Chapter 8 · The First Rewrite

The knife stopped with its point resting against Eli’s ribs.

Maeve felt the warmth of his blood through the blade. It ran in a narrow red line beneath his torn shirt, too bright beneath the stage lights, too alive for a theater that had been feeding on corpses all night.

Eli did not move.

Neither did she.

Behind them, Henry Bell made a wet, rattling sound. Orla’s blue flame trembled over his wrist, sealing the black crescent of teeth that had opened there. The audience watched from their velvet seats, faces shifting between strangers and people Maeve almost recognized. Some wore masks. Some wore the faces of the dead.

And in the tall mirror at the back of the stage, Jonah opened his eyes.

Maeve’s hand tightened around the knife.

In the mirror, her reflection smiled.

The real Maeve did not.

‘Put it down,’ Eli said.

His voice was low, scraped raw by pain, but it held no fear. That frightened her more than the knife. He had been afraid before—