Page 10 of The Monster You Made
At the border stop, uniformed officers climb aboard. Their boots ring against the metal floor. Passengers stiffen. I keep my gaze on the window, body slouched, the picture of disinterest. They move row by row, eyes sharp, hands resting on their weapons. When one pauses near me, my throat closes. He studies my face, then glances at the satchel. My fingers twitch, ready.
Another officer calls to him from down the vehicle, holding up a passport that doesn’t match its bearer. He moves away. I don’t move. Not even to breathe. Only when the train jerks forward again and the officers disembark do I let my lungs work.
I close my eyes, but behind them, I see Declan St. Croix. His name whispers through the ledgers, through Rourke’s betrayal, through every thread of this war. I never met him, but I know the type, men who wear power like perfume, who think the world is theirs to carve. If he’s in Old Vienna, then the noose is tightening. The satchel isn’t just evidence anymore. It’s bait. And I am the hand that carries it.
When the train screeches into the next city, I step onto the platform. The air bites cold, laced with coal smoke and damp stone. People surge past me, dragging bags, clutching children, hurrying toward destinations that matter only to them. I let the crowd swallow me, my hood up, my stride unremarkable.
But even as I move with them, I feel it: eyes. Somewhere beyond the press of bodies, someone is watching. The hunted know the weight of a gaze the way sailors know the sea. I tighten my grip on the satchel and quicken my pace. If Old Vienna is where this ends, then I need to get there before they close the net.
I move with the crowd until it thins beyond the station gates, the press of bodies dissolving into a tangle of streets. The city smells of coal and damp plaster, its buildings tall and gray, their windows staring down like rows of judges. I keep my hood low and my stride steady. Running draws attention. Looking lost draws more. Invisible, that’s the art.
I find a café near the square, small enough to vanish in but busy enough to mask me. Inside, the air is thick with roasted beans and cigarette smoke. Students argue over philosophy at one table, a pair of laborers eat bread with sausage at another. I take a corner seat, back to the wall, sightlines clear. The satchel rests against my foot, the strap still looped around my ankle.
I order coffee I don’t want, pay with cash that leaves me nearly broke, and spread a newspaper in front of me. The words blur, I’m not reading. I’m watching the door, the windows, the way reflections shift in the glass when people walk by. Vigilance isn’t paranoia when they really are hunting you.
The bell above the café door jingles. A man enters, too polished for this neighborhood. His coat is expensive, and his shoes gleam despite the mud outside. He scans the room quickly, his gaze sharp. My pulse spikes, but I keep my eyes on the paper, flipping a page as though bored. He orders nothing, just lingers near the counter, surveying.
I sip my coffee. Bitter. Thin. My throat tightens around it. The man’s gaze drifts, catches on me for a second too long. Not curiosity, recognition. I push my chair back slowly, as though stretching cramped legs, my hand sliding toward the satchel.
Then a child runs in, laughing, chasing after a stray ball. The polished man’s eyes follow the commotion. I slip out the side door into an alley that reeks of smoke and damp stone. My heart hammers so hard I feel it in my teeth. They’re closer than I thought.
I walk quickly, turning corners at random, never running, never doubling back. At a market street, I pause long enough to buy a scarf from a vendor’s stall, wrapping it tight around my hair and lower face. The woman selling it doesn’t ask questions. Her eyes tell me she’s seen fugitives before.
By dusk, the station clock tolls six. I board another train, this one bound east. Each vehicle is louder, more crowded than the last: merchants with baskets, soldiers on leave, children clambering over seats. I wedge myself into a corner and pretend to sleep. The satchel is heavy against my shin, heavier still with the memory of what it carries. Numbers, initials, proof that the Crown and Cadmus are not enemies but partners in a game that bleeds nations dry.
As the train rattles on, exhaustion drags me into shallow dreams. Courtrooms again. I stand in tailored suits, my voice crisp, my arguments clean. I remember the way men shifted uncomfortably when I spoke truth wrapped in law. Once, that felt like power. Now, power is only the distance between me and the next checkpoint.
A jolt wakes me. The train has stopped in the darkness. Outside, floodlights sweep across the vehicles. Voices shout. My stomach knots, another inspection. Doors clang open, boots strike metal. Soldiers move down the aisles, checking papers, dragging people into the night. The air tastes of panic. I clutch the satchel and wait.
When the soldier reaches me, his eyes linger on the scarf, the shadows under my eyes. He asks for papers. My fingers tremble as I hand over the forged documents. He scans them, unreadable. Then his gaze drops to the satchel.
“What’s inside?” he asks.
My breath stutters. Before I can answer, another soldier calls to him from down the vehicle. A commotion, someone resisting. He tosses my papers back and moves on. Relief floods me so sharply it almost hurts. I whisper a silent thank-you to the stranger being dragged into the night, though I know mercy doesn’t exist in their fate.
When the train lurches forward again, my body feels hollow. I grip the satchel tighter. Every mile brings me closer to Old Vienna. Closer to Declan. Closer to Lucian, if he’s still alive. The thought of him sparks a strange ache in my chest, half fear, half hope. If he’s hunting the same truth, our paths will cross again. If not, then I carry this alone.
The train clatters into the dark, carrying me toward a city where power wears a mask and every ballroom hides a blade.
***
The train runs through the night, its rhythm steady but my pulse uneven. Sleep comes in shards, minutes stolen, thentorn away by the creak of doors, the cough of strangers, the sudden whistle of brakes.
Every noise feels like a hand reaching for me. I hold the satchel against my knees, chin resting on the leather, breathing in its faint scent of dust and ink. It is both anchor and weight, the reason I keep moving and the reason I will never stop running.
At dawn, the train empties into another city. This one is larger, wealthier. The station gleams with polished brass and marble floors, its ceiling painted with murals of angels scattering flowers. The irony nearly makes me laugh. Outside these walls, men are dragged into vans and vanish. Inside, they paint ceilings as if beauty is proof of civility.
I disembark with the crowd, scarf pulled high, eyes lowered. Vendors call out, hawking bread rolls and papers. I buy one of each, not because I’m hungry but because routine makes me harder to notice.
The paper’s headline screams of an economic summit in Old Vienna, delegates, financiers, and the Crown’s representatives. A photograph shows chandeliers and tuxedos, the promise of wealth disguised as diplomacy. Declan will be there. I feel it in my bones.
The bread is stale, the crust tearing at my teeth. I chew slowly, forcing myself to look ordinary. Ordinary is survival. I drift through the square, scanning faces in shop windows rather than turning my head. Twice, I catch sight of the same man: tall, coat too heavy for spring, gaze that never settles on the goods in front of him. He isn’t here to buy. He’s here to follow.
I duck into a church. Its doors groan open, spilling me into silence scented with wax and stone. Candles flicker before a row of saints. A priest kneels at the altar, unmoving, lips whispering words I can’t hear. My steps echo as I move to a pew halfway down. I bow my head, hands folded, satchel pressed to my side. A disguise within a disguise.
The man in the heavy coat doesn’t enter. Through the crack of the door, I see him linger, uncertain, waiting. Fear lances through me. He knows. He’s patient. The kind of hunter who waits for you to step back into the light.
I sit for nearly an hour, unmoving, until my legs ache. When I finally rise, the priest looks up, eyes kind but searching. He doesn’t speak. I nod, a silent prayer of thanks for his silence, and slip through a side door that leads into the cloisters. Narrow passages, cold air, shadows thick as smoke. I vanish through them, leaving the hunter behind.
