Page 13 of The Monster You Made
I look at him, voice cold. “I don’t save. I destroy. Saving is just what’s left when the ashes settle.”
The city bells toll seven. Outside, Old Vienna glitters under gaslight, oblivious to the blood lining its foundations. Tomorrow, the summit begins. Tomorrow, Declan steps onto his stage. And tomorrow, if the fates align, Vera’s shadow will cross mine in this city of masks.
The night is restless. Every creak in the boarding house sounds like a footfall, every gust of wind through the shutters like a whisper of pursuit. I sit at the table long after Rourke’s breathing settles into an uneasy rhythm, the ledgers spread before me. Columns of numbers blur together until they start to feel like maps of veins, the city itself pulsing with corruption. The Crown and Cadmus are one organism. Cut in the wrong place, it won’t die; it will adapt.
I close the ledgers and slide them back into the duffel. My hands itch for violence, but not yet. Old Vienna is a stage, and if I strike too soon, the curtain falls before the play begins.
Near midnight, I leave. Rourke stirs, grumbles, but doesn’t follow. He knows better. The streets are slick with mist, lamps glowing halos in the damp. I walk alone, the city unfolding like a memory. I once wore its wealth like a cloak, paraded through its salons in uniforms starched crisp. Now the same stones echo under my boots, and I feel every ghost that ever bled here.
The opera house is alive even at this hour. Men in black coats unload cases, women in aprons polish banisters, chandeliers blaze like captive suns. I linger in the shadows, watching. Guards move in pairs, their patrols efficient, their expressions bored. Too confident. That’s their weakness. Confidence makes blind men.
I circle the block, noting alleys, drain covers, and delivery doors. A vehicle pulls up, a Crown delegate, his insignia hidden under silk but visible to eyes that know where to look. He strides inside with the posture of a man convinced the world bends for him. He’s not wrong. Not yet.
I see it every time I walk through these towns: homes patched with rotting timber, farms run by hand when machines should have done the labor long ago. In the world outside, cities climb higher every year, neon burns through the night, and governments crow about progress. But here, it is as though the twentieth century never arrived. The reason is no mystery.
The Crown engineered it, severing these people from the world. And the worst part? The governments that should have intervened look away. They always look away. Because the Crown isn’t an outsider. It is inside. Their members sit in parliaments, congresses, councils. Power smiling back at power while these villages rot under their shadow.
Across the street, a woman watches too. Hood low, stance casual, but her gaze sharp. She’s no servant, no guest. I freeze, shadows pressing close. Her eyes flick to the opera house, then to the crowd, then briefly, too briefly, toward me. Recognition? Or coincidence? I step back before I can know. By the time I glance again, she’s gone.
I walk until the streets narrow, until I can breathe without the weight of chandeliers. A tavern glows at the corner, its windows fogged, the sound of laughter spilling into the night. I enter, the air thick with beer and smoke. Men gamble at a table near the fire, women laugh with voices pitched too high. No one looks at me twice.
I take a corner seat, order nothing. Instead, I listen. Information leaks easiest in places soaked with alcohol. And it does, whispers of increased patrols, of foreign guests, of men disappearing near the river. Cadmus enforcers are prowling the docks. The Crown police stalk the markets. The city is a throat tightening around itself.
Back at the boarding house, Rourke is awake, pacing. His face is drawn, pale. “You were followed,” he says.
“By who?”
“Doesn’t matter. They know we’re here.”
I glance at the duffel. “Then we don’t give them the chance to strike first.”
He shakes his head, almost pleading. “Lucian, listen to me. Declan isn’t a soldier. He’s a network in a suit. You can’t put a bullet in a network. You’ll tear the city open and still find nothing in your hands.”
I step closer, until my shadow swallows his. “Then I’ll burn the suit first. Networks fall when their faces are ash.”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue further.
I sleep briefly, dreams thick with smoke and blood. At dawn, the bells drag me awake. I wash in cold water, tie my boots, and shoulder the rifle. Outside, the city already hums with anticipation. Vehicles head toward the opera house, and uniforms mingle with tuxedos, the scent of perfume blending with the iron tang of weapons hidden beneath coats.
Rourke watches me at the door. “When you walk into that theater, you’re walking into a pit with no exits.”
I check the knife at my belt, the pistol at my hip. “Then I’ll carve one.”
***
The day of the summit rises sharp and cold. The river gleams like steel, mist curling off its surface, cloaking the bridges in a pale, breath-like haze. From the boarding house window, I watch Old Vienna don its mask. Flags drape from balconies, vehicles glitter with polished brass, and the air itself vibrates with the sound of horses and boots. The city is dressed for theater, and everyone is playing a part.
Rourke fusses with his collar, nervous energy twitching through his hands. He hides it poorly. “We should stay low,” he mutters. “Wait for a cleaner opening. Let the summit play itself out and strike when the dust settles.”
“No,” I say. “Declan thrives in dust. We strike when the mask is still on their faces.”
He doesn’t argue further. His silence is agreement, or resignation. It doesn’t matter which.
We move through the streets, blending into the crowd of workers and merchants. My coat is plain, my stride unremarkable, but inside, every muscle coils tight. Guards swarm the district around the opera house, uniforms pressed, rifles gleaming. Their presence is too polished, too rehearsed. A display meant to intimidate. But intimidation is only effective against men who believe in consequence.
We stop at a vantage point near the square. Delegates arrive in droves, stepping from vehicles with silk smiles and empty eyes. I recognize faces from old briefings: ministers, financiers, generals who once sent orders through my hands. They move as though the world bends for them. And among them, eventually, Declan St. Croix emerges.
He descends from a vehicle draped in dark velvet, his suit immaculate, his hair slicked back with surgical precision. He greets a Crown envoy with that smile, too wide, too warm, calculated to disarm. Cameras flash. The crowd murmurs. Declan drinks it in like wine. For a heartbeat, his gaze sweeps the square, and I swear it brushes over me. Not recognition, instinct. Predators know when another predator is near.
