Page 158 of Envious Of Fire
“I’d be happy to see you in that cage instead of him,” hisses Kyle, still spinning around, unfamiliar faces in every direction, “you and Markadian both for all I care, all of you, just fucking breathe your last, just die.”
And I’m afraid things are about to become much worse…
Kyle ignores Tristan, turns back to the cage, shouts: “Hold on, Kaleb! Just for a little—” His voice cracks. His teeth clatter. He fights back sobs. How is he possibly going to get him out? “Just a little while longer, bro!”
Stay strong…
“I’m gonna get you out of there!”
And have faith in me one last time, my love.
The next instant, all sound drains from the banquet hall as every mouth closes in unison.
Including Kyle’s.
Then everyone drops into a nearby chair.
Including Kyle.
He can’t explain what comes over him. His arms are not his own. Neither are his legs. The abrupt stillness combined with his racing heart creates an unsettling landscape within his body, skin itching with anxiety he cannot soothe, tears that now sit in his eyes, unable to fall. The only noise is the lion’s snarling and heavy footsteps thumping across the stage as he circles beneath Kaleb—and the sound of Kaleb’s labored, panicked breaths as he continues to cling to the bars, the two of them, human and lion, apparently the only ones in the room who seem capable of movement or sound anymore.
Kyle can’t even lift a finger. Can’t turn his head. Not even his eyes. Rendered completely motionless and numb.
What in the hell is happening?
Across the room, a single golf clap echoes, slow and steady, drawing closer. From the dark edges of the banquet hall, a lone figure saunters lazily into view. Trench coat. Cowboy hat.
Mance.
“Well, well, well, ain’t this a fancy fuckin’ party?” he states over his slow clapping—then stops. “What? Why ain’t anyone talkin’? Cat got your tongues? Heh, see what I did there? Cat? Big-ass lion on the stage? Shit, should’ve been a comedian.”
No one moves. The once-lively banquet has become as still as a morgue, stationary bodies seated perfectly upright in chairs across the room, the silence pierced only by the occasional restlessness of the lion, the slippery noises of Kaleb hugging the roof of the cage, his jagged breaths.
Mance shrugs off his trench coat, revealing himself in a three-piece suit and tie. “Can someone direct me to the coat check? No? You’ll do,” he decides, flinging his trench coat over a random guest’s head, turning them into his coatrack. “Sorry if it’s a bit rank. That’s my lucky jacket you’ve got on your face, haven’t washed it since 1999.” He saunters onward through the tables. “By the way …” He stops and casts his eyes to the stage. “Can anyone tell me what in the actual fuck kind of show I just walked in on? Are you assholes so lazy, you hired a goddamned lion to kill your victim for you?”
It’s then that the scrambling of feet is heard, like a spooked deer taking flight, hooves scraping over a floor.
“Oh, did I miss one?” ponders Mance out loud.
The feet come to an abrupt stop—someone on the edge of Kyle’s line of sight. The power locking their bodies into place is so strong, he can’t even turn his eyes in the slightest.
The person who tried to escape suddenly begins to move toward Mance, but not by any normal means. It’s someone who appears to be a young teenager, short, thin, a boyish and defiant face, and it’s clear that by the same power that holds everyone prisoner to their chairs, this boy is made to walk stiffly through the room, then stands in place in front of Mance, feet planted apart, arms at his side.
Kyle is surprised to recognize him from the trial, a director of one of the domains, though a name escapes him, only that he was coldhearted for someone who looks prepubescent, and he seemed to be in a constant tiff with Tsuki, another director of a nearby domain, trading threats with her even during the trial.Not to mention he was particularly itching to have Kyle dealt with swiftly—and not mercifully. Even in this moment, the boy, who has likely been a boy for a very long time, reflects nothing but indignation toward Mance.
“Fuck me, you guys sure make ‘em young.” Mance glances around him. “Seriously? How old is this twat? Twelve? Y’all are a bunch of sicker sons a’ bitches than I thought. Hey, why were you runnin’ off just now?” he asks the boy, turning back to him. “Were you scared of the big bad wolf? Here, I’ll let go of your mouth so you can talk.”
The second the boy’s mouth is freed, he spits at Mance’s face, then starts to say: “Fool, I am Director Peter, and I am old enough to be your great grandfather, you arrogant piece of—”
At once the boy’s mouth shuts again, silenced. “Alright, got the gist,” decides Mance, nonchalantly wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re throwing a toddler tantrum because you don’t wanna be at this lame-o party. Mommy and Daddy dragged you here because they wanted lobster bisque and wine, and all you wanna do is go home and play with your Star Wars Legos, huh?” Mance turns, eyes the others near him. “Anyone else I missed? Don’t I got hold of all of you fuckers?”
Kyle’s body can’t budge, but his Reach needs no movement to operate, as it picks up fear and confusion from everyone around him. But there is one person within his view whose emotion is sharper and more defined than the others—a person stricken with dread, recognition, and deeply-buried remorse.
It isn’t so much the emotion itself that surprises Kyle, but rather who it comes from.
Markadian.
And it’s then that Mance finally appears to discover him. A mischievous grin spreads his face apart. “Ah, the head of the snake, poppin’ up right on cue.” Still several tables away, he continues grinning like a cat over the eerie sight of the silent,motionless heads. “Hello there, fuck face. Miss me? Hey, it’s rude to stay seated when a grown-up’s talkin’ to you.”
