Page 18 of The Monster You Made
Rourke leans over my shoulder. “You’re thinking infiltration.”
“I’m thinking opportunity.”
“Opportunity to die.”
I fold the map. “All roads lead to that. At least this one offers a door.”
We spend the rest of the morning preparing, checking weapons, memorizing routes, disguises packed tight. The tension between us grows thick, words left unsaid piling higher than the crates around us. At last, Rourke breaks the silence. “If Vera’s alive, she’ll head for those tunnels too. She’s smart enough to find the cracks.”
His words ignite something I don’t let show. Instead, I say flatly, “Then we’ll meet her in the dark.”
The city sharpens as the summit begins. Every street feels narrower, every step watched. The opera house looms like a crown jewel, banners streaming, its windows blazing gold even in daylight. From our vantage in the brewery attic, I watch the square below churn with movement, delegates, guards, agents, civilians pressed shoulder to shoulder. Old Vienna is no longer a city; it’s a stage set for fire.
Rourke sits across from me, his knee bouncing restlessly. “You keep staring like you’re already inside,” he mutters.
“I am inside,” I reply. “Every guard rotation, every blind corner, every shadow, I’ve walked them in my head a hundred times.”
He scowls. “In your head doesn’t count when bullets start flying.”
“Then we make sure the first bullet isn’t theirs.”
We move before noon, slipping through alleys toward the opera district. The forged passes in my coat weigh heavy, the Crown insignia on my uniform itching like a rash. Every checkpoint we pass is a test, rifles leveled, eyes suspicious. Each time, I flash the pass, let arrogance drip from my posture, and they wave us through. It sickens me how easily the mask fits.
At the third checkpoint, a moment of danger: the guard’s eyes narrow on me, recognition sparking. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll name me. My hand hovers near the knife at my belt. But then he grunts, stamps the pass, and lets us through. Rourke exhales sharply once we’re clear. “That was too close.”
“Close is enough,” I say, though my pulse still pounds in my throat.
By midafternoon, we slip into the underbelly of the opera house. Marta’s maps lead us to a service tunnel half-hidden beneath a collapsed archway near the river. Dust thickens the air, cobwebs brush my skin, and the stones sweat with damp. We light a single lantern and move through the dark. Rats scatter ahead of us, their squeaks echoing like warnings. The air smells of rust and rot, but the tunnels are real. Marta was right.
We follow them until we find a rusted grate that opens into a chamber beneath the opera house. Through cracks in the ceiling, we hear the thunder of footsteps, the distant roar of music and applause. The summit is alive above us. Every note of the orchestra feels like a drumbeat counting down to violence.
Rourke crouches beside me, voice low. “If she’s here, this is where she’ll come.”
I grip the lantern tighter. Vera. The thought of her walking these same tunnels slices through me, sharp hope, sharper fear. If Declan has men down here, she’s already in danger. If she doesn’t, she soon will be. Either way, the dark will bring us together.
We settle into the shadows, waiting. I check my rifle again, every movement deliberate. Patience. Control. But beneath it all, my blood runs hot. Declan breathes above me, smug in his theater, and Vera moves somewhere in this city, satchel in hand, hunted. The convergence is inevitable.
Rourke breaks the silence with a grim chuckle. “You’re grinning. That’s worse than when you’re angry.”
“I’m thinking about tomorrow,” I admit. “About what breaks when the curtain falls.”
Outside, bells toll six. The summit’s first day wanes, but the fire hasn’t yet begun. It will. I feel it in my bones, in the rhythm of the city’s pulse, in the way every shadow seems to lean closer. Old Vienna is a crucible, and tonight we step into the forge.
I whisper to the stone ceiling above me, to the weight of the opera house pressing down: “Declan, your stage is mine now.”
Chapter 8 - Vera
The morning breaks with smoke in the sky. Not fire, not yet, but the kind of haze that lingers when a city holds its breath. Old Vienna is dressed for spectacle, and the opera house is its crown jewel, marble glowing in the rising sun, banners snapping sharp in the breeze, vehicles clattering across cobblestones like an endless procession. Today, the summit begins in full, and the world’s gaze falls here.
I keep to the edges, moving through alleys where the smell of damp brick clings to the air. My satchel hangs heavy at my side, its contents a constant weight: the ledgers, my notes, the proof that Declan is no savior but a butcher dressed in silk. Each step toward the opera house is a step closer to exposure. My pulse races with the thought.
I haven’t slept. The night gave me no rest, only visions of shadows on rooftops, the rifleman who vanished like a ghost. My mind insists it was Lucian, his stillness, his presence even across distance, but I can’t allow myself certainty. Certainty breeds mistakes. If he is here, then everything is sharper, more dangerous. If he is not, then I walk this alone.
Crowds gather thick around the opera square, their cheers loud, their flags a sea of color. Children climb lampposts to see, vendors shout prices for roasted chestnuts and wine, women toss petals at the wheels of passing vehicles. The air vibrates with false celebration. Beneath it, soldiers move like currents, Crown uniforms bright, Cadmus agents shadowed, Declan’s men blending seamlessly. It is theater layered on theater, and I must play my role.
I slip closer, pulling the forged papers from my coat pocket. Marta’s hand lingers in every line of ink, every seal pressed with precision. They’ll hold, I tell myself. They must. When the guard at the checkpoint fixes his eyes on me, I meet his gaze without flinching. He scans the pass, grunts, and waves me through. My breath leaves in a rush I don’t let him see.
Inside, the square feels different. The crowd here is sharper dressed, the laughter more brittle, the perfume cloying. Delegates climb the steps of the opera house, their silk and jewels glittering under the sun. I hang back, lingering in the flow, eyes scanning every detail, the rhythm of patrols, the blind spots between vehicles, the pairs of plainclothes men who never stop watching. I’ve lived too long in the shadows not to see them.
