Everything Zan saw behind closed eyes was drenched in shades of red. Droplets of ruby agony. Pools of scarlet life. Fields of red spider lilies and devil's thorn. This was the world that Illusionist had resided in, a world filled with hatred, lust, envy, and greed. Illusionist did not wake in the middle of nowhere with no direction. Originally, Viktor, as he was once known, had been a man guided by unreciprocated love; the jealousy ate away at the marrow of his bones, turning him hollow. And when he finally found her, the woman named Isabel, he knew that he wanted her more than anything still. The world was cruel and unfair, though, and both of them had been cast as players in a game neither of them understood.
Viktor was already mad from the experiments. Now, he was mad in love as well.
And I've long thrown away that name.
She reached up with an ensanguined hand to run those carmine fingers through his hair. On her arm was the remains of a tattoo, but the letters had been chiseled away to leave only a faint suggestion of her abilities. Bathed in her own blood but still hanging on, she was a formidable foe. His one and only. A chill touched the back of his neck, giving rise to goosebumps. Drawing his ear towards her lips, she started to murmur a warning, one that he had heard a thousand times. It was a premonition of his demise.
No, not his death.
Zan was merged once again with him—Illusionist—and witnessing yet another memory of orchestrated torture that was played out by two victims of the same cruelty. The pain began at the heart of all their troubles. That was the Game in which they were both players with nearly identical abilities. Though the memories were ages old, it seemed, the things that the woman spoke of resonated within his own brain. Everything made sense, and Zan couldn't decide if it was because he was now a part of Illusionist or if the caveat had truly been meant for him.
"One day, you'll see with more eyes, taste with more tongues, grasp with more hands and it shan't be mine." She drew away from him as her ocher eyes rippled with the pain of her wounds.
Back then, Illusionist was a man. A terribly wanton man filled with an insatiable urge to claim everything for his own. He started with gambling and drinking and perverted sex. Later, he switched to choking, stabbing, and bathing in blood. But even that dulled like a knife used too often. Isabel was the only one. Seeing the flayed skin on her thighs, the carvings across her chest, and the splashes of blood laying like rubies against the coppery skin of her throat summoned his lust. Fire raced through his veins.
"No," he whispered in a deeper, gravelly voice. "You'll always be mine, Mentalist."
The epithet was spoken tenderly. Her reaction to it was another thing. Face screwing up with anguish and amusement, the woman tilted her head back and looked through her black fringe. The column of her neck was exposed, and it was enough to stir the monster inside him. The longing to defile something so pure was out of his control. He could show her a million different illusions, have her in a million different ways, and yet, she would always resist him just by averting her gaze.
I want to know what you see, he thought.
Zander watched his hands reach for a knife. The blade was stained with dried blood, and the edge was chipped from the countless number of victims used to feed the beast. He was helpless to stop what came next, even though it was his hand guiding the knife. Mortified by the sight of blood gushing from a woman's contorted face and the screams, Zan tried to squeeze his own eyes shut.
But it was no use. His eyes belonged to Illusionist and Mentalist.
The pits in her skull that used to house her eyes became pools of wrath that oozed scarlet tears. Though he clutched the orbs in the palm of his hand, he knew that she could still see him. Now, she reached for his throat, finding it with such ease that it shocked him.
Mentalist, using the last of her strength, pulled herself close to his body, skin against skin, and pressed her lips to his chest. And then she cursed him. "May my pains be yours as well. May all your victims know you more intimately than you know yourself—forevermore."
Someone as close to death should not have been able to move with such celerity as she did. Perhaps it was glamour that slowed his own cognitions and made his limbs feel as if they were suspended in molasses. Perhaps it was the final flicker of a dying flame. Mentalist grasped his hand that held the knife and drove the blade straight into her heart.
It was but a dream, Zan told himself. It was just a vision. But that didn't stop him from crying out in confusion and agony. The faces of Illusionist's victims joined him as a chorus of torment. A countless number of lives haunted the monster, and now they dwelled within Zander, too.
The dream ended with a violent jerk upright. He threw the blankets off himself and hurried towards the mirror, touching his face. The skin he wore didn't feel like this skin. The tightness, the color, and the feel of it beneath his fingers was all wrong, but his eyes, a light hazel, told him the truth. His face was not what had been affected by the merging of two minds. It was his heart. His constitution. Running his hand over his shorn black hair, Zan released a measured exhale through slightly parted lips. Every night since that encounter with Illusionist, he'd been riled up and wrenched from slumber. Prolonged hours awake never troubled him before, but now that he was exhausted with hiking towards London throughout the day and doing physical labor in exchange for a ride or a room, he needed rest more than ever.
The weaker his mind, the more vivid the nightmares.
Zan put his back against the wall next to the mirror. The inn was nothing like the palace they had abandoned. Shoddily constructed with holes in the roof, stained walls from leaks, cobwebs in the corners, and hay-stuffed sheets for mattresses were a setting that he couldn't get used to. Dried blood clung the creases of his knuckles, and there was dirt beneath his fingernails. He looked to Junius asleep on his bed, adrift in dreams, a picture of comfort. His tousled brown hair was spread out on the pillow.
Shortly after Illusionist had devoured his senses, plunging him into an ocean of blood and the bobbing limbs of cadavers, Zan had heard Junius calling out to him across the tide. He could recall the words, the affirmation that, even after witnessing the horror of hundreds of murdered innocents, he was no monster. But Illusionist fit the description of an abomination perfectly, and now that they had infused themselves into Zander's essence, he feared that Jun was wrong. There were times when they were working the fields or when Zan fell back a few paces on the road that he could sense a wavering in trust. Like a wash of cool air after standing out in the blistering heat, Jun's disquiet sent shudders through Zander's skin. He couldn't blame Junius for staying cautious after having been attacked twice by Zan in such a short frame of time.
But it was still a knife point gouging into his stomach, nonetheless.
Removing himself from the wall, Zan paced about the room as quietly as he could with measured footfalls. The floorboards were prone to creaking, but if he concentrated on how his feet made contact and how he transferred weight through the soles, he could glide about almost soundlessly. The effort distracted him from the crawling beneath the skin and the consciousness in his skull that wasn't his own. Breathing in. Taking a step. Exhaling. Another step. As he rolled his feet off the floor, he could hear Illusionist speaking to him, demanding acknowledgement. Zander pivoted on his heel to cross the floor a third, fourth, and even a fifth time.
Just like a caged wolf, you pace.
The thought broke through the barrier he'd constructed in his mind during the pause between the inhalation and exhalation. Like thunder, it coursed through him and rattled his eardrums. Zan couldn't help it. He paused abruptly, stomping a foot down on a loose section of flooring. A long, melodramatic groan issued forth and resonated throughout the entire house. He winced, hoping that Junius' sound sleep hadn't been disturbed.
Prays unanswered, Zander glanced over to find Jun's brown eyes upon him. "Oh, good morning."
"What are you doing?" The question was made more direct by the dryness of Jun's throat.
"Thinking. Plotting. The usual," returned Zan, attempting to hide his dismay with a joke.
The brown-haired man obviously didn't find it amusing, for he sat up with a frown and said, "And that involves wearing a circle into the floor, does it?"
"A byproduct of nervous energy," Zan confessed.
Jun scratched at the stubble on his chin. "Is that all?"
"Yes."
Though King nodded, Zan could tell he wasn't buying it. He watched Junius rise, stretching his arms above his head and carefully arching his back. The injuries that had been inflicted were healed, but Zan could still see them, could still trace the outlines of the scratches and see the bloodstains. Never in his life would he have hurt his best friend purposefully. What a mess the monster in his mind had made of him—of everything. Unable to maintain his focal point, Zan went about the room to gather their belongings. Clothes once damp with sweat hung in front of the window. He touched the shirts to make sure they were dry before pulling on his own and tossing the other one on the bed for Jun to scoop up.
"One more day of walking and we should be in London by nightfall," said Jun as he laced up his boots.
Zan didn't say anything. The journey across the Main Land to the city had seemed interminable, but that didn't mean he was pleased to know it was ending. In London, there would be humans and fey living together. After double checking the contents of his bags, Zan found himself itching for something else to keep his mind busy. He fiddled with the straps for a while as Jun packed his own rucksack to the brim. Bags slung on, boots tied, and stomachs grumbling, they left the room to descend into the lobby, where a complimentary breakfast awaited them. The items were simple, such as fresh baked loaves of sourdough and pumpernickel bread; jars of homemade jams and marmalade; platters of bacon and sausage patties; porridge flavored with brown sugar and cinnamon; and a large pot of beans in a simmering tomato sauce. There was also brewed tea ready for pouring, cream, and sugar cubes set beside pitchers of water. The two men piled their plates with as much as they could stomach, because they never knew when their next large meal would be. The breakfast was eaten in silence, even as other guests came and left.
Once they finished, they thanked the owner for his generosity before heading out into a foggy morning. Yet, as the sun rose higher, the fog grew less dense, and soon they were able to see the English countryside. The road to London passed through pastures, over hills, woods, and even more farmland. There were clusters of stone and Tudor buildings nestled beside streams interspersed with blankets of golden wheat underneath blue skies. Once a while, another group of travelers or a carriage or merchant cart would pass by, but for most of the journey, it was just Jun, Zan, and the random flocks of sheep or cows they encountered. There was no denying that the landscape was beautiful, what with ivy-covered stone walls, multicolored trees of late summer, and golden light.
Zander mentally cataloged the flora and fauna that they spotted throughout the journey as a way to pass the time. There were clusters of yellow-rattle and ragged-robin attracting swarms of marbled white butterflies; swathes of Lady's bedstraw, knapweed, and cornflowers sprouted from the earth and around fence posts from which skylarks sang; and sprouts of fragrant verbena that dusted the meadows in purples and pinks. Upon spotting feverfew, he plucked off a few of the flowers, for it was said to be medicinal. And on and on, they walked.
Field mice skittered about as hares and rabbits nibbled on dandelions. Sound birds darted through the sky, spreading news that he didn't understand. The countryside might have been a monotonous scene, but it was a bustling microcosm of life, full of sounds, of breath. Zan could lose himself in the persistent ebb and flow of all the living things. His feet struck the hard earth, but his mind was farther off, looking at the world as it moved around him.
Suddenly, he bumped into Jun, who was pointedly looking at him from over his broad shoulders.
"Have you not heard a single thing I've been telling you?" Junius asked, exasperated.
Zan's eyes widened. "About?"
"Oh, just about everything we've learned so far. The scholar, the attacks, the suspicions from the Empire." Swinging his head around to view the horizon, Jun ran a hand through his hair. The expression on his face was unreadable. "I didn't tell you this before, but I think you should know that someone told Illusionist to kill us."
"How do—what?" Nonplussed, Zander stumbled over his own words.
Lifting a square of paper from a pocket in his overcoat, Jun raised his brows then handed it over. "I found this on Illusionist after...well, you know."
Zander read the note, feeling himself hackle at the mention of "Aluxen's playthings." Fighting the urge to rip the letter into minute pieces, he passed it back to Jun with a clenched jaw. Thoughts like a swarm of bees were racing around his skull. He couldn't ignore the drone of their wings or the needles poised to sting. One thought was the queen of them all, though.
What have we gotten ourselves into?
Clouds assembled in front of the blazing sun, casting the wildflower meadow and hills in shadow. Zander heard Jun start walking and mindlessly followed. The world around him was rendered dull and dark as he puzzled out the progression of events. Someone had murdered Jonas Duran after he attempted to appeal to the Queen in London. Before he could get an audience, he was found dead in his hideout. Then the Empire was alerted to a potential threat out in the Scars, and that same person claimed Junius and he had sent an assassin to kill Scholar Duran. Meeting Grim was possibly a boon, because if someone else had been put in charge of the Royal Guard, the events may have played out very differently. Unless the person who had put this all in motion had been planning on the soldiers and players obliterating themselves? Who would profit from a plan like that?
No doubt, their liege had at least one nemesis who was keen to see them pounded into the gravel.
The sky was tinged with vermilion and pink by the time the outline of London's buildings cut jags into the horizon line. Even an hour from the center of the city, the stretches of townhouses reached out into the countryside like the fingers of some monolithic titan. Streets transitioned from orange dirt and stone to a mix of cobbles and cement. Gradually, the trees and shrubs were replaced with long swathes of stone, Tudor houses, brass street lamps, carriages, and people dressed in a higher mode of fashion than those of the meadowlands. It seemed like society shifted into an entirely different gear, with people bartering goods from their storefronts or market stalls.
Gone were the humble farmers out in the fields with mules tilling the soil. Here, there were boutiques with shopkeepers adorning flamboyant hats and dresses with frivolous accessories; men dressed in tailored suits and frock jackets, white socks, and heeled boots; women with bloodied aprons selling butchered pigs and chickens that hung from wires around wagons; and a cacophony of voices calling out prices, events and deals, and the latest news. Zander's head ached with the colors, sights, and sounds as he and Junius darted through crowds of human and fey alike. The air was scented faintly of excrement and fumes, and there was a perpetual clanking of steam through brass pipes bolted to buildings or running horizontally along the rooftops like vines. No matter where his eyes went, there was something to question.
As Junius went over to a man selling individual skewers of meat to ask for both food and directions, Zander stood at the corner, tense and uncomfortable. He didn't know what to make of the city's energy. Everything was an assault to the senses.
And we're not even in London's center yet, he reminded himself, morose.
His hands went into the pockets of his pants, where he jangled coins for the sake of busying himself. The subdued colors of the streets became a soothing backdrop to the colors of clothes and the bright accents of gas lamps, steam-powered wagons, horses, and the noise. He stared at the monochrome buildings with their white and gray stones and black iron accents to lose himself there. Before he knew it, Junius was waving a stick of meat in front of his face.
Zan grabbed the skewer. "Thanks."
"I asked where I could find Grim or where her kind were most likely to gather. Turns out we're not far from a place called Bounty's Row, where all sorts of ruffians, hunters, and off-duty soldiers hang out," explained Junius as he poked experimentally at what looked like charred chicken. He took a small bite, made a satisfied sound, then continued, "I've an inkling we'll find our Hunter there."
Zander bit into his own skewer but didn't taste anything. He hadn't been hungry, and his mind was far too preoccupied with the stimuli accosting him.
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" he asked.
Jun shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Turns out, there was a lot that could happen. Apart from avoiding being dragged into bar fights that spilled from establishments out into the evening air, there were grunting urchins seeking to pilfer their goods, scammers trying to lead them astray, and jealous hunters eyeing their gear. Scantily clad women reached out with gloved hands for Jun, tempting him with their upturned eyes, voluptuous forms, and cherry mouths. Zander lost count of how many times he needed to yank Junius back by the collar of his shirt like the dog he was.
The thought became all the more humorous when Junius targeted a place called The Hound's Tail out of every other business on Bounty's Row. The Hound's Tail would never have been Zan's first choice, as there were plenty of other dilapidated buildings with equally hulking figures out front, but the raucous volume and high population of unsavory characters made Jun gravitate towards the front door. After passing the inspection of two gargantuan men with beady eyes, they entered the tavern by squeezing through a gathering of ruffians around the entrance, muttering pardons and apologies for any feet that were accidentally squished. Zander remained directly behind Junius, who was moving with much more composure and purpose than he. There were tables scattered about, ringed by bodies. The scent of ale mixed with body odor made his nose wrinkle.
All of a sudden, Junius abruptly stopped, just missing the path of a shirtless man getting splashed with beer then kicked in the stomach. Several others leaped into action, turning over the wooden tables and chairs with rabid delight in their faces. Looking back at Zan with raised brows, Jun motioned to the opened pathway around the bar brawl then started moving again towards the middle of the establishment. The barkeep didn't greet them right away. Instead, he mutely dried off tankards, working methodically around the space behind the counter.
"Excuse me, sorry," called Jun, trying to get the man's attention. "Do you know someone named Grimhild? She's a tall, muscular woman with black hair."
There was a flicker of recognition in the man's narrowed blue eyes. His crow's feet crinkled further as he scrutinized them with the same intensity as the giant's at the front door.
"How do you know Grim?" asked the barkeep after a moment.
Jun smiled. "She's a friend."
By the way the man's thin lips twitched, Zan couldn't say for sure if that was the correct answer. He glanced right and left around the space, searching for a section of the tavern that would be less noisy, so he could gather his thoughts.
"Did you hear that, Zan?" asked Junius, snapping him back from musings.
Straightening up, Zander looked to his brother and tried to look unperturbed. "What?"
"Grim comes through here regularly, or so this kind man says," reported Jun with a wide grin.
"Oh, good."
Motioning to an empty pair of chairs and table, Jun gave him a pleading face. "So let's hang out for a bit?"
Zan couldn't think of anything worse than biding his time in such a rowdy and roisterous place. The clinking of tankards, the roars and salutations, the smell of cooking oils and fats, and the endless squeak of floorboards gave him a headache. Grinding his teeth, Zander nodded his head. At least he couldn't hear Illusionist over the noise. Junius ordered them both some ale and took a swig of his own drink immediately. Mute, Zander merely held the mug between his hands, unable to do more than look at the thinning foam.
"Never seen you blokes 'round here before," said a patron from a nearby table. He was dressed in a mix of forest green, earthy browns and oranges, and red leather. It was ideal camouflage for the countryside. His blond hair was slicked back, showing off the sharpness of his widow's peak. "Just get into town?"
Junius nodded. "Aye."
The man leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his beverage as he studied Jun and Zan. "So what are you two? Performers? Adventurers? Don't come off as bounty hunters."
"Travelers," replied Jun.
"No need to be so tight-lipped boy. S'not like I'm a bobby."
Swiveling his head towards the mage, Jun mouthed the word "bobby" questioningly, but Zan could only shrug, because he didn't know what the patron was referring to either. The volume within the Hound's Tail rose and fell as people of all shapes and sizes and colors passed through the door. Zander paid less attention to the queries being directed towards Jun and let his attention hover around the room, from the lonely hunters cradling glasses of alcohol to the assembly of several brutes clad in black leather, bones, and tattoos. Zan cared less about their garb than their overall appearance, including the knife-point of their ears and slenderness of their fingers. Unseelie fey, by the look of it.
His inquisitiveness was noticed. One glanced at him, their almond-shaped eyes much like his own in color, and a cool grin stretched pale lips. The others turned, one at a time, the attention mounting until Zander had to glance away. Yet, they had sighted him, and in some way, they had marked him as prey. He felt a tightness in his chest.
They know what you are, whispered poisonous thoughts. They know who you are.
Without causing any more of a commotion, the fey turned around in unison then left the bar. A hand touched Zan's shoulder, and he realized right then that Jun must have noticed the strange exchange. Not offering an explanation, Zander merely nodded towards his companion then took a swig of ale. The liquid was unpleasantly warm already and did nothing to improve his mood.
"Reckon fey such as that are the ones responsible for the fey circle murders happening 'round the city," ventured the blond haired hunter.
Jun and Zan met one another's eyes then, turning towards the talkative man, asked simultaneously, "Murders?"
Bobbing his head, the man stared into the depths of his mug. "A string of 'em. Latest was a few streets away from the palace. The whole faerie community's under watch these days."
"So they haven't found who's responsible?" asked Junius, dropping his voice low.
"Aye, and with all these new faces comin' and goin', chances are the coppers and Guardsmen have their work cut out for 'em."
Zan squeezed his eyes shut to try and think, but the alcohol had started working its magic. The thoughts were but a thrumming behind his eyelids—formless and meaningless. Hearing Jun clear his throat, he opened his eyelids to see Grimhild, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, standing there.
"Oh, hey, we were looking for you," said Junius with a chuckle.
By the expression on her face, it was clear she hadn't heard him or didn't care. Zander gulped, preparing for what was going to happen next. Seconds later, he was getting thrown to the ground amid a wash of ale and hundreds of questioning eyes upon him.