Page 98 of Summoned
“If you really want to know…” I lean back and press my fingertips together in front of my chest. “Before I became the Black Joker, I was born a witcher—a human capable of wielding magic. And magic, like money in your world, is power. The kind that’s never enough. To rise to greatness, a witcher needs more than raw talent. He needs enough arrogance to bargain with darkness, and a mentor ruthless enough to shape him. Madeline was mine. The most powerful witch of our time. She ruled our coven. Imagine a queen presiding over a castle of witches and witchers. And I quickly became her most loyal weapon. My talent for illusions didn’t just serve for entertainment. It was used for manipulation, control, and seduction. Especially for minds she couldn’t dominate otherwise.”
My voice remains calm, but inside, the memories claw at me, stirring anger, shame, and grief that never fully faded. “The truth is, she controlled me, too, by making me feel I was never enough. Never strong enough, or gifted enough…”
Nicole’s lips part, her eyes softening. She understands now. We’re much more alike than she ever imagined.
“Yes, my Little Baroness. I, too, was forced to outdo myself constantly. To prove my worth. To earn a place in someone else’s world.”
“How did you know… when it was time to stop?” she asks.
“When the woman I was doing it for cursed me into this prison,” I say. “That was when I realized that for years, I’d fought for the approval of someone who, in a heartbeat, chose to destroy me. Without giving it a second thought.”
The lie claws at me. The truth is, I’d sensed Madeline’s manipulations long before that, but I was too afraid to stand up to her.
Nicole bites her lower lip. “Did you love her?”
“I loved her magic. As I told you, in our world, magic is the equivalent of money in yours. People will sell their hearts for more. Then something happens, and it shows you, none of it matters if you don’t have freedom.”
She grows silent, her gaze fixed on her full plate.
I don’t want to think of Madeline in Nicole’s presence. It would tarnish her purity if I let the ghost of that witch slip between us, whether through memory or otherwise. Nicole deserves more than my shadows.
I push back my chair and walk around the table, offering my hand. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”
The invisible orchestra swells. Its melody is dark andhaunting, yet beautiful. It flows through the air, beckoning us to get lost in its rhythm. Nicole’s fingers tighten in her lap, then loosen. Time seems to stretch between us until her palm lands on mine, sending a jolt through me.
I lead her toward the open space between the table and the window, where the illusion of the Persian garden glimmers in the silver light, and begin to move us to the beat of the music. Smooth, controlled. The first steps are cautious. As my hand glides along the curve of her waist and I feel her body beneath my touch, my blood pulses faster.
I draw her closer, inch by inch, until our bodies meet. Breathing her in, I step forward and turn her, running my fingers down her spine. She tenses, and I wonder whether it’s resistance or desire. I shift her again, letting the motion hide the hunger rising in me.
When the last note fades, my hands stay at her sides.
She steps back just enough to meet my gaze. “I want to see the real you. Without the illusions.”
My hands pause. I’m not ready for this. “Nicole…”
She gestures with her hand toward the space around us. “All of this is beautiful, but I know it isn’t real. This is the Black Joker. I want to see you, Gaetano, as you are beneath all of this. Andwithoutit.”
Her words inflict a deeper pain than any enchantment. She seeks a truth I’m unsure I can reveal. I let go of her waist as if her touch burned me, stepping back to breathe. Dark emotion swells in my chest. Fear that if I strip it all away, there will be nothing left worth seeing.
That she’ll leave.
“Please…” she whispers, waiting.
My hands curl into fists, so tight it hurts. I try to hold the façade together, about to tell her the illusionisme. It’s whatI am. Without it, I have nothing to offer.
But I don’t. Because I can’t say no to her.
I inhale sharply. Magic trembles inside me, then begins to unravel, thread by thread. Around us, the illusions falter. Color drains from the walls. The polished surface of the table cracks into rough, worn wood. Music cuts off mid-note. Bare walls appear, lit only by a few flickering, weary candles. The window to the Persian garden disappears into black, and the shadow of the dead world I live in creeps in through it. I pray she won’t look outside—to the real horror.
She doesn’t. Her attention is drawn to the opposite wall, where the illusion collapsed, exposing the slashedharvests. Deep, jagged lines are carved into the gray stone. The silence thickens as her eyes slowly trace the numbers.
And then, I tear away the final layer of my magic. For the first time in centuries, not a single illusion shields me. Nothing stands between me and the shadows. The moment the last veil falls, they begin to stir, drawn to me.
Nicole remains focused on the list, unaware of the figures converging behind me. They see all of me now. Every wound exposed, every fracture in my soul gaping open. They smell it. The fear I’ve hidden for centuries. The vulnerability I’ve buried under layers of power and deception.
I stand in the center of the room, just as Madeline left me—naked, except for the black runes inked all over my body. Marks of the spells we once cast together. Permanent reminders of the nights I spent with her.
This is me. And there’s nothing beautiful about the real me.
