Page 12 of The Monster You Made
I mark them all. Tomorrow, I’ll return. Tomorrow, I’ll find the cracks.
As I turn back toward the boarding house, a thought presses sharp against me. Somewhere in this city, Vera is walking the same streets, carrying the same blade disguised as evidence. If the threads converge here, it will not be an accident. It will be war.
***
The morning comes gray, muted, as if the sky itself doesn’t trust Old Vienna. I wake before dawn, rifle across my chest, the floorboards cold beneath my boots. Rourke mutters in his sleep, caught in dreams I don’t envy. When he stirs awake, I’m already at the window, watching the first carts rattle down the street, vendors setting up stalls, women carrying baskets of bread. Ordinary life, an illusion draped over the rot.
The land feels caught in another century, a world of smoke-stained cottages and fields that struggle against the soil. But I know better. This is not backwardness; it is design. Years ago, the Crown bought these villages outright, using shell companies and government proxies. Outskirts of Vienna, far enough that no one in the city cared to look, yet close enough to exploit its arteries. Since then, progress has been stripped away piece by piece. No investments. No infrastructure. Every advance choked off until what remains is stagnation. It was never neglect. It was groundwork. Control disguised as poverty over time.
I pass a cart pulled by a swayback horse, its wheels bound with rope to hold them together. Children stare at me from doorways, their eyes too old for their faces. The outside world would call this place forgotten, but nothing about it is accidental. The Crown carved these towns and villages into silence so it could bury its operations here. That’s why I’m here too.
We eat stale bread and bitter coffee bought from a vendor below. Rourke chews without appetite, eyes flicking to the duffel. “We can’t hold onto those ledgers forever,” he says. “The longer we sit, the more we bleed time.”
“They’re leverage,” I answer. “Not evidence for the world. Evidence for us. We use them to cut into Declan’s armor.”
Rourke snorts. “You think Declan St. Croix wears armor? He wears charm and arrogance. Armor is for men who bleed.”
I clean the knife at my belt, the blade flashing in the weak light. “Everyone bleeds.”
By midday, we’re in the streets. I keep my collar turned up, cap low. The air smells of roasted chestnuts and coal smoke, a scent that clings to Old Vienna like perfume. Vehicles clatter past, their occupants dressed in silks and fur, oblivious to the weight of the summit pressing down on their city. Posters plastered on walls trumpet economic unity, progress, and prosperity. Lies written in bold ink.
We circle the opera house again. Today, it’s swarming with activity, delivery supply trucks stacked with cases of wine, tables, and decorations. Guards check manifests, rifles gleaming under the weak sun. I note their positions, the blind corners, the rhythm of their patrols. Rourke trails a few paces behind me, eyes always scanning for tails.
“Too many,” he murmurs. “If you’re thinking of slipping inside, you’ll need more than shadows.”
“I’m not thinking of slipping inside.”
He arches a brow. “Then what?”
“Mapping exits. Counting steps. Knowing how long it takes a guard to smoke a cigarette.” I glance at him. “Details win wars.”
Rourke chuckles. “And here I thought you only knew how to burn things down.”
We stop at a café across the street, with small tables beneath an awning. I order coffee I won’t drink, my eyes fixed on the opera house façade. Men in tailored suits pass through its doors, briefcases in hand, arrogance in their stride. Among them, I see glimpses of uniforms, Crown insignia discreetly stitched into coats. Cadmus men linger nearby, their presence quieter, colder. Two predators circling the same carcass.
One figure catches my attention: tall, immaculate, his smile too polished, his handshake lingering too long. He greets a Crown dignitary as though they’re old friends. Even from this distance, I recognize the swagger. Declan St. Croix. My teeth clench. For a moment, the city fades, and all I see is the man who threads chaos like a needle through silk.
Rourke follows my gaze. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer. My silence says enough.
Declan disappears inside, swallowed by marble and chandeliers. The sight leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Rourke leans back in his chair, muttering, “You’ll never reach him through the front. Not with that circus.”
“We won’t reach him through the front,” I agree. “But everyone leaves by a door. Even gods.”
We leave before suspicion can root. On the walk back, I notice a man shadowing us, a hat pulled low, stride too careful. I take three turns down narrow streets. He follows. When I slip into an alley, he hesitates at the mouth, scanning. Rourke grips my arm, whispering, “Not here. Too exposed.”
He’s right. I let the man pass, memorizing his walk, the cut of his coat. Crown agent, perhaps. Or Cadmus. In Old Vienna, it hardly matters; their blades point in the same direction.
***
Back in the room, I sit with the ledgers spread before me. The numbers whisper betrayal, every column proof that the Crown and Cadmus feed from the same trough. I picture Vera’s satchel, her handwriting on the tabs, the way she must clutch it as I do these pages. The thought steadies me.
Rourke sprawls on the bed again, staring at the ceiling. “If she’s here, she’s already walking into a trap.”
“Then I’ll break it.”
He laughs, soft and disbelieving. “You really think you can save her?”
