Page 17

Different from the others, the fourth case was darker. The lights inside were dimmed, making the figure harder to see at first. A man stood in the center, enormous, his body covered in scars that looked carved rather than accidental. He wore a mask shaped like a canine skull, its jaw articulated, its teeth real and stained. His hands were chained to the floor, but the chains were long enough for him to move if he wanted. He didn’t. Just stood there, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths, and when I stopped in front of the glass, he turned his head and looked directly at me.

The plaque read: THE HOUND — Not available for private sessions — Gallery viewing only. No smaller text. No explanation. Just a warning, and the staff avoided looking at his case as they passed.

I stared at him, and he stared back, and I realized he wasn’t performing. He was hunting, even through the glass, even while standing still.

“Rook doesn’t perform for individual guests anymore,” a voice said behind me.

Turning, something scraped across the floor.

A small figure crouched near the base of the Hound’s case, jointed limbs folded at impossible angles, white-gloved hands pressed flat against the tile. One of the Crawling Ushers. Its face was smooth and featureless, except for a thin seam where a mouth should have been. It tilted its head, studying me, then reached out with one gloved hand and picked up something—a torn piece of fabric, maybe from someone’s costume. It folded the scrap carefully, tucked it into a pocket sewn into its uniform, and scuttled backward into the shadows beneath the cases.

My pulse hammered.

I turned and found a man leaning against the wall between two cases, his arms crossed, his porcelain mask painted to look like it was cracking down the middle. He was beautiful in a way that made me distrust him immediately—sharp jaw, easy posture, one brown eye and one silver eye, visible through the mask’s eyeholes. His smile was too wide; it set me on edge.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because the last guest who paid for a private session with him didn’t come back.” Pushing off the wall, he walked closer, circling me, his gaze dragging over my dress, my mask, my hands. “Rook hunts. That’s what he does. That’s what he is. The House used to let guests run from him. They’d pay extra for the thrill. They’d sign waivers. They’d put on their masks and running shoes, go into the basement, and Rook would give them a head start before he followed.”

“What happened to them?”

“He caught them.” He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell smoke and sweat on his skin. “Every single one. And the House decided that guests who wanted to be caught that badly should just admit it instead of pretending they were trying to escape. So now Rook stays in his case and watches, and the guests who stare too long get exactly what they’re asking for without having to run first.”

“You’re Khaos.”

His smile widened. “You’ve heard of me.”

“I’ve heard you’re a fucking psychopath.”

“I prefer entertainer, but I’ll take it.” Reaching out, he traced one finger along the edge of my mask, following the painted zinnias. His touch was light, and I didn’t pull away even though I wanted to. “You’re the one Malachi’s been watching. I wondered when you’d make it down here.”

“I’m not here for him.”

“No. You’re here for your sister.” He said it casually, as though everyone in this building knew exactly why I’d walked through the doors. “Dahlia Wynn. Twenty-eight years old. Disappeared six years ago after receiving a black invitation identical to the one you got tonight. She made it as far as the third floor before the House decided she was too interesting to let go.”

My throat went tight. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“Because I keep the records.” He tilted his head, his fingers still resting against my mask. “Every guest who’s ever walked through those doors. Every Freak who’s ever performed on these stages. Every bargain, every contract, every person who thought they were negotiating and found out they were just agreeing to terms already decided. I know all of it. And I know that Dahlia didn’t disappear. She was selected.”

“Selected for what?”

“That depends on who you ask.” Stepping back, he slid his hands into his pockets. “Ask Malachi, and he’ll tell you she made a choice. Ask the House, and it’ll tell you she was claimed. Ask me?” His smile turned sharp. “I’ll tell you she’s still here, somewhere below the red door, waiting for someone to come get her.”

“Then why hasn’t anyone gone after her?”

“Because nobody opens the red door. Not even the Freaks. Especially not the Freaks.” His gaze flicked past me, toward the Hound's case. “We know what’s down there.”

“What’s down there?”

“The part of the House that doesn’t pretend to be entertainment.” He turned and started down the corridor, and I followed because I didn’t know what else to do. “The public rooms are theater. Spectacle. Guests pay to watch, and the Freaks perform, and everyone goes home feeling like they’ve confronted something dark and real. But below the red door? That’s where the House keeps the people it won’t let go. The ones who broke the rules. The ones who tried to leave. The ones who were too interesting to waste on a single performance.”

We passed another case. Inside, a veiled woman stood motionless behind glass, her face obscured by layers of black lace. The Widow in Glass. Her hands pressed flat against the case’s interior, and as I walked by, her head turned slowly, tracking my movement. A small brass plaque beneath her case read: The Widow identifies those whose names have entered the records.

My stomach dropped.

“Don’t worry,” Khaos said without looking back. “She’s just confirming you’re on the list. You were always going to be on the list.”

We stopped at a door marked with a red X.