Page 17 of The Monster You Made
“Good,” I say flatly. “That’s the point.”
He shifts uneasily. “And if someone remembers your face?”
I adjust the cap, shadowing my eyes. “Then I kill them before they can speak.”
We take only what we can carry: uniforms, forged passes, small arms tucked into false-bottomed crates. The rest we hide, covering the cache with tarps and dust. This city devours secrets, but some are worth keeping hidden for later.
Back in the streets, the crowds swell. Brass bands blare patriotic hymns, children wave flags stitched with crowns, women toss flowers before the vehicles of arriving dignitaries. It’s theater, carefully orchestrated. Every smile is painted, every cheer rehearsed. The whole city is an audience to its own deception.
I spot Declan’s men slipping through the crowd, sharp suits, sharper eyes, moving in pairs. They don’t wear uniforms; they don’t need them. Their arrogance is uniform enough. One brushes past me, and for a second, I feel his gaze linger, too calculating. I keep my stride even, my cap low, my forged pass heavy in my pocket like a talisman.
We duck into a tavern on a side street. Rourke orders a beer he doesn’t touch. I keep my back to the wall, watching the door. Conversations flow around us, snatches of gossip about the summit, rumors of trade deals, whispers of men vanishing near the docks. Every voice adds to the picture: Old Vienna is a city under siege, but the chains are made of velvet.
Rourke breaks the silence between us. “If Vera really is here, she’s walking the same streets. You’ve thought about what happens when you find her?”
I don’t answer immediately. I picture her face, the defiance in her eyes, the way she clutches that satchel like it’s her lifeline. My chest tightens. “She has what we need. What I need. When I find her, we end this together, or we don’t end it at all.”
Rourke studies me, wary. “And if she doesn’t want to stand with you?”
My jaw tightens. “Then she’ll have to decide if she wants to stand at all.”
Evening settles, and with it, the first gala of the summit. Carriages line the opera square, their lanterns glowing, their horses tossing manes of silver under lamplight. Inside those marble walls, men toast to futures built on bones. I feel the pull of it, the gravity of tomorrow pressing close.
On the rooftop of a nearby brewery, I set the rifle across my knees. Through the scope, I watch the opera house doors. Dignitaries sweep in, jewels glittering, silk rustling. I mark them, each face, each stride. And then I see him: Declan, descending from his vehicle as though descending from heaven itself. His smile is liquid charm, his wave effortless. The crowd drinks him in, intoxicated.
Rourke mutters behind me, “You’re shaking.”
I steady my hands, but he’s right. Not from fear. From rage. Declan shines under those lights, but all I see is the architect of graves.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper, the word like iron in my mouth. “Tomorrow, I carve through his mask.”
The gala stretches into the night. Music swells from the opera house, violins and cellos weaving through the city streets like threads of silk. I watch from the rooftop, my rifle balanced across my knees, every sense sharpened. Each vehicle that arrives is another pawn in Declan’s game. Each laugh, each toast inside those marble walls is another stone on the pyre.
Rourke shifts restlessly behind me. “You can’t sit like this forever. Eyes on the glass, finger on the trigger. You’ll drive yourself mad.”
“I’ve lived mad,” I murmur. “It’s not so different from living sane. Just louder.”
He doesn’t answer, but I hear the scrape of his boots against the roof tiles as he paces. He’s not built for waiting. Neither am I, but patience is a weapon, and tonight I sharpen it.
Below, the square hums with energy. Patrols crisscross, their rifles gleaming in the lamplight. Vendors still hawk roasted chestnuts to the crowd lingering outside, gossip flowing faster than wine. Somewhere in that mass of faces, I wonder if Vera watches too. The thought gnaws at me. If she’s here, she’s already in the snare. And if Declan knows it, then the jaws are closing faster than I can pry them open.
Near midnight, a vehicle different from the others arrives. No banners, no heralds, just a black lacquered shell drawn by gray horses. It stops at the side entrance. From it emerges a man I don’t recognize, broad-shouldered, pale, his coat collar pulled high. But his posture is wrong for a delegate. Too stiff, too predatory.
Cadmus. I know the scent of them, even from a distance. He vanishes into the opera house with no fanfare, yet the guards stiffen subtly, as though the air itself grew colder. My teeth grind. Declan is stitching Crown and Cadmus together in plain sight, and no one blinks.
I lower the scope, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Rourke crouches beside me. “You’re thinking about storming in.”
“I’m thinking about how easy it would be to take him now. One shot, two hundred meters. End it before it begins.”
“And then what?” Rourke’s voice is sharp. “You think Cadmus doesn’t have a second mask waiting? You kill Declan here and now, they’ll call him martyr, saint, visionary struck down by extremists. You’ll feed their story.”
I hate that he’s right. Rage is simple; strategy is harder. I sling the rifle back across my shoulder. “Then we bleed him slowly. Cut him where no one sees, until the mask cracks.”
We leave the rooftop before dawn, moving through alleys where drunkards stagger and cats fight in the gutters. Back at the safe house, I strip off the Crown uniform, folding it carefully and setting it aside. It feels like shedding a skin I never asked to wear again.
Sleep comes fitfully. Dreams of fire and collapsing walls, of Marta’s last scream echoing down stone corridors. I wake with sweat slicking my chest, the city bells tolling in the morning. Today is the summit proper, the day when words are sharpened into weapons, when signatures become chains.
We eat quickly and return to the warehouse. I open another crate, pulling free maps marked with red ink. Marta’s hand again, routes through Old Vienna, safe passages, warning signs of Crown surveillance. Each mark is a lifeline, even now. I trace a path leading beneath the opera house, through old service tunnels long abandoned. Dust chokes them, but they exist. And they may yet be our way inside.
