by Amanda Foody
“It was all for fun. A good scare.” He licked his lips at that last word and took a few steps closer. Jac stood his ground, even if he preferred to keep several feet between him and Charles. He took the opportunity to examine Charles for any weak spots, ones he might’ve missed last time. But Charles was several pounds and inches greater than Jac, and though Jac was stronger, he knew that Charles’s split talent would work against him. With a touch, skin to skin, he could give pain. Jac had planned for this by wrapping most of his skin in gauze, but he didn’t know if that would be enough. He could only guess at Charles’s limits and hope he was right.
“I don’t want to talk,” Jac said brazenly. “Let’s start this.”
Charles drew a coin and flipped it. “Two hundred and six,” he murmured, a smile sliding across his features. Jac stiffened. He’d never heard Sophia reach anywhere close to that high.
Then Charles removed his blazer, his button-up, and even his undershirt. Layers of white clothing piled on the floor, and each new piece was a little more stained. Jac’s eyes widened as he saw the painful red lashings covering Charles’s skin.
Sophia had told Jac that her half siblings used physical penance to raise their luck, and now Jac understood the disgust in her voice. They paid for their misdeeds in blood. The skin across Charles’s chest and shoulders was rippled and uneven from years of whipping, and some of his wounds were so fresh, they still shone with a wet sheen. Charles was clearly practiced, because anyone else would’ve struggled to stand in such pain.
“Not very pretty, I know,” Charles murmured. “But it’s well worth it, to see the fear in people’s eyes. Just like in yours.”
Jac gritted his teeth. “I’m revolted, not afraid.”
As Charles walked closer, Jac crinkled his nose at the smell of him—of blood and antiseptic. “Hasn’t Sophia told you what I can do?” Charles asked.
When Jac took on pain, it needed to come from somewhere. He imagined that was also true of when Charles gave it. If so, Charles had walked into this fight heavily armed.
Jac stripped down to his undershirt, which was several sizes too large to conceal more of his skin. The tape and gauze he always wore around his knuckles extended up his forearms. Only a few inches were exposed below his sleeve, pale skin covered in various tattoos. His inner elbow itched slightly underneath his bandages, but he ignored it. He could push past his fear.
Charles never bothered to close the doors, so the music from downstairs pulsed in here, and some of the red lights danced across the floor.
“There’s no audience,” Charles said. “Before, during, and after your death, the party will continue in this casino. No one will know who you were or what happened to you, or that you existed at all.”
“I said I didn’t want to talk,” Jac spat. Really, he didn’t want Charles to see how his words had disturbed him.
Charles grinned. “Then hit me.”
Jac approached, his fists raised. First he aimed for Charles’s chest, then his face, his sides. Charles blocked most of his blows, but he did nothing to counter them. It was difficult for Jac to lose himself in this fight, like he always did. There was no sound of an audience cheering or whistles blowing. The reflections in the mirrors played tricks on his vision and balance, but Jac still fought with everything he had, and before long, he’d backed Charles into the wall beside the door.
Every time he hit Charles, the man smiled. His teeth were red with blood.
“Keep hitting me, Jac,” he said, his voice edged and manic. “Keep hitting me. Keep hitting me.” And Jac did, even as Charles repeated himself over and over. He should be winning—no matter his talent, Charles should be collapsing from the pain of it all—but somehow, Charles remained standing. He watched Jac with reddened eyes, and then he spit at him, landing bloody saliva on Jac’s cheek. “Keep hitting me, why don’t you?”
Jac shoved him against the mirror, and Charles’s head thumped hard against the glass, leaving a web of cracks. Still, Charles laughed. Jac held his forearm against Charles’s neck, pinning his wrists behind him. He pressed down hard, choking him.
“You’re still afraid,” Charles rasped with the little breath he had.
“You’re shatz,” Jac growled. When he’d imagined this fight, it wasn’t like this. It had felt more satisfying. Even if Charles died tonight, Jac would still hear his laugh in his nightmares. In that way, Charles would still have won.
“You’re afraid of killing me,” Charles rasped. His eyes fixed on the Creed Jac wore around his neck. “You’ve never killed anyone before.”
“I want to kill you.” It was both the truth and a lie. Taking an innocent life was an unforgivable sin in the Faith, but Charles was far from innocent.
“You don’t. You don’t you don’t you don’t.” Charles gasped as Jac pushed on his throat harder. “Maybe...I...can help you...want.”
Then he turned his head just enough to lick the exposed skin of Jac’s arm.
It hurt.
It hurt where Charles had touched him. It hurt afterward, when Jac wrenched his arm away, where his skin was still wet from Charles’s tongue. It hurt all over him, like a fire lit within his veins. Jac staggered back and clutched at his stomach as the pain washed over him.
Charles straightened and cracked his neck. The smile fell from his face, his expression turning serious. “It’s finally time to play.”
While Jac caught his breath and lurched forward, desperately aiming to strike, Charles’s hand found the light switch. The room turned dark, and the doors suddenly closed. Charles caught Jac’s punch by the wrist and wrenched his arm up. Jac kneed him hard—hard enough to hear one of his ribs crack—but Charles’s grip barely even loosened. His tongue found Jac’s skin again, tracing down his underarm where his sleeve had slipped. Jac screamed, and his knees buckled.
Charles held him there as he rode out agony’s wave. Up close, he smelled vaguely acidic—an odor Jac recognized immediately as Rapture. The drug was probably the only thing keeping Charles from passing out.
Charles’s finger traced up Jac’s stomach beneath his shirt. Jac grabbed his arm to push him away, but he was weak from the pain of it all. Even the fabric of his shirt burned him, as though his skin had been lashed. Charles found Jac’s bruises from old fights and played them as though they were piano keys.
“Keep hitting me, Jac,” Charles said. He punched Jac hard in the stomach, skin hitting skin, knuckles hitting bone. “Keep hitting me, Jac. Keep hitting me, Jac.” Blow after blow, and Charles’s grip on his left arm was the only thing keeping Jac from collapsing on the floor. The contents of his stomach spun, and Jac barely had enough control left to keep them down. To keep himself breathing.
Charles snapped his fingers in front of Jac’s face. “Stay with me. No fainting.”
He let go of him, and Jac hit the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of him. His mind urged his body to scramble up, to run, but everything ached. He was helpless as Charles grabbed his leg and dragged him toward the back of the room, like an alligator pulling its victim into the deep. Jac arched his neck only enough to see the crack of red light beneath the door. It was a glimpse of hope, and it was growing farther away.
Jac had walked into Luckluster knowing this could be his fate, and no matter what Charles did to him, he didn’t want to break enough to regret his decision. He’d come here to save Sophia and Levi. He’d come here to destroy the empire that had nearly destroyed him.
But it hurt. So much.
His skin, his bruises, his bones, his stomach, his head. Everything hurt. And every time a wave of pain began to fade, Charles seemed to sense it. As he dragged Jac across the floor, his pointer finger found its way under Jac’s sock, twisting beneath the cotton, stroking the smooth parts of the skin below his ankle. Jac tried to stifle his screams, but it seemed like everything only hurt more, then. He could see nothing but the red
light, feel and hear and smell nothing but Charles. He didn’t even have enough lucidity in him to form a useless sinner’s prayer.
Charles dropped his leg. Jac managed to prop himself up on his elbows, but Charles’s shoe found his breastbone and pushed him down. He grabbed Charles’s calf to push him off, but he could only sputter, only gasp.
“I’ve been thinking of our game for months now. I wanted one I’ve never played before.”
Charles lifted his foot and knelt beside him. As Jac tried to push himself away, Charles grabbed him by the wrist and wrenched his arm closer. Slowly, he unraveled the gauze. Jac felt something cold and wet swab over the inside of his elbow. It smelled sterile.
“No,” Jac moaned, panic making his voice crack. He tried to kick his legs at Charles, but he missed.
Pop. Something opened. And even if it was too dark to see, Jac knew what it was. Though Charles was still preparing, Jac could already feel the needle against his skin, like an itch, like a nightmare. The liquid inside would be clear and familiar. It wouldn’t be enough for an overdose—on the contrary, it would be just enough to take all the pain away. Just enough so that Charles could continue to play with him. To draw out the game as long as he liked.
“Don’t,” Jac whispered hoarsely. He’d prepared himself for everything...except that.
“Have we already reached the part where you beg?”
Charles traced his finger down Jac’s neck, and Jac choked as he burned. Every breath was fire.
“It would feel better. You know it would. All of the pain will stop.”
Then Jac did feel the needle against his arm, teasing circles over his skin.
“Killing can grow boring after a while,” Charles said. “I forget the faces half the time. So I like to experiment. I like to make sure I learn something. And I always knew what I would ask you, once we reached this point.” The needle pressed into Jac’s skin. The pinch was almost unnoticeable compared to the rest of it, but that tiny prick made Jac’s chest heave. “Would you plead for me to keep hurting you? Or would you beg me for this?”
Jac didn’t recall the last time he’d cried, though he could feel tears streaking down his face now. He didn’t remember anything outside of this room—nothing except a promise...a promise he’d made to Sophia that he’d be okay.
Jac mustered all the breath he could. “Keep hitting me, Charlie.”
The red light behind him grew brighter. The door swung open, and a long shadow stretched across the floor. Their game was no longer private.
The lights switched on, and though Jac couldn’t see who’d entered, he could see Charles. He could see the Raptured redness of his eyes now, the oozing lashes on his chest, the syringe he pressed into Jac’s arm. But something about the brightness, the seeing, made him less afraid.
Charles claimed he forgot the faces of those he killed, but with the darkness lifted, he wouldn’t forget Jac’s. He would remember this moment, the one he’d been waiting for. And he would remember that Jac had said no.
“Sophia,” Charles purred, licking his lips. “I don’t remember inviting you.”
Jac should’ve felt relieved, but he didn’t have any illusions about being saved. If anything, Sophia had only damned them both.
“Back away from him,” she commanded. Jac made out the shape of a gun in her shadow.
“My sister tried a gun, too,” Charles said. “Are you lucky enough to hit me? She wasn’t.”
“I was lucky enough to find this room.” There was the click of a safety pulling off. “If you give him that, I’ll kill you.”
Jac felt the needle sliding out of his arm, and he choked out a sob of relief.
“Give him that? He asked me not to.” The syringe clattered on the wooden floor. “I admit, I hadn’t expected that.”
“Stand up,” Sophia snapped.
“You won’t hit me. All those lucky charms, all this bad luck I’ve been accruing on him... You still won’t have enough to kill me.” Charles stood up and walked closer to her. “But we could play. How many bullets do you have? How many chances? If you were sure, if you were lucky enough, I could turn out the lights, and you could try to shoot me through the heart.”
Jac struggled to catch his breath, and he rolled himself over so that he could see them. Charles walked toward Sophia, in a direct line toward her gun. Her hand trembled as she aimed it. Her eyes flickered to Jac’s, and it was painfully obvious that she was afraid. She hadn’t walked into Luckluster prepared to die, like he had, but she’d come for him all the same.
She fired. The bullet shattered the mirror across the room. The sound of it stung Jac’s ears, pounded around his skull. He cringed and pulled himself to his knees. He’d never felt so weak. He knew it was temporary, knew he would recover until Charles touched him again, but he couldn’t heal fast enough. He needed to stand. He needed to help.
“You could keep firing,” Charles told her. “Keep pressing your luck until you run out of it altogether. You know what might happen then. You know the two of you can’t beat me.”
She fired again. The bullet buried itself in the plaster where the mirror had once been.
Jac cursed and stood, even if it ached to do so. Their game wasn’t over yet.
“Or you could take one step back, and let me close that door,” Charles cooed. “Then he and I can finish what we were doing.”
Sophia’s green eyes flickered to Jac’s one last time. Jac had a plan, but he didn’t have the voice to tell her. He tried to mouth it to her, but she shook her head. Jac knew she’d misunderstood. He hadn’t told her to run.
He’d told her to move.
With all the energy he could muster, he charged at Charles. The man neared the door’s threshold, focused on the pistol Sophia had pointed at him, just a few feet away. In the mirror, Jac glimpsed Charles’s smile when Sophia stepped back. For a moment, Charles had thought he’d won. He was already reaching for the door to close it, already licking his lips in anticipation.
Then Jac knocked into him with all the force he had. He dug his shoulder into Charles’s back and pushed, and pushed, and pushed. They stumbled onto the carpet, into the lights, and collided with the railing.
Charles slipped, and the momentum made him flip over. As he fell, a look of bewilderment crossed his face.
Charles’s luck had finally run out.
Screams erupted from the party below. Heaving for breath, Jac looked over the railing to see that Charles had fallen onto the casino’s spiral staircase, several of the wrought iron stakes protruding from his stomach. His bare chest, already laced with lashes and old scars, seeped over with red. His arms dangled limply beneath him, his mouth hung slightly ajar.
His bloodshot eyes were dead.
Sophia’s hands found Jac’s shoulders, pulling him away and into her. Jac buried his face in her shoulder and leaned against her to keep his balance.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You were right—”
“Don’t be sorry.” She rubbed her hand down his hair. Jac took deep breaths to steady himself, and he kept his gaze locked on the banquet hall, on the floor where he’d lain only moments before. He wanted to remember it like this—bright and empty.
“The Dove had escaped, and so I went to find you, just in case. But you were already gone.” She squeezed him tighter. “I wish I was angry with you.”
“You should be.”
She shook her head. “It’s over now. We’ll call Harrison and we’ll tell him that it’s finally done.”
Jac reached for the scar on his arm, but realized it no longer itched. So he rubbed his Creed instead. With each passing moment, the residual burning from Charles’s touch faded. The nightmare had finally reached its end.
Of all the pain he’d experienced tonight, he’d expected killing to hurt more than this—or at least to hurt at
all.
Maybe your soul didn’t break like a bone. Maybe it broke like a promise.
LEVI
Levi caught his breath and knocked on Harrison’s door in the Kipling’s Hotel.
Last night, Vianca had put Levi up in his old room at St. Morse, as though his former apartment held any nostalgia for him. He’d lain restlessly on the familiar sheets, wondering if he could truly make a palace out of a prison, and realized that if he was going to accept this crown, he needed to know why the last prince had rejected it. He needed the truth.
“Levi,” Harrison greeted him as he swung the door open. He wore a satin robe and leather, fur-lined slippers. “Have you come to kill me?”
“Wh-what?” Levi stammered, panting. “Why would I be coming to kill you?”
“Because you’re pounding on my door at six in the morning, and because it’s the sort of thing my mother would probably send you to do.” Harrison looked him over with a crinkled nose. “And you’re sweating.”
“I took the stairs,” Levi explained.
“It’s the sixty-third floor.”
“Well, I couldn’t just walk in the front door like last time,” he snapped, bracing himself against the doorframe. “I’m alone, and there’s ten thousand volts on my head.”
“So dramatic,” Harrison muttered. He motioned for Levi to follow him inside, and Levi nearly collapsed onto the carpet. The room, like before, was covered in a disorganized mess of papers, telephones, and campaign buttons.
“I’m actually surprised my mother hasn’t sent anyone to assassinate me,” Harrison said, pouring Levi a glass of water. “Last night, I received word that Prescott’s eight-point lead in the polls is gone, and it’s all thanks to you.”
Levi opened his mouth to say, “Come again?” but quickly collected himself. He had no clue what’d given Harrison such a lead, but he was very willing to accept the credit. “Yes...yes, that’s why I’m here.”
Harrison cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. “Of course,” he said, smirking. He ushered Levi to the couch and handed him the glass. “Now that Charles Torren is dead, it will only be a matter of days until both casinos will be nothing but rubble, and I can grind my heels in the ashes.”