrusted with jewels. It doesn’t look like any healer’s kitI’veever seen. “I stole this from Arius while he’s off mending Titus. It won’t be long before he misses it. Sit down.”
RIVEN: “Why?”
JUDE: “Because you’ve been holding your ribs like they’re trying to escape you since you got here. Clearly, something is broken. I need you alive, and at this rate, a medium-size wind might turn you to dust.”
Stubbornly, I stomp over and sit, mostly because my body is begging for rest. Jude kneels and fiddles through the case, his rings producing a series of delicate, metallic clinks as he squints at the various handwritten labels, distinctly giving me the impression he doesnotknow what he’s doing. Especially when he pops the lid off one bottle, sniffs it, and gags.
Hopefully Arius doesn’t keep his poisons with the rest of his supplies.
“So,” he says. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered myextremelygenerous offer.”
“No more than climbing the catwalk and plunging to my death.”
“That would be merciful in comparison to what they’ll do to you.” I watch his hands with distrust as he unfolds a flat cloth and tips a glittering salve that smells like spring flowers onto it. He looks at me pleadingly. “If I put this near your ribs, is it going to cost me a finger?”
“I’m not some rabid animal,” I hiss.
“Well, I’d hardly call you domesticated.”
I scowl and pull away on instinct, but the jerk of movement deploys a searing ache down my side. The pain wins.
Pinching my shoulders together, I swallow my pride and peel all three tattered layers halfway up the left side of my torso. The mirror tells me my ribs are nauseatingly visible beneath a sheen of ungodly bluish skin. I scrunch my eyes shut to avoid my reflection and brace myself.
Something warm presses against my ribs, and I startle, expecting the salve to be cold, for the hand holding it to be too forceful. Instead, it’s light, feathery, like the flicker of a candle.
I blink my eyes open, and Jude is watching my expression. Probably worried I’m going to try and claw his eyes out.
He’s less intimidating when kneeling at eye level, his features softer in the dimming light. This close, I guess it’s easy to see what the world obsesses over, a devastating sort of beauty that puts his statue in the District to shame. One of those faces built for the stage, all sharp and dramatic angles, curved lips that seem permanently tilted up in a grin. A long, straight nose offset by a delicate ring.
It’s no wonder they warn us not to look Players in the eyes, gilded and brilliant and ready to hypnotize an audience. I’ve noticed they all seem to come in different shades, though. Parrish’s, sparkling like a jewelry box of rare amber. A terrifyingly close look at Titus’s reminded me of a volcano, burning and roiling.
Jude’s, though, glint like sunlight through storm clouds.
Realizing I’m staring, I throw my gaze to study the floor. It feels absurd admiring Jude, maybe wrong. He’d probably laugh, say something cruel and pitying.
“I know you don’t believe me.” His voice cuts through my thoughts. “But I don’t plan to hurt you. I need your help, Alistaire. The other Players are going to spend the next three weeks training their champions to be lethal and gifting them much of their Craft to do so. If you let me, I’ll give you mine.” He lets out a breath. “I never wanted to be Lead Player. It’s a death sentence.”
A death sentence.In spite of myself, my resolve softens. I know how that feels, for death to hang over your shadow.
The salve prickles along my skin, and the soreness dwindles—it’s probably some sort of pain sedative. But this isn’t what startles me. It’s that, as he ties the bandage taut, the sharp, cold splintering in my lungs dissipates, that mysterious ice dislodging from my rib cage.
I gasp a deep breath, and—andwarmthfills my lungs.
Stunned, I lift my chin, savoring the strange, comfortable feeling that weaves between my ribs. “The rest of me now—” I don’t mean the words to come out so ragged, but I don’t care. “I—I mean,thank youbut…I need you to fix the rest of me.” In the wake of some of the ice relenting, my resistance is magically forgotten. “You wanted a deal, didn’t you? Then reverse this—whatever it is.Now.”
The candles sputter again. Several go out entirely. Jude swears and goes for the matches on the mantel. “We’re past curfew.” He lights one of the candelabras that hover over the hearth. It goes out again just as fast. He gives up, looks at me.
As the last candle dims, all I see is the golden hue of his irises, which are more frightening in the dark. “In your time here, keep away from the shadows. You’ll notice the lights in your bedroom are always on, even when you sleep—Out!”He grasps the last candle, rushing its light to a corner where a thick shadow emerges from the darkness in the shape of a long, taloned hand, like a monster waking. “Patience,love! We’ll just be a moment.”
He isn’t talking to me. I move away until my back meets the wall.What is that?
Sil’s warning comes to mind.All Players and auditionees alike are to stay out of the dark.
“Nyxene. The Playhouse’s Stage Manager,” he says, and I realize I asked my question out loud. “She is one of many reasons tonotbreak the rules. There are things that move in the Playhouse after dark that mean you harm.”
“What is she? A…a guard for Players?”
“Players hardly need guards,” he says, indignant. “Alistaire, because you’re…you, I think I need to state this bluntly, and hear me when I do: Nyxene protects Sil above all else. Do not—ever—lay a hand on Sil. She will rip the marrow from your very bones.”
