CHAPTER 27

Stiff-backed and cold as ice, Pity exited the tunnel, pushing past everyone until she found herself in a shadowed corner. On the floor, a mass of ropes lay piled like intestines. She collapsed onto it and pressed her forehead to her knees, hands clenching and unclenching. She could still feel the jolt of the gun firing. Part of her wished that she could rewind time and empty every last chamber into the mercenary. The rest of her wanted to throw her guns to the ground and never touch them again.

A shadow fluttered at the corner of her vision.

“Pity?” Halcyon stood over her, hat in hand, mouth twitching with a hesitant smile.

Her eyes ached but remained dry. “I’ll do better next time, boss.” Whether it was a promise she could keep was beyond her at that moment.

Halcyon crouched down next to her, bringing with him the scent of roses. “It’s done,” he said, his voice unusually soft. “Done and over. Over and done. You did very well.”

Something in her snapped. “No, I didn’t!” She began to shake again, harder than before. “I couldn’t… I tried, but—”

“Pity, stop,” Halcyon said. “The beast is fed. The city has been given its bloody meal and will remain sated for the time being.”

The tremors paused. “What?”

He sighed. “A wild animal kept in a cage is still a wild animal, even when it licks its owner’s hand and rolls over to show you its belly,” he said. “As long as Cessation is Cessation, and the Theatre makes it our home, we must pay the city our pound of flesh. We are lucky to get by as cheaply as we do. When one of us does what you did tonight, Pity, they do it for all of us.”

“I… I don’t know if I can do that again.”

“And I wouldn’t ask you to, but the beast will have thorns on its rose.” He stood. “The others will be on their way to the Gallery by now. May I escort you there?”

“No, please.” The thought of the laughter, the decadent joy, turned her stomach. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

“Of course not!” Halcyon’s usual manner returned. “You are, understandably, overcome by finally exacting revenge upon that mercenary scum. I shall carry your condolences with me in place of your person.”

“Thanks, boss.”

As he departed, Eva appeared, as soft and quiet as a breath. She said nothing, only gathered Pity to her feet and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, an infusion of strength that was enough to make Pity’s stiff limbs work again.

But they had only gone a short way before Adora intercepted them, arms crossed forebodingly.

“She wants to see you.”

“I told you to kill him.”

No conversation. No accusation. Only a statement. Pity perched on the edge of a couch, confined in the plush pit while Selene assessed her from above. It was not unlike being back in the arena, a notion that made her grip the cushions tighter. The show still clung to her, an intangible, greasy film of revulsion and self-reproach. She ached to physically wash it away, but the sanctuary of her room felt a million miles away.

Selene, emanating chill irritation, paced to a bar inset in the wall and began to fix herself a drink. “Not Eva. Not Marius. You.”

It happened so fast. “The audience didn’t know; no one could tell—”

“I knew,” Selene cut in. “I could tell.”

“I tried…”

“Not hard enough.”

Frustration, flowing like blood from a fresh wound, drove Pity to her feet. “If you wanted me to kill him why were Eva and Marius there, too?”

“Why?” Selene slammed her glass down. “That was a kindness. Do you think I didn’t see your reluctance? You were afraid—I wasn’t going to fault you for that. The Zidanes were with you so you wouldn’t be alone.”

Speechless, Pity sat again, light-headed as a shiver scraped over her skin.

“And despite that, you still couldn’t do it.” Selene tapped her nails on the marble bar. “At least Eva had the good sense to cover your shortcomings.”

Of course she did. Eva may not have known in advance, but she knew the Theatre—knew Selene—and would have understood what her role was the moment the Finale deviated from its usual format. It was Pity who was too foolish to see how the pieces on the board were set up.

“When I ask you to do something, I expect it done. Do you understand that?”

Pity licked her lips. “Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you shoot him?”

“I…”

“You’re young, but you’re not a coward,” Selene pressed. “You were trained well—you know how to use those guns, and you’ve killed with them before.”

“I-I told you,” she said. “I tried… but I couldn’t—”

“Then what good are you?”

Pity burned all over, her muscles bone-shatteringly tight. Selene was right. She was trained well. All you needed to do was pull the trigger. Block out everything else and… Her thoughts would go no further.

“You helped save my life, and don’t think I’ve forgotten that. But I have no use for someone who can’t follow orders.” Selene stalked over so that she loomed above Pity, her eyes two shards of crystal. “Especially when the next request may not be so simple. Which raises the question, can I rely on you or not, Serendipity Jones?”

Pity searched for an answer but found none.

Silence smoldered between them before Selene spoke again. “You may go.”

Pity stood, but a continuing fear kept her rooted in place, unable to believe she was being dismissed with only a scolding.

“This isn’t over,” Selene confirmed. “I suggest you put some hard thought into what your personal misgivings might be. And whether they truly have a place in a city like Cessation.”

The words still seared her skin the next morning: What good are you?

She twisted in her sheets, eyes singed sore by tears that wouldn’t fall. The prior evening replayed on an infinite loop in her thoughts, alternating between the assassin’s plea for death and Selene’s reproach. Entwined as the memories were, it was impossible to decide which left her more ill. All confidence was scraped out of her, leaving a hollow pit in her chest.

Another moment that mattered. Another failure. It wasn’t about the showiness of it—Selene had never asked for that. She would have forgiven a mundane performance. The only thing Pity really needed to do was follow orders—to be a good, obedient soldier, like her mother. But that was exactly what she had failed to do, jeopardizing everything she had in Cessation.

And yet the thought of another Finale—of being in that bloody spotlight again—set her heart pounding with distress.

A knock on the door split her thoughts like a hatchet.

“Pity?”

Any other voice, save Selene’s, she would have ignored. “Just a minute.”

She slipped on some clothes and opened the door. Max waited on the other side.

“Hey. You didn’t come to the Gallery last night.”

“No, I didn’t.” Pity moved away from the door.

Max accepted the passive invitation to enter, face taut with concern. “I wanted to come find you, but I thought you might want to be alone after…” He faltered. “And Halcyon said—”

“Halcyon was covering for me. I… I couldn’t…” She shook her head.

“Pity, what’s going on?”

“I messed up.” She crumpled onto the bed again, still gripped by the anxious fatigue of the last twelve hours. “The Finale… I messed up.”

“What? No, you didn’t. He’s dead, isn’t he? It was—”

“You don’t understand. Selene wanted me to kill him. Me. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t do it. And now she’s angry.”

Pity continued, not allowing any silence for Max to fill with questions. Bit by bit the story trickled out of her, rising to a flood by the time she arrived at Selene’s rebuke. When she was done, Max sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him as his warmth overtook her, the most comfort she had felt in days.

“I remember what you said, about the city and letting it get to me, but…” She closed her eyes. “I don’t want to leave Cessation.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Max. “Selene will cool off. This wasn’t a normal Finale. That man tried to kill her. As tough as she is, that’s not easy to shake off.” His arm tightened. “And you’re too well liked to be kicked out over one little misstep. By the time the next Finale comes around, you’ll—”

She pulled away from him. “Max, I can’t do that again. I can’t.”

“What if you have to?”

Pity stood and strode away. “Last night you told me to say no.”

“That was when I thought it was the audience choosing you, not Selene. Pity, she’ll forgive you for this, but if she wants you to perform in a Finale again, you can’t refuse.”

“Why not?” Her voice rose, beyond her control. “I do my act and everyone loves it, so why do I have to be her executioner, too?”

“Pity—”

“I know what I said about justice, and I know that man would have put a bullet through me without a second thought, but the Finales… they’re not right. They’re not. A person’s death shouldn’t be a spectacle, whether they deserve it or not.”

“Pity, please.” Max stood and reached for her. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t defy Selene again.”

She recoiled. “You know? How do you know, Max? You make costumes. You build sets.” Talons of anger pierced her throat, strangling her words even as she couldn’t stop speaking. “No one is going to ask you to paint someone to death while the audience is cheering you on! So explain to me, how exactly do you know what it’s like?”

She might have slapped him. Though he didn’t move, the whole of his bearing diminished, the emotional blow landing squarely. Silver piercings flickered weakly as he started to speak, stopped, and finally began again.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll never know what it’s like to be in the arena during a Finale. And you know I don’t entirely agree with what they are, but Selene isn’t like CONA. She’s not murdering innocents because they want the freedom to make their own choices about their lives.” He ran an anxious hand through his hair. “I don’t want good people hurt or killed. These aren’t good people, Pity. They’re the very worst parts of a city whose pieces barely fit together as it is.”

“What about Beeks? Did he really deserve to die for being a thief?”

“Beeks crossed Selene.” Max’s voice was unapologetic but saturated with concern. “Is that something you want to do, too?”

A leaden silence fell as anger seethed within Pity. She hadn’t expected sympathy from Eva or Halcyon or anyone else… but Max? She thought he would understand. Instead, he was siding with Selene. Pity longed to lash out, to find any outlet for the resentment swirling within, but before she could, there was another knock on her door.

Crossing the room in two curt strides, she yanked it open. “What?”

It was Duchess. His gaze jumped from her to Max and back.

“Come downstairs,” he said. “There’s something you should see.”

Before they reached the Gallery, the difference in the air was apparent: it hummed, hivelike, with warning. As they drew closer, what should have been a familiar brew of sounds carried an unfamiliar resonance. The halls were scented with something Pity recognized but couldn’t quite identify. When they plunged into the near frenzy of the Gallery, filled to the brim with everyone from patrons to porters, she realized what it was: bloodlust.

Cheers and jeers whizzed like bullets, aimed at a far corner of the room. Peeling away from the others, Pity climbed onto a table so she could see above the crowd. In a booth near the bar, calm as a gentle breeze—save for the shotgun across her lap—was Siena Bond. A man in chains sat beside her.

Daneko.

She jumped down and pushed through the crowd.

“Pity, wait!” Max called, but she ignored him, dread propelling her closer. A ring of Tin Men kept the crowd at a manageable distance, though they moved aside for her without question. Pity barely registered this as she stopped a few yards from the booth, her momentum arrested by Daneko’s piercing, bitter stare. Defeat clung to him like a stench. He was gagged, and a fresh, ugly bruise covered one side of his face.

“Jones,” Siena said pleasantly, as if they were old friends. “I was wondering where you were at. Join us for a drink?”

Pity ignored the bounty hunter’s peculiar familiarity. In that moment, only one thing mattered: Daneko’s capture and what that meant.

Another Finale.

The vicious celebration raged around them as Pity’s heart pounded in her ears. Last night’s Finale was suddenly a mere appetizer, a tidbit before the main course in Selene’s revenge. Soon Daneko would be in the arena, shrouded in cheers, another of Selene’s examples.

“Too bad we didn’t make it back before the holidays,” Siena drawled. “He would have made a tidy present for Selene, don’t ya think? And I hear I just missed your best performance yet.” She glanced at her prize. “See what a trouble you are? Would have been easier on all of us if Selene didn’t want you taken alive.”

“I’ll handle things from here.”

Pity turned back to see the Tin Men parting again for Santino.

Siena stood to allow access to Daneko. “So long as I’m paid, he’s all yours.”

“Take him,” Santino instructed the Tin Men. “Not to the tombs—one of the special cells. Selene doesn’t want anyone getting impatient.” His raised his voice so that it carried above the din. “You all hear that? No one is to harm a hair on his head without Selene’s say-so.”

Pity couldn’t bear to listen anymore or watch as the gang leader was dragged away. Whether he went quietly or he was frantic with fear, she didn’t want to add the dreadful image to her rapidly expanding collection. She found Duchess and Max behind her, standing at the edge of the crowd, the only ones more interested in her than Daneko. Max took a step forward, mouth opening to speak, but Duchess touched his arm to stop him.

There were a dozen things she wanted to say, a hundred screams of frustration and fear building within. But no words came; they were lost to an understanding, an inescapable realization that she saw painted on Max’s face, too.

It was no longer a matter of if Selene would ask her to perform another Finale.

It was when.