Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Abruptly, the sandstorm abates, falling away like a curtain, leaving only birds circling in the night sky. The sounds of the humans whimpering and crying replaces the storm, along with the roaring hum of the bus’s engine, chugging along with significantly more trouble than it was previously. “I can see it!” shouts Elias from the front, voice hoarse and weary. “The town! Guys, we’re there, we’re almost there!”
“Stay still,” Kyle tells Nico. “Just breathe. You’re gonna be okay. Just stay with me …”
Nico clings tighter to Raya. “I … I don’t care what happens to me. Get Kaleb to safety. Get that man the life he … he deserves. I’m gonna … I’m just gonna rest my head here, right here on this brave lady’s back, just for a minute …” Then Nico closes his eyes.
38.
Until the Bitter End.
—∙—
Tristan steps over a broken chair painted in blood.
Circles a table with the charred remains of some Feral on top.
And the corpse of Director Andrea of the Seattleus domain on the floor, poking out from beneath the same table, her blackened bones twisted among shattered glass and cutlery.
The banquet hall is eerily calm.
Ribbons of smoke twirl from the red tabletops where once the flames raged, dancing to the heedless heavens.
There is no chatter. No clinking of glasses. No merriment.
Only eerie calm.
With the illusions stripped away, it comes as a surprise how much of the banquet was actually real. From the large, decorative centerpieces to the fancy red tablecloths. The chandeliers hanging overhead. Even the stage for the most part.
Tristan stops where the small and childlike shape of Director Peter drew his last breath—and choked on it. Kneeling on the floor cradling his lifeless body is Director Tsuki, skin spotted with blood and minor burns. She says nothing as Tristan approaches, only glancing briefly at him, the frames of her teal-colored glasses askew. Nearby, Director Ernest stands in his pink suit, which isn’t so pink anymore, as he gazes absently across the room of carnage. Next to him, Ms. Tamara of New Orleanea, a director Tristan has met only once, whose eyes seem trapped in the nightmare of the past hour. Ahead, seated upon the lip of the stage leaning against the bars like two rejected dates at prom, Cindy and Zara are side-by-side in their pretty dresses, now torn, burned in spots and stained with blood, both of them haggard and silent.
Tristan’s foot kicks into something. He steps back.
Markadian’s glittering, ruby-red bowtie. Also not an illusion. Somehow, impossibly, inexplicably untouched by the fire.
Tristan picks it up, shakes off stray bits of ash, holds it with both of his hands.
He thinks suddenly about how Kyle’s eyes seemed to smile as he helped him with his own bowtie a matter of hours ago. How they peered at one another through the mirror. How they were so touched by one another’s presence, as if not a single day had gone by since their lifetime in the cabin.
Tristan considers what a beautiful last moment they shared before their whole world burned, as he departs the banquet hall, moving past the shadowy edges of the room where the glowing embers have finally turned black, hissing out their last bits of life.
The bowtie is still in his hands when he finally arrives at the door to Markadian’s sleeping quarters. Miss May, both of her, are outside, but one is leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, the other sitting on the floor hugging her knees to her chest. It is the first time Tristan has seen Miss May in a state of asymmetry.
Neither acknowledge him, faces obscured by their long hair.
May I enter? Tristan asks anyway.
Miss May does not reply.
Tristan enters the room. Only an armoire and a bed. Nothing on the walls. No windows. Illusion stole Markadian’s best décor, leaving his private chambers in a bleak, uninspired state. Only the faint light from a lamp near the bed fills the room, a soft, intimate light, pooling over the sheets and barely illuminating the tall shape of Ashara standing next to it.
“I told him to bury you,” she says without looking. Her words come out evenly, yet firm, as crisp as snow.
Tristan stays near the door, bowtie clutched in hand, staring at the silent bed.
“The moment I knew of your falsehoods, I told my brother, I said it firmly, I said it with conviction: you cannot be trusted. Yet still, he insisted that you be there, that you paid witness to your dear lover Kyle crumble as he watched his brother get eaten by a lion. He wanted you to see.”
I know. Tristan fidgets with the bowtie, its sandy texture, its weight, playing with it between his fingers. I know Markadian was counting on Kyle’s anger. With his brother in the cage, he expected him to break the truce they had just a second ago struck. He wanted a legal, viable reason to end Kyle, too. It was a very … Markadian thing to do.