Page 61 of A Dance Macabre

However, I hide my surprise when Wolfgang pulls a chair out for me, and I wordlessly sit as I give him a small nod as a thank you. I wait for him to settle next to me before speaking.

“Who would evendareto do this?” I ask no one in particular.

“It must have something to do with those pamphlets,” Wolfgang answers, seemingly lost in thought.

“What pamphlets?” Belladonna and Aleksandr ask at the same time.

I press two fingers to my temple, before waving my hand dismissively. “A few weeks ago, we were informed of pamphlets circulating—” I pause, quickly glancing over to Wolfgang before continuing, “Calling for an uprising.”

“Againstus?” Constantine chirps, her bewildered look telling me she might very well believe that we’ve done nothing to merit this kind of hostility.

Belladonna’s green eyes narrow. “And you didn’t think to warn us?” she asks, her tone harder than I’m usually accustomed to hearing from her.

“We didn’t think …” Wolfgang trails off, his gaze landing on Aleksandr, whose eyes flash with quiet grief. His voice is softer when he finishes his sentence. “That anything would come of it.”

“Well,” Aleksandr mutters softly, looking away. “It certainly has.”

Offering my condolences is at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to find the words. I’ve never been the one to care about someone's feelings toward the death of a loved one.

Clasping my hands on the quartz table in front of me, I sweep my gaze to the four sets of eyes staring back at me.

“The executions,” I say with less authority than I expected. I clear my throat and start over. “The real reason for them was because of a play, Wolfgang and I stumbled across it by chance. It was a reenactment of this year’s Lottery?—”

Wolfgang cuts me off. “I’m afraid, there’s a rat in our midst,” he says with a prim jut of his chin. I discern by his haughty air that he wishes not to linger on the details of the Lottery, and I concede with zero resistance. “I’ve had Dizzy and my people look into it but they’ve found nothing yet.”

“Who says it’s notDitzyherself,” Gemini drawls, his eyes glossed with suspicion.

Wolfgang’s lip twitches, his fist slamming on the table. “Who says it’s not the two-faced trickster sitting in front of me?” he volleys back, his disdain for my friend fueling his defensive words.

“Me?” Gemini says, elongating the word in mock outrage. He laughs, holding out his hand in front of him as if admiring his black-painted nails. “Don’t flatter me, Wolfie.”

Knowing this will only end with Wolfgang launching himself across the table to tackle Gemini to the floor, my hand lands on his thigh. The effect of my touch is instantaneous, his body visibly relaxes. I almost recoil from the weight of my influence on him.

“We need everyone’s people looking into this. The sooner we find who’s behind this, the sooner we can eliminate the threat,” I say.

Heads nod in agreement but Aleksandr interjects, “What about Tithe Season?”

“That’s not for another—” I begin to answer.

“It’s next week.”

I fall silent, embarrassment washing over me. As the ruler of Pravitia, I should be on top of these things—notAleksandr. Time is slipping through my fingers like blood from a fresh wound.

So many moving pieces; so many things to think about … I suddenly need some time alone with my thoughts before I do anything rash like needing someone to talk to.

“Tithe Season is a sacred part of Pravitia’s history,” Wolfgang declares. “We can’t show weakness — especially now. It will go on as planned. The bombing was clearly an attempt to hit us all at once. As long as we stay in our respective neighborhoods during it and reinforce security, I believe we’ll be safe.”

“Gods be willing,” Belladonna mutters, avoiding our gazes.

There’s a small beat of silence before Constantine speaks.

“I need your blood,” she says, seemingly out of the blue.

“What?” I ask, my eyebrows dipping in confusion.

She sighs as if I’m being deliberately dense. “The ritual?” she presses. “The vials were broken in the bombing. I need to collect again.”

“But what about the eclipse?” Wolfgang asks, shifting in his seat. “The ritual demands it.”

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