CHAPTER 26

Despite a flawless performance, by the time her act was over, Pity’s thoughts were a tangled mess, broken only by the distant buzz of applause or the rainbow blurs of other performers rushing by. When someone brought her a cup of ice water, she took it without a word. It slid down her throat and into her stomach like a blade. The screens in the preparation area beneath the stage showed the theatre was packed to bursting. Every box, every seat, every bench—full. Tonight’s Finale would usher in the New Year, and no one wanted to miss it.

Pity leaned against a table. Hours earlier she had sat in the same spot with Eva, preparing for the evening’s show.

Her mentor had minced no words. “You are worried about being chosen for the Finale.”

No, actually I’m not. She had swallowed that response. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

Eva’s dark-lashed eyes narrowed. “Say what you really mean.”

“I am. He tried to kill me. I want him dead.”

“A bit of advice for you: do not play poker.” Eva ran her knife across a whetstone. “I only want to know one thing: will you be able to perform tonight if you have to?”

“Yes,” she had replied, her stomach slithering like it was full of Scylla’s snakes. “If I have to.”

Would it be worse, Pity wondered, if she didn’t know she was going to be chosen? If there was still the chance that she’d end the night with clean hands?

For days she had thought about little besides the upcoming Finale and Selene’s mandate. Now she searched the depths of her mind, trying to dredge up the emotions she had felt after the attack on her and Finn, after the assassination attempt and hearing Duchess’s story. Pain, helplessness, anger…Hold on to them, she told herself. Don’t let the rage get away. But they were oily, slipping away through her mental fingers no matter how hard she grasped.

The only emotion that lingered was dread.

Wherever Selene was watching tonight’s performance, it wasn’t from a box in the audience, but a familiar face flashed on the wall of screens: Patrick Sheridan. Pity hadn’t heard of his return, but the last few days had seen a brisk influx of patrons.

Maybe he’ll send you another bottle of wine to celebrate your first Finale.

She shook away the grisly thought as Eva glided over, Marius a few steps behind.

“Almost time,” Eva said softly.

Scylla wandered over, too, followed by the Rousseaus and more Theatre members, until Pity’s solo watch had turned into a crowd. She looked for Max and found him at the very edge of the gathering, his face bleached white by the glow of the screens. He pushed his way through to her. When he reached her side, he didn’t say anything. Pity was glad for it. There were no words to soothe the trepidation that gripped her like a fever.

The last act ended and Halcyon appeared on every screen, his face somber.

“One year ends,” he said, “and another begins. But before it does, we in the Theatre Vespertine have one last matter, one final reckoning to attend to.” He paused, visibly vexed. “No! No, this goes beyond the Theatre, beyond even Casimir. There has been a transgression upon every one of us within the bounds of Cessation… upon our city… upon our home. As all of you know, several months ago someone attempted to assassinate Miss Selene.”

The crowd booed and hissed.

“This someone—whose name we shall not speak—escaped justice, but thanks to the efforts of our exceptional security forces, one of his minions was not so lucky. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, tonight, in our arena, we have one of the very perpetrators who violated Casimir’s hallowed halls with intentions of murder!” Halcyon waited as the crowd worked itself into a frenzy. “It’s time to choose,” he continued, “to decide who will serve as Cessation’s hand of justice!”

Pity tensed as the projections appeared on the ceiling. For the first time, her own face stared down, ringed by images of Scylla, the Zidanes, the Rousseaus, and others. They began to spin. The first to pop out was Scylla. The crowd cheered. Then came Eva and Marius, and they cheered louder, not knowing it was a sham, a façade.

Another act.

Entertainer. She swallowed hard. Executioner.

Either way, this was a price she had to pay.

“Well,” cried Halcyon, over the ensuing din, “it sounds like Cessation’s justice will have a razor’s edge tonight.” He threw up his hands. “The Zidanes it is!”

Pity started as if doused with cold water. The breath she was holding came out in a single rush, her shoulders releasing their tension. She hadn’t even been offered as a choice. Had someone intervened—Halcyon or even Beau? Or had Selene decided she’d already spilled enough mercenary blood? It didn’t matter. However her reprieve came about, she was spared.

I’ll do what I need to do. The resolve suddenly sounded so silly, so childish, that a laugh almost bubbled out of her.

On the screens, the Zidanes’ picture disappeared, but the others remained. They kept spinning above Halcyon, who grinned his madman grin. “But this is no ordinary criminal, my friends, and so this must be no ordinary Finale! A trained mercenary, an experienced assassin—surely we would not risk any of our beloved family by sending them into the ring with such a creature unassisted!”

Pity’s relief turned glacial. Around her, the world went fuzzy. An image of the Rousseaus filled the whole of her vision, eliciting a robust round of applause. But when her face appeared the roar was like that of an oncoming tornado.

The next thing she was aware of was Max’s hand on her arm. His mouth was parted slightly, the reflections of the screens rippling over his metal piercings like tiny flames. It was a moment before he found his voice. “You can say no.”

“No,” she said, anxious blood prickling in her cheeks. “I can’t.”

I can’t.

Do what you need to do.

“Pity?”

It was Eva.

“Come,” she said. “We must not keep them waiting.”

She shrugged off Max, unable to look at him again as they started for the stage. The other performers called out encouragement, but Pity heard only one word out of every ten, her eyes locked on the black maw of the tunnel leading to their platform. When the cool darkness enveloped them, she roused suddenly, pulling each gun from its holster.

Twelve bullets, she counted, an echo of the morning that had led her here. More than enough to kill a man.

But Eva and Marius were with her, too, and the measure of the man’s blood was meant to be spread between them. She could guess how.

Selene wants a show.

As the platform carried them into the arena, disorientation rocked Pity, as it had at her first performance. The crowd was still the crowd, she told herself, peering into the shadowy seats. She needed no mock assassination attempt to win them over this time, no false offer of blood. They had already given her their love.

Now, in return, all they were asking for was the real thing.

And if I don’t give it to them… She licked her lips. The air tasted different than it had during her act, laced with an unfamiliar ferocity that wouldn’t be denied. If you lose the crowd, you lose the act… and maybe more.

Halcyon was gone, but his voice remained.

“A sight indeed,” he said. “One of our oldest acts and our very newest, side by side. And Serendipity, our savior, our angel with six-shooters—for without her, Miss Selene would surely have been lost. This heinous assassin put a bullet through our darling sharpshooter, leaving her with a permanent reminder of her peril. I say she returns it to him. What say you, Cessation?”

She would have drawn on Halcyon had he been near, for hamming it up the way he was. Instead, she mirrored the Zidanes, smiling and brandishing her guns charmingly, while inside, her muscles felt like they might give way at any moment. Under the pretense of checking her ammo again, she fought to gather herself. Though she couldn’t see Selene in the flesh, she knew the woman was watching. The same way she knew that no performance meant as much as this one did.

At Eva’s direction, they spread out—Pity moved toward one end of the arena, the Zidanes to the other. Music began, and the floor opened again.

After he’d spent months in captivity—months of interrogations and torture and who knew what else—Pity expected a man half dead already. Instead, save for the dishwater-gray jumpsuit, he looked very much like he had the last time she had seen him. The bones of his face were more distinct and his hair longer, but he must have been fed well enough and allowed to bathe. The only distinct difference was the grim hollowness in his gaze, apparent even at a distance.

Eva signaled and they approached, closing in on him like he was a wounded animal. Eva and Marius drew a knife for each hand. Pity filled hers with ebony grips. No barrier went up, and she didn’t expect it to. There was no reason for her to miss.

Twelve bullets.

The assassin considered them individually, turning in a slow circle, as if he wasn’t sure where he was or who they were. But when Pity took another tentative step forward and his eyes alighted on her, there was recognition.

And a glint of hate.

She froze, close enough now to see his hands—and fingers—clearly. They ended in red-pink masses. Every one of his fingernails was gone. Her stomach clenched, hands tightening around the handles of her revolvers. It didn’t have to be like this. Surely this man had suffered enough. She could finish it now. Empty her chambers into his chest and call it justice, call it revenge, overzealousness, or anything else she wanted.

When he feinted toward her, she did nearly that. But at the last instant, her fingers froze on their triggers and she danced back instead.

That’s exactly what he wants, she realized. He knew he was a dead man and that she was the weak link, the jumpiest of his chosen executioners. He’s a mercenary, she reminded herself. A trained assassin. He tried to kill Selene. He tried to kill her.

Pity steeled herself as he crept back, looking disappointed at his failed gambit.

She could finish him now. End this macabre farce in a matter of moments. And though she’d be able to name it a lot of things, there was one thing she wouldn’t be able to call it…

A show.

He came at her again and she fired. He stumbled back as the bullet struck inches in front of his foot.

Bang! Bang!

With each shot, he jerked away, his movements more and more off-balance.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Buffeted about like a scarecrow in a storm, Pity almost expected straw to spill out when Eva flitted around his blind side, her blade flashing. But it was blood that flowed, dark and wet, soaking his shoulder in an instant. Then came Marius, with a cut to his forearm. The assassin’s cry of pain was barely audible beneath the roar of the crowd. He lurched in Pity’s direction again, but she drove him back with another well-aimed shot. The stony calculation in his face was gone, crumbled away to reveal pure animalistic panic. He thought he was done, Pity mused. But, useless as it was, his instinct to survive had kicked in.

Five bullets. Still enough.

And yet, hands moving of their own accord, she found herself refilling the chambers of her guns. She went to the edge of the arena and took her time as the Zidanes continued their volley. To and fro they flew, slicing and stinging, every cut targeted and shallow. Soon the assassin was mottled all over with red.

Pity watched, knowing she should rejoin the fray. Knowing she was being watched, too. But as soon as the cylinder of her gun locked into place, it was as if her muscles had followed suit. Go, she willed. Get back in there. Still, she couldn’t move.

A voice spoke behind her. “You’re doing fine.”

The words should have been lost, but somehow they had worked their way through the din. She turned to find Patrick Sheridan sitting in the nearest box. He smiled at her, as calm as if she were engaged in some mundane task, while around him the faces of the audience screamed for blood. His gaze seemed to carry the same message as his voice.

You’re doing fine.

At the center of the arena, the Zidanes paused. Pity forced herself to take one step forward and then another. The assassin was a mess, bloodied and pale, and swaying on his feet. She could see beneath the tattered jumpsuit, beyond the fresh wounds to skin that was hatched and crossed with screaming red scars.

As she drew closer, Eva and Marius fell back. A lump formed in Pity’s throat. He’s a rat, she thought. They were three cats playing with a wounded rat.

No. Eva and Marius were cats. She was a kitten—one with six steel claws in each paw but still a kitten on her first real hunt.

And now she was being given the kill.

The audience was rabid, screaming and chanting her name, each syllable a ruining beat.

Ser-en-di-pi-ty! Ser-en-di-pi-ty!

Pity holstered one of her guns. She didn’t need it.

It was time for the show to be over with.

She stopped half a dozen paces from him. When she raised the gun and cocked the hammer, his legs gave out and he fell to the ground. His head hung toward the floor.

“Do it,” he croaked.

No one could hear but her.

“On your feet,” she ordered.

He looked up at her, eyes brimming with resignation. Shook his head.

Her grip weakened. His face became Finn’s, so clearly that tears clouded her vision. She blinked and the assassin returned. “Get up!”

I can’t kill a man on his knees. I can’t…

“Do it!” he said again.

Her voice inched toward the scream that was building within. “I said get up!”

He didn’t stand, gaze burning with a last, tired defiance. Pity’s finger lay tight on the trigger. All she had to do was apply a little pressure.

Inhale, aim. Exhale… She breathed in and then out. Around her the chant continued.

Ser-en-di-pi-ty! Ser-en-di-pi-ty!

Her hand stiffened, but she couldn’t muster that last tiny bit of strength.

Do it!

Too many heartbeats passed. She began to shake.

An instant before she gave in, a heartbeat before her arm would have dropped and they would have known her for a weakling and a coward, the man’s eyes went wide with surprise. He jerked forward, a thin, scarlet stream spurting from his lips. Startled, she pulled the trigger. A black hole opened on his forehead as a spray of red and gray issued out behind him—a brief, gory halo.

He was dead before he hit the floor.

Across the arena, Eva straightened from her throw, smoothing the front of her dress calmly. Pity nearly dropped her gun when she spotted the hilt of the knife embedded in the mercenary’s spine, but a wave of cheers hit her like a slap to the face.

You’re still onstage.

She holstered her weapon as the Zidanes came over. Eva gave her a knowing look and took one of her hands. Marius took the other.

Chained together like that, they bowed.