Words on one of the walls glimmered in the moonlight, and I turned to see blood slick and still wet against the bricks.
Someone must have dipped their finger in still-wet blood, and scrawled these words:
GIVE US BACK
THE GOLDEN ONE
Without thinking, I did what I had done every time I felt unsafe or unsteady in the Light city—because I could not turn to Dad and knew I should not bother Penelope. I grabbed the phone in my pocket, my rings clicking and my palm sliding against the plastic, and I called Ethan.
The phone rang only once, not long enough to give me time to rethink the decision, not giving me time to think at all.
“There’s blood on the wall,” I said.
“What?” demanded Ethan, and I was shocked by the recognition that flooded through me at the real concern in his voice. This was Ethan, I thought, it had to be. It could be nobody else. “Where are you?” he said. “Are you all right?”
I closed my eyes and caught my breath and forgot about blood in the sweet, painful wonder of it: that he was safe, that there was still someone who loved me best of all.
“Lucie!” His voice rang out, an edge of annoyance to it now. “Don’t be an idiot. Where are you?”
It wasn’t that Ethan had never gotten annoyed with me. Of course he had, but he would never have shown it when I was scared.
Of all the things the doppelganger had done to me, this cruel trick was the worst. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and I saw the blood again clearly.
“I hate you,” I told him, and said his name, his real name, as if by naming him I could rob him of his power. “Carwyn. I hate you more than I can say.”
I cut off the call.
He immediately called back, but I did not pick up. I would have turned off my phone, except that there might have been murderers in the vicinity. I might literally have caught them red-handed.
Walls of the Light city had been painted with blood in my name. Who had done it, and whose blood had they spilled? Had they used the blood for Dark magic or had it been simply slaughter? Or had they used their own blood? What did they want with me? I did not know what it could mean, for the sans-merci to be in the heart of the Light city and so bold that they wished to advertise their presence.
I did not call for the guards. I kept walking, past the letters of blood and back to Penelope’s apartment.
At home, I found everyone asleep; they always went to bed early. I was glad that I did not have to listen to Marie crying herself to sleep again.
I stood at the window of the sitting room and stared toward the Dark city beyond the river.
I did not think of how it had been my home, the last time that I had a real home. I did not think of my mother, who had taught me what it was to love and then what it was to lose, or of my Aunt Leila, who had taught me to be strong enough to bear the loss of what you loved.
I thought of Carwyn and his murderous allies. I thought of my former home as a city of nightmares, darkness waiting and seething at the gates, ready to flood out and drown every one of us.
Mark thought the military ball would reassure the city, boost confidence in its leaders, quiet the unrest. I thought I could get answers at the ball.
The Light Council and I, Mark Stryker and I, were in league. My best chance lay in being their ally, as it always had. They were so powerful. I hated them, but I had to hope they would succeed and save us all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On the night of the ball, I dressed for battle. Ethan had sent me many formal gowns to wear at events when I had to be on his arm. I chose my favorite, the one that looked most like armor, the one he had sent me when I told him I hated gold.
That day, Carwyn had surprised me by sending over a box with a dress for me. I did not even open it and look inside.
I climbed into the car Mark Stryker had sent, and it carried me to Grand Army Plaza, where there was already a crowd assembled. I climbed slowly out of the car and looked around at the rich display.
I had been to functions in the Plaza Hotel before, with the real Ethan. I had walked under the stained-glass ceiling of the Palm Court, which seemed to make the whole room glow as if the rich had some private sun nearby reserved exclusively for their use. I had eaten caviar and drunk champagne in the Champagne Bar, its red drapes as rich and full as the skirts of women from times past, and its chandeliers like glittering spotlights for each one of us.
This was different. The hotel was built like the biggest chateau in the world, a massive block of a building with fairy-tale towers and sunburst windows and a roof of gray and gilt and green, standing among spires and spikes and straight lines. The whole building looked gold where it had once been white, because there were lines of leaping flame from the windows, short controlled bursts of light from the roof, and longer trails of fire, sparks flying upward and becoming banners in the sky. Streamers of magical light were being tossed around and around the building, as if rays of sunlight had been turned into twining ribbons.