Page 48 of Illusionist
I should follow him. Should offer protection, call for backup, do something to prevent what's obviously coming. But I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't process what I've just witnessed.
The systematic hunting of cult leaders who tortured children. The methodical destruction of monsters who escaped justice for decades. A reckoning delivered by the very people the system failed to protect.
Part of me—the federal agent, the upholder of law and order—knows I should stop this. Should arrest these people before they can claim another victim.
But another part, deeper and more honest, whispers that maybe some debts can only be paid in blood.
I'm still wrestling with that moral calculus when movement catches my eye. The performers are dispersing, heading back to their trailers and whatever post-show rituals they maintain. All except two.
Nova and Silas remain near the dressing room behind the Big Top, bodies drawn together like magnets. Even from here, I can see the tension between them—sexual, yes, but deeper too. Recognition. Understanding. The kind of bond forged in shared darkness.
He backs her against the canvas wall, and I know I should look away. Know I'm violating their privacy, crossing lines that can't be uncrossed. But I can't stop watching, can't deny the way my pulse quickens as his hands frame her face.
When he kisses her, it's with the desperate hunger of someone claiming what's his. She responds with equal intensity, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body pressing against his like she's trying to crawl inside his skin.
My cock stirs despite everything—the moral implications, the professional ethics, the dozen reasons this is wrong. Watching them together does things to me I don't understand, awakens desires I've never acknowledged.
Suddenly, a hand lands on my shoulder, and I spin around, my heart hammering in my chest.
Elias Vale stands behind me, his pale gray eyes unnerving as they bore inside me.
“Enjoying the show, Agent Coleman?”
The blood freezes in my veins. He knows who I am.
I try to keep my voice casual. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
His laugh holds no humor. “Sure you don't. Theodore Coleman, FBI. Former Secret Service golden boy. Currently assigned to investigate the Sanctum of Ash cult.”
Fuck. How long have they known?
“We read about you in the papers,” he continues conversationally, never taking his eyes off mine. “Governor Langford's pet federal agent, sent to hunt down the big bad cult. Quite the hero story.”
More figures emerge from the shadows. The knife thrower, the fire eater, the strongman, the animal tamer. They surround me, cutting off all possible escape routes.
“Question is,” the knife thrower muses, his knife flashing near my face, “what do we do with our curious little federal agent?”
“Kill him,” the fire eater suggests cheerfully. “Make it look like an accident. Carnival's a dangerous place for tourists who wander where they don't belong.”
“Too messy,” the strongman rumbles. “Bodies attract attention we don't need right now.”
“Could disappear him like the others,” the animal tamer adds quietly. “One more missing person in a long list.”
They're discussing my murder like they're debating dinner options. Professional. Casual. Terrifyingly competent.
“Or,” a new voice cuts through the night, “we could see what he wants.”
Silas emerges from behind them, Nova at his side. They look slightly mussed from their passionate kiss. Seeing them together so close, knowing what I witnessed the other night—it makes my cock twitch despite the knife at my throat.
“I want to know the truth.” I manage to force words past my constricted throat.
“About what?” Vale asks conversationally. Like they're not threatening to kill me.
“About the Sanctum of Ash. About what happened to you. About what you're doing now.”
The fortune teller drifts into view last. “He speaks truth,” he observes. “But truth has many faces.”
“Some truths are dangerous to know,” Silas adds, studying me with those penetrating blue eyes. “Especially for federal agents with delusions of justice.”
