Masks and Shadows (43 page)

Anna swam up out of unconsciousness, head pounding, with a tight constriction clamped around her arm and waist. The ground rolled up and down beneath her.

She cracked open her eyes and gasped with pain. Nausea whirled through her body. The shell-lined path outside the opera house crunched beneath her dragging feet. The pressure at her arm and waist was the tight grip of an imperial soldier, dragging her away from the opera house. Toward . . . She swallowed, and pain crashed through her head.
Toward the prison
.

It was too late. The finale had ended. The Prince hadn't believed her. Hundreds of people would die. She had given up her newfound career and missed her chance for a shining new life. All for nothing?

No!

She'd remained slumped, her eyes still mostly closed, as the thoughts had played through her head. The soldier had no way of knowing that she had woken. He wouldn't expect any trouble.

How much worse could her own trouble become?

She counted down in her head, preparing herself.
Three . . . two . . . one!

She spun around with all her weight, throwing herself against him. Her captor's grip loosened. She kicked out her leg from within her great mass of skirts, slamming her foot behind his knee. He stumbled and fell, cursing, onto the path. Murderous rage darkened his face as he rolled onto his back, preparing to jump to his feet.

“You little—!”

Anna stomped the sharp heel of her elegant shoe straight onto his diaphragm, and ran.

Friedrich strode across the stage without a moment's hesitation, taking his place on the mark von Born had set for him. Not something he'd ever thought to do, stepping onto a stage—not something his parents would ever have imagined for him, either—but then, it was the least of the madness taking place tonight. If he'd been in his right mind, he probably would have been bloody terrified.

He should have felt frightened even now, shouldn't he? When he looked at his hands, he could see them shaking. But his head felt cool, safe and far removed from what he was doing . . . at least as long as the bloody singer shut up about it. What was the point in talking about it? Anton was already dead, and Friedrich had killed him. It was too late to pretend that anything could be made right, after that.

He'd always thought it was enough to mean well, to be liked, to be a good fellow. Well, it wasn't enough. It hadn't saved him, had it? All that was left now was to give in, because it was too late to care anymore.

He looked out at the audience, at the sea of empty faces waiting for their deaths. What he realized, then, surprised him into a near-laugh, for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours.

Sophie was safely outside the pyramid, at the far edge of the third row of seats. If they'd sat in the center, as she'd wanted, she would have been in the middle of the pyramid, sucked down to Hell with the rest of them.

“Ha!” he breathed. “You see?” She couldn't hear him, but he said it anyway, in a moment of fierce elation. “You don't know everything, after all. I'm the one who was right this time!”

For a moment, that was nearly enough.

Anna ran along the side of the opera house, kicking off her shoes for speed. She only had a minute or less of grace from the gasping, wheezing soldier behind her. She sped through the side entrance, ignoring the pain that filled her head.
She couldn't be too late
.

She threw herself up the stairs to the auditorium. The sharp corners of the marble stairs scraped at her stockinged feet. She slipped.

She grabbed the wrought-iron railing and caught herself just in time. The soldier's footsteps sounded at the bottom of the stairs just as she launched herself through the door, into the audience.

“Raise your arms,” von Born called.

Franz raised his arms. What was the point of resisting? All this time, everything he'd done, everything he'd hoped—futile, all of it. All of it had led inexorably to this moment.

They're only aristocrats
, he told himself.
They wouldn't lift a finger for me, either
.

“Repeat after me,” the leader called. “
We summon you through our bond of fellowship
.”

“We summon you . . .” As Franz droned through the words, something moved in the corner of his vision. He blinked.

It was a woman, hurrying through the back rows of the auditorium. A woman in a familiar blue gown.

What in the name of God?

Franz snapped his gaze back to von Born. The man's gaze was focused and intense as he stared down at the stage. He hadn't seen Fräulein Dommayer yet. Franz could swear to it.

What the hell was he to do?

“
We summon you through the rites of atonement
,” the leader intoned.

“We summon you . . .”

Franz breathed all the words, hardly aware of what he said. All his attention focused on Fräulein Dommayer as she raced up the stairs to the balcony and neared the royal box. She pushed past the entranced guard, whose head nodded against his chest. She threw the door open and hurtled inside.

Von Born's head snapped around . . . and then he shrugged. Even from the stage, Franz could see his fierce grin.

“
We summon you to our company. Now!
”

Flames shot up along the lines of the triangle and closed Fräulein Dommayer within it.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Fräulein Dommayer's screams ripped through the theater, filling Franz's ears. They were the only sound of protest from the rows and rows of people who sat, blank-faced, within the great triangle formed by crackling flames.

Von Born didn't even blink at the sound as he raised his arms. “Call the flames into the pyramid with me, gentlemen!
We invite you to—
”

“Wake up!” Fräulein Dommayer screamed, throwing herself at one of the women in the royal box.

“No,” Franz breathed.

The lines of the pyramid cannot be broken while at least two guardians stand at its points.

Franz leapt back from his post and launched himself across the stage, straight at Lieutenant von Höllner.

“Wake up!” Anna screamed. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

Heat blazed against her skin, and the scent of burning wood filled the air. A sheet of fire outside the box blocked the open doorway, while two lines of flame crossed through the top corners of the royal box, setting the thin wooden walls alight. She didn't understand why the fire wasn't spreading to the rest of the box. She was too desperate to care.

How could they all sleep through this? It could only be magic, witchcraft, to hold them all unconscious while strange, still lines of flame rose around them. She would have taken them for dead already, had she not seen the steady rise and fall of their chests.

She was trapped in a sea of ghosts.

Heat licked at Charlotte's face. Something was burning, somewhere close. A voice rose in entreaty, calling her name. Hands touched her shoulders and shook them urgently. The voice broke into sobs.

Anna?
Charlotte thought. But she couldn't open her eyes to look.