Wax

Candle Frost (2/2)

"Your grace." The chief guard arrived just in time to cease rising tensions with a well-practiced smile. "Is everything alright?"

"Charles, this... this one of yours is no good. No good at all! He's offended my dear friend Julian, and therefore by extension, wounded me. You know how I am—I'd never take any nonsense lying down, let alone daggers thrown at my companion! I want him out of my sight."

"Of course, your grace," said the chief with a bow, dismissing his employee with a curt wave before turning to the musician with a look of apology. "I am deeply sorry for the poor conduct of my employee, Mr. White. I will be sure to give him a well-deserved lecture on manners. Meanwhile, perhaps you'd like to retire to your private dressing room for some refreshments? I will have my best man escort you at once."

"Great idea Charles," said the duke, nodding. "In fact, let Julian pick his escort, if you will."

"A brilliant proposal, your grace." The chief snapped a finger and the guards in line turned to face their employer. "Please, Mr. White. Whenever you're ready."

The killer hadn't expected such a pleasant turn of events. Ordinary people would've thought luck to be on their side but no, the man was not the sort to believe in mere coincidences or luck. His partner must've pulled a card; and if he had, where... was...

Him.

Zone was right. He'd know it was him in a glance. How odd it was to experience such an otherworldly feeling that could not be explained by any form of rational reasoning. It was him and that was all he knew.

"Third from the left, if you will."

"Of course, Mr. White." The chief guard gave his employee a stern, unreadable look in the eye before gesturing toward the hallway to their right. The guard laxed his stance and stepped forth to lead the way with a disarming curve of his lips.

The soloist obliged, bidding the duke a temporary farewell before trailing after his partner in crime.

*

There was tension. This, neither agent could deny.

Long hallways added to the friction; they were good at building the silence between the two, echoing their footsteps from bend to bend and reflecting the still surface of a lake ready for a spark. Though one of the two appeared to lead, the other was paced in a manner that implied clear direction—Winter knew exactly where they were headed.

He stole a glance at the flame only to realize it was already staring back at him.

"Dalto described you as an idiot," sighed the shorter of the two. "I should have known. Did no one educate you about the rules of maintaining eye contact? No more than four seconds. One-and-a-half when it comes to strangers."

"I know."

They took a right and knocked on the door labeled Dressing Room 7. Nothing. A turn of the knob and the pair were in, greeted by an interior of vanities, lights, and tasteful furniture. The entire room was white with occasional gold accents and the finishing touch was a vase of nine white roses placed exactly nine inches away from the edge of the vanity.

The room was big enough to accommodate an average of six performers but for some reason, it had been turned into a private space for the revered soloist. There was something strange about the room; something so perfectly arranged, so deliberate and so designed that nothing appeared out of place.

"Oh. So why were you staring, then?" Winter asked, placing his case on the vanity while Candle closed the door behind them and turned the lock.

"Cuz your eyes looked like they should've been blue," said the guard, standing by the door with his arms crossed. Watching.