Page 46 of Illusionist
Cole's knife stills in his hands. “That so?”
I lift my chin, finding my voice. “I stabbed my abusive husband with a rigging spike and left him to bleed. Does that qualify?”
I watch their faces, waiting for judgment, for the inevitable rejection.
Instead, Cole grins, the smile sharp and approving. “Definitely qualifies.”
“Welcome to the family,” Jonah says, his deep voice gentle despite his intimidating size.
Rowe nods once, a gesture of acceptance from the quietest of them. Marek shuffles his cards, nodding with approval.
But it's Elias who speaks with final authority, rising from his chair with fluid grace. “Well, Nova, you're now a member of the Seven Sins family. Which means we protect our own, no matter what.”
The words hit me with such force. Family. Protection. Belonging. Concepts I'd given up on years ago, written off as fairy tales for people luckier than me.
Jules sets down her coffee and crosses to me, pulling me into a fierce hug that smells like leather and bubblegum. “Welcome home.”
Home. That word makes my chest tighten. When was the last time I felt like I belonged anywhere?
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice thick with unshed tears.
“Don't thank us yet,” Logan says with dark humor. “You haven't seen us at our worst.”
“Trust me,” I manage, finding my balance again. “I can handle worse.”
Elias's smile is sharp as a blade. “I believe you can. Now, shall we discuss tonight's plans? Our guest of honor will be attending the show.”
The conversation shifts to logistics, and I listen, absorbing details about their mission, about the man they're hunting. Malachi Voss. About justice delayed but not denied.
As they talk, I feel what I haven't felt in over a decade: the solid certainty of belonging somewhere. Of being wanted, protected, valued for exactly who I am—scars and all.
16
TEDDY
The Big Top pulses with energy as I take my seat for tonight's show. Same spot as before—halfway up, good sightlines, anonymous among families and couples drawn by the carnival's dark magnetism. But tonight feels different. Charged. Like electricity building before a storm.
I scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face, wondering if he'll show up. And there he is, sitting alone near the front, dressed in expensive clothes, his back ramrod straight.
Malachi Voss.
The drums start, and darkness swallows us whole until the spotlight flares to life, finding the ringmaster. Elias Vale commands the space like a king surveying his domain, that ruby-tipped cane catching the light. His pale eyes sweep the crowd, pausing for just a heartbeat when they reach the older man in front.
The show unfolds like before—strongman, knife thrower, animal tamer, fire eater, fortune teller. Each act is more mesmerizing than the last, each performer radiating that same dangerous energy I felt the first night. But my attention keeps drifting to Malachi Voss, watching his reactions. I wish I could see his face.
Finally, the illusionist and escape artist take the ring, and I stop looking at the old man. My body's reaction is instantaneous—my breath sawing in and out, my heart in my throat, my pants growing tighter. I watch Nova work her magic with chains and locks, watch Silas orchestrate their dance of restraint and freedom.
The show ends with thunderous applause, but Malachi Voss doesn't clap. He sits frozen, his head following the performers as they leave the ring.
The crowd filters out into the night, chattering about what they've witnessed. I hang back, letting families and couples pass while keeping one eye on Voss. He remains seated, apparently lost in whatever memories the performance stirred up.
Finally, he stands on unsteady legs and makes his way toward the exit. But instead of heading to the parking lot, he veers toward the back of the tent. Toward the dressing room where I witnessed a performance I wasn't meant to see.
Every instinct screams this is it—the moment I've been waiting for. I slip from my seat, following at a distance as he disappears behind the canvas walls.
Around the corner, Voss stands in front of the pop-up container, his hands clenched by his sides. Then the performers emerge—all seven of them, still in their show clothes but with masks removed.
But it's the way they move together—fluid, coordinated, like wolves in a pack—that makes my blood run cold.
