Page 47 of Illusionist
These aren't just performers. They're predators.
Elias Vale steps forward first, towering over the older man despite Voss's attempts to maintain dignity. “Hello, Father.”
My breath catches in my throat at the title. Is Malachi Voss really Vale's father? Did these cultists abuse their own children?
“You've grown.” Voss's voice wavers despite his obvious attempt at control. “All of you.”
“Twenty years will do that, Father,” Silas says, his eyes burning with barely contained rage. Is Voss his father as well, then? “Though I'm surprised you recognized us. We were so much smaller when you last saw us.”
“Smaller,” the fire eater echoes. His hands flex like he's fighting the urge to reach for something combustible. “Weaker. Easier to break.”
The strongman says nothing, but his eyes hold murder. The knife thrower spins a blade between his fingers with casual menace.
Nova stands apart from the group, leaning against the dressing room's door with narrowed eyes. Even with the distance, she looks like she belongs here, among these damaged, deadly people.
“I know why you're here.” Voss tries to inject authority into his voice. “What you think I—what you believe happened?—”
“Think?” Silas steps closer, invading the old man's space. “Believe? We know exactly what happened. We lived it.”
“The Sanctum of Ash is dead,” Voss says quickly. “Has been for years. Whatever grievances you harbor?—”
“Grievances.” The word comes from Elias, flat and deadly. “Is that what we're calling twenty years of nightmares? The sound children make when they're dying?”
Voss's composure breaks. “I never—the things you're implying—I tried to help you. All of you. I provided structure, guidance, a home?—”
“You provided hell,” the animal tamer says quietly. His voice carries the weight of unspeakable trauma. “You and the other Prophets. You fathered children and turned us into?—”
“Enough.” Elias's voice cuts through the night air like a blade. “You know why we're here, Father. You've seen what's happened to your fellow Prophets. Abel Hawthorne. Peter Kane. John Fields.”
Each name hits Voss visibly. Voss’s face goes gray, and he actually staggers backward.
“Ezekiel Moore sends his regards,” the knife thrower adds with a vicious grin. “Oh, wait. He can't. He's dead.”
“You're murderers.” The accusation comes out weak, desperate.
“We're justice.” Silas's smile holds no warmth. “Twenty years overdue, but justice nonetheless.”
“The authorities?—”
“Won't help you.” The fortune teller speaks for the first time, his voice carrying dark certainty. “They failed us in the past. They'll fail you now.”
Voss looks around wildly, as if searching for escape routes or allies. Finding neither, he seems to crumble inward. “What do you want?”
“Everything.” Elias circles him slowly, an animal stalking wounded prey. “Your reputation. Your foundation. Your comfortable retirement. Your peace of mind. We want you to know exactly what it feels like to be powerless, afraid, abandoned by everyone who's supposed to protect you.”
“I have money?—”
“We don't want your money.” The fire eater's lighter appears, flame dancing in his palm. “We want your suffering.”
“Please.” The word tears from Voss's throat. “I'm an old man. I'm sick. I have cancer?—”
“Good.” The coldness in the animal tamer's voice makes my blood freeze. “I hope it hurts.”
They let that sink in for a moment. Seven damaged souls surrounding the man who apparently broke them, savoring his fear like fine wine.
Then Elias nods toward the parking lot. “Go home, Malachi. Enjoy what time you have left. Because we're just getting started.”
Voss doesn't need to be told twice. He stumbles away into the night, leaving the seven brothers to watch his retreat with cruel satisfaction.
