The connection is made. My blood flows through the plastic tube. Into him. I lie down next to him on the couch, elevating my arm, letting gravity do the work. We are tethered together by a plastic umbilical cord. I watch the red line move. I feel a strange lightheadedness. Not from the blood loss—not yet—but from the symbolism. I am literally pouring myself into him.
"You really are a monster," I whisper, watching the color slowly, very slowly, return to his lips.
"And you," he murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut, "are the fuel."
We lie there in the dark penthouse, high above the city that wants to kill us. "Thorne," Alaric says suddenly, his voice stronger.
"What about him?"
"He thinks we're running," Alaric says. "He thinks we are looking for a hole to hide in. He thinks he won."
"He owns the police. He owns the Syndicate. He did win."
"No," Alaric corrects. "He made a mistake. He attacked the Wolf in his den. But now..." He opens his eyes. The silver is back. Sharp. Cold. "Now the Wolf is in the city."
He turns his head to look at me. "Tomorrow, Elodie... we don't hide. We hunt."
"We?"
"You," he says. "I can't walk. I can't fight. But you..." He smiles. A terrifying, proud smile. "You are the Asset. You are the face they want. We are going to give them exactly what they want."
"I don't understand."
"Thorne is holding a gala tomorrow night," Alaric says. "At the Opera House. A fundraiser for his re-election campaign." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "You are going to attend."
"I'm legally dead."
"Exactly," he whispers. "Imagine the terror... when a ghost walks onto the stage."
He squeezes my hand. "You're going to play for him, Elodie. You're going to play the performance of your life. And while they are watching you..." His grip tightens. "I am going to burn his world down."
I stare at him. The plan is insanity. It is suicide. But as I feel my blood flowing into him, I realize something. I was born for this performance. I practiced my whole life for this stage.
"What do I play?" I ask.
Alaric smiles, and this time, it reaches his eyes. "Danse Macabre," he whispers. "The Dance of Death."
I close my eyes. I can hear the music already. It sounds like vengeance.
CHAPTER 23
SILK AND CYANIDE
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Obsidian Tower (Penthouse Master Suite)
Track:Toxic– 2WEI (Orchestral Cover)
Sensory:The chemical sting of hair dye, the cold slide of satin against bruised skin, the hum of a city waking up to violence.
Mood:Weaponized Beauty.
The sun rises over the city like a bruise. Purple, yellow, and violent.
I watch it from the white leather sofa, my head resting on the back cushion, my body feeling light, almost weightless. It’s the blood loss. I gave Alaric a pint. Maybe more. The plastic bag hangs empty on the IV stand he improvised from a coat rack, the tube dangling like a severed artery.
Beside me, Alaric sleeps. It is a fitful, drug-induced sleep. I pumped him full of saline and antibiotics from the cache, and the fresh blood—myblood—has brought a faint flush of color back to his grey skin. He is still pale, still ruined, but he is breathing. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.Adagio.
