“Enjoy,” he says. “Oh, and don’t bother screaming. It’s soundproof.”
He slams the door. I expect to fall into darkness, but there’s a light on. I turn slowly and look around. An empty storage room. I stop, my gaze falling on the far wall.
A painting.
I lift my gaze to the face of the oldest son, sneering down at me.
Chapter Forty
Forty
As I stare at the painting, I remember the others—the angry grief of the younger daughter, the haunted fear of the older daughter, the grim resolve of the other son. All had accurately portrayed the effect of the illusion. Accurately portrayed the subject of the portrait, too, I presume. The youngest, grief-stricken and furious, lashing out at anyone who came near. Her older sister, terrified of the fate her mother described. The younger son, determined to avenge his brother and sister. This is the oldest, and had I not known his fate, I’d have thought he looked like a typical young nobleman. Or a typical guy of Connolly’s social circles. His chin held high, his gaze oozes hauteur as he smirks down at the peasants and tries to decide whether any of the girls are pretty enough to bed. A harmless playboy, easily dismissed.
I know better. And knowing better, I see more in those eyes, the same way I had with the younger daughter and son, their seemingly placid expressions masking their cold rage.
I remember what Mercy told me about this “boy.” About what he’d done. About the fates of those who triggered his curse. Mostly, I think of what he did in the nursery, the horror of it overpowering everything else. Knowing that story, the lift to his chin and the smug smirk on his face take on a whole other meaning. Not a renaissance frat boy, but a sociopathic monster.
He massacred the children and wives of his enemy. Not because those children and wives did anything to him. No, he killed them to avenge himself on his captors.
The worst of it is that he probably wasn’t an actual sociopath at all. How many women and children in history have shared that fate? Murdered to hurt a man, their lives nothing more than daggers to the heart of the true target. Classical literature is full of it. Just look at Medea, murdering her own children to hurt her faithless husband. That is what truly enrages me, looking on this painting. I see a monster, and I know he is just one of thousands who decided a woman or child’s only worth was as a tool to wreak vengeance against another.
I look at this painting. At a young man in riding pants, one foot on a chair, posed to show off his eighteen-year-old physique to full measure.
It takes a moment for me to realize what is wrong with the picture. It hasn’t been retouched. I’m looking at a full-blown Italian Renaissance portrait, right down to the frilled cuff peeking from under his riding jacket sleeve, and the hand below, bedecked with rings and gripping a silver-handled riding crop.
Even Victor Costa hadn’t wanted to touch this one.
I stay where I am. I learned my lesson with the Vengeful Boy. I don’t need or want a better view. If I’m going to be trapped with it, I am staying right here in this—
The room goes dark. I back up fast, hitting the wall and plastering myself there. I reach for my phone. Yet when I touch my back pocket, I feel stiff fabric. I pat my hip and reach down and then experimentally move my legs.
I’m wearing a dress.
No, I think I’m wearing one. I’m caught in a powerful illusion. Remember that. The light did not turn out. I am not wearing a dress. My cell phone is in my back pocket. Focus on pushing past the illusion—
Someone whistles. It’s the first notes of a tune I don’t recognize. I wheel toward the noise. It comes again, and I back up.
Stop that. No one’s there.
Am I sure?
Another three notes. Then the slow roll of a footfall. I take a step sideways and bash into another wall.
“Little birdie wants to flee,” a male voice whispers. “Little birdie trapped with me.”
The same three notes follow. Not a tune, but birdsong.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I am not hearing a bird call. I am not hearing a man’s voice. I am not hearing a footstep. I am alone in this room.
Am I sure of that?
The other illusions didn’t have sound. Only image. That made sense.
What about the one at the motel? Zeus’s illusion?
I struggle to think even as the whistle comes again, raising the hairs on my neck. Did I hear anything at the motel that wasn’t real? Voices in other rooms? Cars in the parking lot?
I don’t think so. Visual only, even that giving way to other senses, like when I’d smelled mildew in the front office or Connolly felt broken concrete underfoot.
“Little birdie,” the voice croons. “Can you flee, little birdie?”
It’s not an illusion. That’s the cruel irony of it. Yes, I’m imagining that I’m wearing a dress. I might even imagine that the lights went off. That’s the illusion part, and then a real person has slipped into the room to torment me.
Well, if he’s real, I can fight.
I back against the wall, shivering and hoping—if the lights are really on—I look suitably terrified.
“Little birdie cannot fly. Little birdie’s going to die.”
The man lunges, shoes squeaking. I charge. I hit him in the stomach, and he gives an oomph as he sails backward. A very real, very human oomph.
I smile as I bounce back on my toes, fists raised. My tormentor is real. One of Zeus’s minions sent to play the part of the eldest son, combined with an illusion that makes me think I’m one of the monster’s victims, fleeing from the nursery.
“Little birdie pecks and claws,” the man says. “Little birdie—”
He hits me mid-sentence. I’d been poised, waiting for the rest, as he expected. I didn’t hear him move, and his fist slams into my jaw. I flail blindly, but I’m falling back. A foot snags mine out from under me, and I go down hard. Before I can react, he’s on me, hands around my neck.
I flash back to another fake attack. A dream shaper making me think Connolly attacked me.
Not real. Not real.
Except it is. This isn’t Connolly. It’s not a vision either. There is a man on my chest with his hands around my throat, and I did not expect that. I thought it was one of Zeus’s games. Tormenting me. Frightening me. It is not. This is real.
I gasp and claw at my attacker, who doesn’t seem to notice. His hands keep tightening. I lose consciousness for a split second, and that fuels my rage and resolve. I pull back my knee and drive it straight up into his stomach. He gasps and his hands loosen on my throat. The lights flicker, and then come on, and I can see him.
It’s not the monstrous boy in the painting. It’s the same guard who’d brought me here. Ordered to stick close until I triggered the curse, and he could play his role.
His role. Not to frighten me. Not to threaten me. To put his hands around my neck and squeeze until I passed out.
To kill me.
I slam my fist into his throat. He falls back, holding it. The lights flicker again. I leap on him before I lose sight of my target.
Another flicker, and the room goes dark, but I have him. He’s below me. My hands find his neck. I dig in my thumbs before he can throw me off. I get my hands around his neck.
“How do you like it?” I whisper.
He struggles, bucking and writhing. I wait for the inevitable blow. A punch. A kick. He’s a burly guard. I might have startled him, but he will fight.