Page 11 of The Monster You Made
By afternoon, I find myself in a crowded boarding house near the edge of the city. The walls are thin, the rooms barely wide enough for a bed and a basin. But it’s cheap, and cheap is anonymous. I lie on the mattress, staring at the ceiling stained with damp. My mind drifts to Lucian.
I don’t know if he’s alive. Rumors of purges, whispers of executions, cities burning. And yet, sometimes, when the night is quietest, I feel him. As if the thread between us hasn’t snapped, only stretched. He was always the storm to my reason, fire to my stone. If he’s moving toward Old Vienna too, then the city will not contain us both quietly.
Sleep finds me at last, heavy and dreamless. When I wake, the satchel is still against my side, my arm looped through its strap. Relief is a bitter thing. I wash my face in cold water, braidmy hair, and prepare to move again. Old Vienna draws closer with every mile, and the eyes on my back grow heavier. The hunter will not give up. Neither will I.
I leave before dawn, blending into the tide of workers heading for trains and trams. The city smells of bread ovens and coal smoke, of horses and damp iron. I board another eastbound train, smaller this time, with wooden benches and rattling windows. It feels less official, less watched. But danger travels even here. A man two rows down keeps glancing at me, his eyes flicking from the satchel to my face. His hands tremble as if he’s rehearsing a choice. Perhaps he’s desperate, or perhaps he’s paid. Either way, I tighten my grip.
The train cuts through rolling fields, then forests that seem endless, the trees pressing close against the tracks. Shadows flicker across the windows, quick as thoughts. I let the rhythm of the rails steady me, but my mind never stills. Old Vienna is near now. Every mile tastes of inevitability. The summit will be a masquerade, a theater of power. And I—I will walk into it carrying a truth sharp enough to slice through silk.
The train slows as twilight deepens, the horizon bruised purple and gold. Old Vienna lies ahead, its silhouette jagged with spires and domes, a city that hides daggers beneath velvet gloves. My stomach knots tighter with every passing mile. The satchel feels heavier than ever, as if the truth inside it is swelling, straining against the leather, begging to tear free.
The train hisses into the central station. The crowd disembarks in a rush, a flood of shoes striking marble. I move with them, carried on a current of chatter and clattering luggage. Chandeliers blaze overhead, too bright, too polished, their light reflecting off polished brass and glass. Guards patrol in pairs,eyes sweeping the hall with the disinterest of men convinced their authority is enough to quell rebellion.
I keep my head bowed, scarf tight around my hair, and step into the city. The air is different here, perfumed, expensive, layered with smoke and vehicle grease. Streetlamps glow against cobblestones slick from an earlier rain. Music drifts faintly from open windows: strings, laughter, the rise and fall of cultured voices. Old Vienna wears opulence like a mask.
I rent a room in a boarding house near the river. The walls are thin, but the window looks out over the water, and the sound of its current steadies me. The landlady doesn’t ask questions, only takes cash and pushes a key across the counter with a tired hand. Upstairs, I lock the door twice and sit on the bed, the satchel on my knees. For a moment, I simply breathe.
Then I open it. The ledgers, the files, the pages covered in Declan’s networks. The handwriting in the margins, mine, scrawled during sleepless nights. Proof of rot buried under silk. Proof the world will not want to see. I run my fingers over the ink, as if touch alone could keep it safe.
A noise outside snaps me back, the creak of stairs, footsteps pausing at my door. My pulse spikes. I blow out the lamp, plunging the room into shadow, and press my back to the wall. The footsteps linger, then retreat. Wood groans, then silence. I don’t move until the city bells strike midnight.
Sleep is impossible. Instead, I plan. Tomorrow I’ll scout the opera house, where the summit will be staged. I’ll learn its entrances, its shadows, its blind spots. Somewhere inside those walls, Declan will walk in comfort, believing the stage belongs to him. But he is wrong. If Lucian still breathes, if the threadbetween us still holds, then Old Vienna will become a trap of our making.
I glance at the window. Rain has begun to fall again, streaking the glass, blurring the city lights. The satchel rests beside me, a silent reminder that truth is not enough on its own. It must be placed in the right hands, wielded at the right time. Until then, I keep moving. I keep breathing. I keep carrying the blade disguised as paper.
When dawn finally arrives, I rise with it. The river runs gray, and the city stirs awake. Somewhere beyond these walls, hunters wait. Somewhere within them, allies may linger. And somewhere in the heart of Old Vienna, the storm that is Lucian might already be walking toward me.
I whisper to the empty room, to the satchel, to myself: “Hold steady.” Then I step out into Old Vienna, into the mouth of the masquerade.
Chapter 5 - Lucian
The road into Old Vienna is slick with rain, the tires of our borrowed car hissing over cobblestones that shine like black glass. Rourke drives, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh. He pretends it’s nothing, just a habit, but I’ve known him long enough to read nerves when they pulse through his skin. Old Vienna unsettles him. Good. It should.
The city looms ahead, its spires piercing the night sky, domes glistening under lamplight. Once, I walked these streets as a soldier of the Crown, boots polished, medals gleaming, the illusion of honor pressed into my chest like a brand. Now I return as a ghost, unshaven, mud-streaked, a fugitive moving toward a stage lit for men like Declan St. Croix. The thought curdles in my stomach.
We park two streets away from the river. Marta’s contact was supposed to leave an apartment key under the third step of a boarding house. Rourke retrieves it, hands it to me, and we enter a room that smells of old wood and mildew. Sparse furniture, a single window overlooking a narrow street, curtains moth-eaten. It’s enough.
I drop the duffel on the table. Inside: the ledgers, the stolen drives, evidence that stitches Cadmus and the Crown together like Siamese twins. Rourke stares at them as though they might ignite on their own. “If this gets out,” he says quietly, “it won’t just be Declan who burns. The whole order falls.”
“Then we make sure it falls on the right heads.”
He laughs, sharp and humorless. “You still believe in right and wrong?”
I don’t answer. My silence is a blade he can’t dull.
Through the window, Old Vienna hums. Vehicles rattle, bells toll, footsteps scatter over cobblestone. Music drifts faintly, violins, piano, laughter spilling from ballrooms. The summit is already seeding the air with champagne and deceit. Declan is near; I feel him like a splinter under the skin.
I clean my rifle in the lamplight, each motion methodical. Steel, cloth, oil. Ritual. It calms me. Rourke sprawls on the bed, restless. “You think she made it here?”
Vera. Her name flickers in the silence like a match. I don’t look at him when I answer. “She’s alive.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.”
He doesn’t press further. But I can feel his eyes on me, weighing, questioning. Trust is a thin wire between us, fraying with every step we take into this city.
Near midnight, I step outside. The rain has eased into mist, clinging to stone and skin. I walk the streets alone, memorizing routes, alleys, choke points. The opera house towers above the district, its marble façade glowing pale against the dark. Workers carry crates inside, preparations for the summit’s masquerade. Guards watch from shadows, rifles slung casual but ready. Every angle is a snare.
