Page 58 of Death of the Glass Angel (Apotheosis #1)

Janus

Let not misguided hope blind you

From the bloodied path left behind

Janus leaned out the viewing window, admiring the vast opera house. Their private box loomed high above the stage, above the rows of seats packed with attendees.

Backing away, Janus dropped into her cushioned seat. Rich red banners of the Gaevral clan decorated the box, glowing faintly under the light of the single lantern.

Outside, Altanese and Sigillite guards stood vigil while Gemellus leaned beside the door, flipping a coin.

His head turned in her direction. “Would some effort have killed you?”

“Hm,” Janus glanced down at her plain white dress. “I wanted to be comfortable. It’s not like anyone’s going to see me.”

“They’ll see you at the banquet.” Gemellus rolled his head, and under his blindfold, probably his eyes, too. Flicking a handkerchief and tucking it into his vest, he ran a hand down the detailed embroidery.

“I’m not vain like you, Gem.” Janus rolled her eyes, too.

“Speaking of which, try to get attacked in public next time. It does me no good if my dashing rescue goes unseen.”

“Who exactly are you trying to impress?”

He smirked. “The world itself. Nothing less.”

Shaking her head, Janus closed her eyes and remembered what Des had overheard last night. Who was the lead actor? And what did Heras expect them to do?

Gemellus furrowed his brow and stepped outside, returning a moment later with a guest. Dressed richly in red tweed wrap with a white fur cloak, Felsin nodded thanks at Gemellus before setting his golden gaze on Janus.

Stiffening, Janus’ throat parched. They had not spoken since the incident in the tomb.

Sors padded along behind Felsin as he took a seat beside her. “Last day.” He said abruptly. “Everyone leaves tomorrow.”

“With everything back to normal.” Janus agreed. Should she apologize?

“Not for me.” He leaned forward. “I have a murderer to find.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why did Alfaris show you that, if he’s working with my mother?”

“I have no idea.” Janus leaned toward him. “I’m sorry. My curiosity always gets the better of me, and-”

“Don’t apologize,” Felsin said angrily. “I would never have known otherwise. His spirit would never rest, never join the ancestors if his true death went untold.”

Stunned, Janus stared at him. “Oh.” She managed.

“I was pretty mad at first, though. You know, opening a casket earns you the death penalty here?”

“Oh.”

Felsin’s face cracked, and he chuckled. “Janus, you’re. . .”

“What?”

“Special.” He decided.

“Yeah, Evander says that a lot, too,” Janus said, frowning. The last person she wanted to compare Felsin to was her brother.

If only she’d gotten to spend more time with him, under less duress. Janus wouldn’t have minded another round of training, or two.

But it was better this way. Nobody deserved to be stuck with a murderer like her—one whose life was cut in two. Even without the black mark on her character, there was hardly anything to love and plenty to hate.

Janus wanted to think about something else—anything else. Shimmying closer, she changed topics. “Can I ask you something? Who do we know who most reminds you of Burgundy Rose?”

Felsin took the question in stride. “Talon.”

“Really? Why?”

“You haven’t seen this play before, have you? You’ll understand by the end.”

Turning back to the stage, Janus watched the first act unfold. A band of thieves gathered around a handsome fireborn cefra in a roguish, tattered coat, pacing playfully around the stage as they planned their next move.

The orchestra roared to life as a song began, and Janus tapped her fingers along to the beat to steady her nerves. Across the stage, the faintest flicker of light outlined the box where Heras and Brand sat. From this distance, Janus could only see a flicker of red through the shadows.

Alfaris had disappeared entirely. Last night, Kalid sent men to the observatory, but it was empty. A brief search of the city had yielded nothing. No one knew where the old man had gone after leaving Heras’s office. Not even Felsin.

Another piece of the puzzle was missing. Alfaris claimed they were not enemies, but was that true?

Warmth draped over her trembling fingers. Startled, Janus’s head whipped down to see Felsin had laid his hand over hers.

He smiled at her. “Try to stop worrying for one hour.”

“That’s impossible,” Janus whispered back.

He chuckled, wrapping his fingers around hers.

Janus’s breathing steadied as the play moved into the second act. Everything was calm, and the engrossing story playing out below captured her attention.

The curtain rose on the next scene, and Janus tilted forward in her chair. The Governor had captured Burgundy and planned to throw him into a burning building as punishment for his crimes.

A mesmerizing set appeared as the curtain retracted. Fire flickered around a stone building, smoke rising from the stage as the guards dragged the captured rogue onstage.

Dragging him to a burning building, to burn him to death. . .

Janus’s breathing grew short, and her hands tightened on her armrests. Not now. Not here. Could she not enjoy a simple play without thinking about him?

Would this piece of her never heal? Time healed all wounds, they said.

They lied.

Grief never departed. It clung to you like wet cloth, like a wound reopened. When you thought the sorrow had passed, pain lanced through your heart like ice, as fresh as the first day.

The orchestra swelled as Burgundy was tossed into the flaming building, and its door bolted behind him. Janus strained to calm herself as something in her bag pulsed and thrummed, matching the beat of her pounding heart.

“Janus?” Felsin asked softly. “Are you okay?”

He wrapped his fingers around hers, and the pulsing ceased.

Fire erupted in their room, bathing the box in burning light. Janus shrieked and threw herself from her seat, losing her footing as she stumbled back, nearly tumbling out the viewing window. Felsin grabbed her arm and dragged her back.

Screams and shrieks echoed through the theater as it was consumed in flame, wrapping around the boxes and streaking across the stage. The roof above their heads shook and groaned, threatening to give way.

Janus looked up sharply as cracks splintered along the roof above them, and the ground beneath their feet quaked, throwing them off balance. Janus’s back collided with the viewing window again.

With a heart-stopping rumble, the wall behind her gave way, and she tumbled backward. Felsin grabbed her hand, trying to pull her back up, but the floor beneath his feet heaved and he slipped. Time slowed as Janus careened backward, plunging through open air to the fire below.

Everything stopped. Janus clenched her eyes closed, awaiting the pain. But it didn’t come.

Opening her eyes, she realized she was standing. Standing? Disoriented, she staggered, clutching her chest as it heaved.

The theatre was gone. The smoke and fire—gone. Even Felsin had disappeared.

She stood in a familiar vista. Sand rolled into the distance, spotted with rough rocks and shrubs. An ancient tower of crumbling stone rose from the desert, its door caved in, revealing a rickety stairwell that was half destroyed.

Eros danced up one step, pausing to shoot her a grin. His pink eyes twinkled as he brushed a strand of curly brown hair from his eyes.

Eros?

This was the oldest building in Thuatia. A tower of superstition. Supposedly, at midnight on the eve of the new year, one could glimpse the ancient edifice becoming a golden clock tower.

Gone were the flames of a burning theater. Unbearable heat quelled into the pleasant warmth of a Thuatian summer’s night.

“Well?” Eros asked. “Are you coming?”