Page 40 of A Dance Macabre

She stares back, her expression just as serious as mine as her face falls in and out of shadows whenever we pass a city light outside.

“Jeremial,” Mercy says, cutting through the silence, her gaze still fixed on mine. “Stop the car. We can walk from here.”

Breaking eye contact, I look out the window. We’re just a few blocks from the harbor. I’m unsure why she’s having him stop here, but I don’t protest, needing the fresh air of the cold Pravitia night.

Burnt almonds and cherries.

Jeremial quickly parks and steps out to open the door. Being closest to the sidewalk, I exit the town car first, smoothing mypalms over my suit jacket before holding out my hand for Mercy to take.

After sliding to my side, she pauses, one leg halfway out of the car, before reluctantly putting her hand in mine. The weight of her palm sends a shiver up my neck, tingling up to the crown of my head, and I drop her hand as soon as she’s successfully out of the car and onto the inner side of the sidewalk.

This is ridiculous. I need to get a grip on these runaway reactions I keep having. Clearing my throat, I rub a hand over my beard and avoid eye contact.

I should be feeling nothing but the white-hot heat of Mercy’s treachery.

Not whatever nonsensical attraction this is.

I stuff my hands into my trenchcoat and follow Mercy down the street, noticing her body language slowly change into something a lot more stiff now that we’re away from her home and back in the heart of the city. Like watching her step into a dress made of invisible chainmail, she shields herself, the calm presence I saw her embody at the Grounds completely erased away.

It reminds me of my own mask. Or theactas Mercy puts it.

Maybe we’re not as different as I initially thought after all …

I listen to the click of her heels on cobblestones as we turn a corner when something drags my attention away from Mercy. My hand snaps out to grab her wrist, making her stop in her tracks.

Her head turns to the side, and she glances down to where I’m touching her, her icy glare skating up to mine. “What?” she grits, forcibly removing her arm from my grasp.

I cock my head, trying to find the errant noise again. “I thought I heard my name.”

Muffled laughter spills into the alleyway just a few steps from us, and I perk up, irrevocably pulled to follow the sound. I putmy finger up to my lips signaling her to stay quiet and indicate for Mercy to follow me with a wave of my hand. She mumbles a few words under her breath but doesn’t balk.

At the far end, there’s a backdoor cracked open. The laughter intensifies, cheers and yelps intermingling together. It sounds like a small crowd has gathered inside. From my vantage point, it appears to be the back room of some inconsequential business, but there’s a small stage in the corner, big enough to fit half a dozen people.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that it’s a play of some kind. And a few more seconds for the embarrassment to entrap me like quicksand made entirely out of shame. I gape in horror while one of the actors, dressed up in a vain and pitiful attempt to look like me, approaches a crass version of Mercy.

I chew on the inside of my cheek, my jaw clenched so hard that pain shoots up my temple.

“Youbitch!” Wolfgang shrieks on stage, pulling Mercy’s hair as they tumble to the floor.

A chill traverses down my spine. It’s a crude reenactment of the Lottery. I watch in rapt mortification, forced to relive how Mercy usurped my gods-given right to rule alone.

They wrestle onstage and the crowd laughs, entertained by my biggest failure.

The murderous rage exploding inside of me nearly topples me over.

I need to raze this abomination to the ground, need to kill every single person in this room. I take a large step inside but I’m immediately stopped by a hand on my shoulder. Hissing like a snake, I turn around to shove Mercy off me, but she manages to have both her hands land on my collar, pulling me back from the threshold and pushing me into the brick wall of the building.

She surprised me but I quickly regain control, swiveling us around, her fur coat fisted into one of my palms as I slam her into the wall, her hands flying off my trench coat.

“Another one of your sick little jokes, Crèvecoeur?” I growl through clenched teeth.

Mercy’s mask is uncracked, her expression as smooth as a statue’s. “Don’t be dense,” she says with irritation. “You’re the one who walked into this alley. Not me.”

I slam her into the bricks again. “First the pamphlets, now this? How onearthwould a troupe of classless thespians know what happened at the Lottery? How could they possibly know?”

Her eyes narrow, lips pressing into a hard line. “I wasn’t the only one there that day. Why would I leak this kind of information?”

I bare my teeth, my face mere inches from hers. “Why?” I say incredulously. “Nothing is sacred to you but your private rituals and miserable little death-dolls.” My chest pushes against her breasts as her scent wraps itself around my throat. “And because sullying my image would work wonders for your own, wouldn’t it Crèvecoeur?”

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