Page 14 of The Monster You Made
Rourke shifts uneasily beside me. “You can’t take him here. Not in daylight, not in front of them all.”
“I won’t.” My voice is steady. “But I’ll mark him. Today, he learns he isn’t untouchable.”
We track Declan inside. The opera house swallows him with its marble jaws, chandeliers blazing, guards sealing the doors. I etch the details into memory, the time he arrives, the path he walks, the men who orbit him like moons. Every detail is a weapon waiting to be sharpened.
As dusk falls, Old Vienna hums with excess. Galas spill into the night, music tumbling from open windows, laughter echoing off stone. Rourke wants to return to the boarding house, but I lead him toward the river instead. “We need another vantage. Somewhere no one thinks to look.”
We climb an abandoned warehouse overlooking the docks. From its roof, the city stretches wide, a tapestry of light and shadow. The opera house glows at its center, a jewel in a crown of smoke. I crouch at the edge, rifle across my knees, watching.
Hours pass. Guards rotate, vehicles come and go. Then, a flicker of movement below. A hooded figure slipping throughthe crowd, clutching something close. My chest tightens. Even at this distance, even in shadow, I know the shape of that grip, the fierce way the body shields what it carries. Vera. Alive. In Old Vienna.
Rourke sees it too. “It can’t be. ”
“It is.”
I keep my scope trained, my breath shallow. She moves quickly, weaving through alleys, vanishing into the labyrinth of the city. Relief hits me like a blow, followed by something sharper. If she’s here, she’s bait in a snare already tightening. And Declan knows how to bait traps.
I lower the rifle, jaw clenched. “Tomorrow,” I murmur. “The board shifts tomorrow.”
Rourke gives me a wary look. “And tonight?”
I sling the rifle over my shoulder, eyes fixed on the glowing heart of the city. “Tonight, we prepare to burn their theater down.”
The bells toll midnight. Old Vienna shimmers under lamplight, beautiful and poisonous. Somewhere, Vera moves through its veins, hunted. Somewhere, Declan sharpens his smile for the stage. And I—I ready the blade that will cut through them both.
Chapter 6 - Vera
The boarding house smells of wax and old paper, the kind of place where footsteps echo too loudly, where secrets live pressed between the walls. I keep the curtains drawn, the satchel pressed against me as though it were an organ I couldn’t live without. Outside, Old Vienna wakes to a day dressed in banners and brass. Vehicles rattle down the street, hooves striking sparks from stone, and every sound makes me flinch.
I dreamt of fire last night. Not the soft kind in hearths, but fire that eats the sky, that paints everything red. When I woke, I was clutching the satchel so tight the straps left welts in my palms. I’ve carried it across borders, rivers, and back alleys. Its weight hasn’t lessened; if anything, it grows heavier, as though the ledgers inside know the lives they could end.
By midmorning, I force myself out. The boarding house matron eyes me curiously but says nothing. My disguise is simple: hair tucked beneath a scarf, plain coat, boots worn enough to pass for a laborer’s. Even so, I feel exposed. The city feels like a stage, and I’ve walked into the spotlight.
The streets are dressed for spectacle. Flags of every nation hang from balconies, merchants hawk ribbons in Crown colors, and street urchins weave through the crowd, chanting about prosperity. It’s a lie sung in unison, and it makes my stomach twist. Somewhere beneath this noise, the Crown and Cadmus move their pieces.
At the market square, I pause. My eyes trace every shadow, every pair of boots that lingers too long. I’ve learned to read danger in posture, the slight tilt of a head, the suddensilence when someone recognizes a face. Two men by the fountain have that look. They pretend to admire the pigeons, but their eyes keep skimming the crowd. Looking for someone. For me?
I shift course, weaving through stalls heavy with fruit and bread. A vendor presses an apple into my hand with a smile, but his gaze darts nervously past my shoulder. That’s when I know: I’m marked. The satchel seems to grow heavier. My heartbeat pounds against it.
I slip into an alley, footsteps echoing behind. Quick, careful, too careful. Cadmus men, maybe. Or worse, Crown. The alley narrows, twists. I reach for the knife at my hip, thumb brushing the worn leather of its sheath. My father’s voice whispers through memory: Never run unless you know where you’ll land.
At the alley’s end, I burst into a courtyard. Laundry flaps overhead, and children scatter at the sight of me. The footsteps behind quicken. I pivot, pressing my back to a wall, blade ready. When the first man rounds the corner, his coat dark, hat low, eyes cold, I strike. The blade bites his sleeve, shallow but enough to stagger him. He curses in a language I don’t recognize.
The second man lunges, but the courtyard erupts with voices, neighbors leaning out of windows, shouting, brandishing brooms. Old Vienna isn’t theirs, not really. The men retreat with snarls, vanishing into the alleys like smoke. I sheathe the knife, hands trembling, heart racing. The neighbors stare but don’t approach. In this city, everyone knows silence is safer.
I press on. The satchel digs into my shoulder as I head toward the river. The opera house looms ahead, marble glowingpale in the afternoon light. Guards stand at its gates, uniforms pressed, rifles gleaming. The sight chills me. Somewhere inside, Declan spins his web, and somewhere near, Lucian prowls the city like a ghost. I don’t need to see him to feel it. Our paths are converging. The thought steadies me and terrifies me all at once.
I retreat to a quieter district, ducking into a church where candles flicker against cold stone. I sink into a pew, the satchel in my lap, and close my eyes. My whispered prayer isn’t for salvation; it’s for endurance. For the strength to keep moving, even when the city itself seems to rise against me.
When I leave, the bells are tolling six. Dusk spreads violet across the sky. I keep to the narrow streets, eyes sharp, senses taut. Tonight, Old Vienna is a theater of masks, and I am one of the players whether I wish it or not.
The satchel never leaves my grasp. I hold it tight against my ribs as I step back into the darkening streets, the church bells echoing in my ears. Every clang feels like a countdown, every shadow lengthens like an omen. Old Vienna hums with the noise of evening, the rattle of vehicle wheels, the laughter spilling from cafés, the clink of glasses raised in premature celebration of tomorrow’s summit. They toast to prosperity. I walk with proof of rot pressed against my chest.
I move cautiously, taking unfamiliar routes. The city is a maze of narrow alleys and open boulevards, each one a test. My eyes dart to every reflection in shop windows, every man whose stride lingers too long behind mine. I’ve learned that survival isn’t just running, it’s listening, watching, and predicting. And Old Vienna has a rhythm, if you listen closely. The guards march to one beat, the revelers to another. The hunters, though, their steps fall just out of time. That’s how you hear them.
At the Karlsplatz, music drifts from the grand concert hall. I pause at the edge of the crowd gathered outside. Couples stroll in gowns and suits, masks in hand for the evening’s masquerades. I could almost disappear among them, but the satchel ruins the illusion. It marks me as different, as dangerous. I pull my scarf tighter, turning away.
By the river, fog coils off the water, swallowing lamplight in pale haze. I lean against the stone balustrade, forcing myself to breathe evenly. My reflection wavers on the surface, pale and distorted. Behind me, footsteps scrape. Too close. Too deliberate. I don’t turn immediately. Instead, I shift, catching the glint of movement in the window of a riverside inn. A man stands at the corner, feigning interest in a newspaper. His hat dips low, but his attention is fixed on me.
