The Master and The Marionette (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 2)

Judas.

I only have room for one thought now. How can I get Judas to open up to me? How can I coax him into telling me everything he knows?

It’s midnight and we’ve made it to the city. Since we left the Red Oaks, I have refused to look at him. The ache in my chest has taken on a new shape. A dagger of jagged edges with a rusted surface. My hurt finds a protective outer shell, a shield of anger, a dull throb of annoyance in my gut. He’s toyed with my feelings. Feelings I’ve never had before. Feelings that nudged me in his direction, into the thirteenth room, into a life of running and isolation. He didn’t have to put his hands on me in the lagoon the night we shared our secrets. He didn’t have to kiss me, giving me false hope.

It’s manipulative. And I thought Kane was different. I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about those games. I have been used and abused my entire life. And now it’s happening again, but in a new form. A fishing hook to my heart, tugging, yanking until I hear the ripping sounds of my arteries being torn from my chest cavity.

Kane’s plan is to get caught sneaking around the city. He’s convinced the asylum will expect us to stay within its perimeters. The seven forests are too dangerous. Even though that’s exactly where Demechnef will be searching for us. Once caught, Dessin will quickly take his place.

The streetlights are elegant torches of rich orange flames, reflecting off the cobblestone streets and the tall double-pane glass windows on either side of the columns from the dress shops, the barbershops, the shops for beauty, the shops for perfume and home decor. They’re all lined up down Main Street, with tall mansard roofs topped, round cornices, coffee-colored bricks, and brackets beneath the eaves and bay windows.

Although the city is sleeping, we saunter down the sidewalk, completely exposed. Kane knows we have exactly twenty minutes before five city guards will do a routine perimeter check. And we’ll be out in the open waiting.

A block down the road, I hear the faint sound of water bursting from a pipe, sprinkling down over asphalt. The Chandelier Fountain Water Show. On the first Wednesday before a celebration, the show automatically goes on at night to keep the water circulated. Tomorrow is the Original Architects celebration. The day the first of our people came on boats and fought to get through the thick and deadly layers of the seven forests.

The fountains shoot up to the sky and spray over the area. There’s always the same record that plays during the show. A guitar, a violin and the faint beat of a drum. It’s upbeat and folksy, very similar to the dancing agronomists around their campfires with hands full of bottled moonshine.

I look over at Kane who is watching the show from afar. If we’re to go back to the asylum, into the mouth of hell, we need to be united. There can’t be this tension. The kiss is trying to drown me, his words are pressing a pillow over my mouth and holding me down. I want this torture to end here. If anything, I need my friend back for what comes next.

A mischievous grin spreads over my entire face. He catches the change in his peripherals and raises his eyebrows at me. “I think you need a bath,” I say.

He tilts his head in confusion, and then understanding tackles him to the ground. “No, absolutely not. We just got dry, Skylenna.”

No more honey.

But I stop listening, tossing off my boots to break out into an excited sprint. He grunts behind me and heavy footsteps lunge forward to stop me.

I’m close enough now to feel the cold mist sprinkled into the air, sticking to my skin as I enter the cloud of fountain spray. The music gets louder, just as my right foot hits the cold water, the tempo thrums to life. Dancing music. Wild and careless. And just as the cannon of water shoots up to the sky, iron arms wrap around my waist, lifting me into the air. I let go of a laughing scream that feels like it’s been waiting ages to be set free. How good it feels to have those arms around me again.

The water in the sky falls, plummeting back down to earth with a vengeance. We’re instantly drenched, head to toe.

He lets out a laugh of relief and excitement from behind my head. I’m being twirled around in the wet chaotic air. “You are a HANDFUL!” He booms into more laughter.

I wiggle free and run across the fountain to dodge him between bursts of water, lifting my knees high enough to not get slowed down.

His face, his hair, his clothes are soaking wet and he’s grinning. I made him smile. I spin around, following the rhythm of pulsing water shots like a ballerina. He’s maneuvering around the water pumps, careful not to get blasted.

The happiness softening the tension between us is heavy in the air, stronger than the water pressure, and louder than the music. It’s pounding against my chest and telling me not to stop.

He chases me relentlessly, grinning at my sad attempt to be stealthy. Finally, he catches me, takes my hands in his, and spins us around. Like children playing in the rain, a thunderstorm in the forest, a secret dance of youth and friendship. He swings me around in a swing dance, whirling me through the briny air as I cackle. There’s a strong chance I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. Just like children playing in the rain, a thunderstorm in the forest.

And that elation is quickly replaced with something else entirely. A chain that wraps around my heart, tightening to the point of pain. Until I’m frozen. Until I’m paralyzed.

It’s like the moment I stepped into the thirteenth room. The moment I laid eyes on Dessin. The time he showed me the wooden tokens from the satchel in the asylum basement. A familiar wave of déjà vu swirling in my stomach. Like I’ve been here before or somewhere like it. Like if I tried hard enough, I could fade into a lost memory.

I look at Kane from across the fountain. The water sprinkles over us, slowly, dreadfully slow like the clock of this world has begun to stop working. It falls across our vision of each other. And that’s when I see it. A young boy with his eyes. Happier. Less troubled. I see him twirling a little girl around. I see the raindrops falling to the earth. I see the lightning crack across the sky and the dark-gray clouds bumping into one another. I hear the thunder that makes the girl jump. And I feel it. Like we’ve done this before. Like we’ve danced in the water and sang in the rain.

And this entire time, I hold my eye contact with Kane, who now looks worried. He runs to me, so slowly, as if it takes minutes to hear one foot splashing in the fountain.

“What is it?” That deep, soothing voice is muffled by the sound of the thunderstorm. The rain pattering over the leaves in the forest.

But he’s holding my shoulders now, bringing me back to this world. Back to the fountain. Dragging me far away from the children playing in the rain.

I shake my head. Willing the images to let go of me. Remove me from the frozen state. Release me from imprisonment.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I’ve been here before.”

He pauses. He waits for me. I don’t think he’s breathing.

“Kane, have we ever danced in the rain?”

He stares at me bewildered, like watching an inactive volcano begin to quake.

“Did we play in a thunderstorm in the forest?” I ask again.

I see his Adam’s apple shift. And then, a shift in his expression. A look of emptiness. Then, something dominant. Powerful. Dessin.

“I think you’ve gotten too much water in your ears.” He smirks. “Let’s get you out of here.”

I don’t object because I’m feeling silly. I should have just kept that to myself. He thinks I am insane. I’m seeing things now. Oh man, I’m seeing things now! And poor Kane didn’t know how to handle it. He panicked and Dessin had to take over.

How the tables have turned, huh, Dessin?

We find our way out of the maze of pumps and lights. I sit down and wring out my hair.

He picks up his dry shoes. “Thankfully he was sensible enough to keep these off.”

I’m embarrassed. Like the feeling when you get caught sleep talking, and it was loud enough to wake you up, but illogical enough to let whoever is around you know that you were without a doubt sleep talking. And there’s no explanation or quick way to recover. You can either roll over and go back to sleep, or admit you were sleep talking. But the embarrassment is there just the same.

“Can we just forget I said that?” I’m small. So small.

He chuckles and sits down next to me. “Only if we can forget that Kane kissed you.”

Ouch. Small doesn’t even begin to describe how I’m feeling now. Why would he want me to forget? Was it really that horrible? Or taboo? Am I a bad kisser? How could that passion and unbelievable connection have only been one way?

“Already forgotten.” I clip my words, short and to the point. “It wasn’t great for me either. Better if we pretend it never happened.” But I want it to happen again! Can’t you see that, Dessin? The memory of it is eating me alive and he never wants to speak of it again. Well, I can be just as cold as he is. I can be bitter and nonsentimental.

I look up in time to catch the solid clenching on his jaw, the muscle flexing over and over. His eyes close slowly. Fast breaths pump his chest. What could Kane be saying right now? Or feeling?