Clara crouched over Felix, shaking. She'd never seen a dead body this close before. He was still warm. "Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse, terrified of the death that stood before her. "Please don't kill me." If she had to beg, she would.

The masker towered over her. A woman. She never knew maskers could be women.

"I will do whatever you ask," she begged again. "I won't say a word. I understand that your work is your business. I promise I won't say anything."

She knew enough about maskers. They were ruthless killing machines. Heartless demons. They killed their marks. They covered all evidence. Left no trails. She was a trail, she realized in that moment. A loose end.

Her chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. This was it. This was how she died. After everything, she'd never get her freedom after all.

Unless...

She glanced around, hoping for an escape. Somewhere to run. Fear had a way of warping rational thoughts. But death—death was debilitating. There was nowhere to go. All the fight drained from her body until she trembled.

"If you wish to live, you must do exactly as I say." The woman's deep voice was intentionally disguised.

"I...you..." Her hands trembled. "You'll let me live?" She had to blink to clear her vision.

The woman's frame was slight, but she was lean and muscled. Her hair was a common shade of brown, pulled back into a tight knot. Her skin, the golden bronze of mixed ancestry. And yet, there was something...familiar about her.

"I will let you live," the woman spoke again, "but only if you follow my instructions. Can you?"

She looked down at Felix. "I can," she said, squaring her shoulders. She could more than follow them. In that moment, there wasn't anything she wouldn't do to keep her life. Perhaps that's what being a whore did to a person. Stripped them bare until there was nothing left.

"He isn't dead," the woman said. "Only sleeping. See?" The masker crouched and put a gloved hand against Felix's pulse before removing the dart. Clara had only just noticed it jutting from his neck. Not dead?

"Unfortunately, Mr. Long had too much to drink tonight. Far too much. So, listen carefully. You're going to go downstairs and send Claude to summon a cab. He can help you move Mr. Long into the cab. You will get into the cab with him, see that he makes it safely home, Twenty-Seven Dorwald Street, where he can sleep off the liquor. In exchange, I promise you your life. One misstep, one move, if you tell a single soul..."

"I—I won't say a word. I won't."

"Good. Repeat your instructions to me carefully."

She did, stumbling over the details until she got them right.

"Excellent. Go downstairs, then. When you return, you will not see me here. But I will be watching, waiting..."

Clara stood, steeling her nerves. She forced her trembling hands to steady.

"Do not disobey," the woman added. "For I shall know if you do." The threat sent shivers down her spine.

She swallowed, nodded, and stepped away. Her hands gripped the banister as she moved down the stairs. It was a wonder she could walk at all. A wonder she didn't stumble and come crashing down to land before the receptionist.

"Clarabel?"

"Claude!" His name was a gasp on her lips. For a brief moment, she considered spilling everything in a hurried rush. Telling hime what she'd seen. The front door was mere steps away. Could she make a run for it?

A breath later and she further calmed, pressing her lips tightly in a line.

"Clarabel, what's...?" Claude abandoned his host position. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"You must summon a coach—immediately."

"Clara..."

"I'm...fine. Please. " She put her icy hands against her face, trying to cool her skin. "Please, summon a coach for Mr. Lane." It took every bit of strength to calm herself. She wasn't going to die, as long as she followed the masker's instructions. But who was she kidding? She knew what maskers were—what they were capable of—even if this one was surprisingly female. Was she really so stupid as to think she would live?

Females could be just as ruthless as males. She knew that better than most. This one was using her. When she was done, she'd knife her and leave her belly up in the Taewae.

"Is Mr. Lane all right?" Claude's brow furrowed.

"Oh." She put her hand over her stomach and forced a smile. "He's...fine. He had too much to drink. Silly me, I might have spiked his cider with more than I realized." Claude eyed her suspiciously. "I promise. You can help me get him from the room to the coach and see for yourself. I don't think I can carry him myself anyway. But...I want to see that he gets home safely. I...I care about him, you see."

"That's not wise, and you know it," Claude ventured. Even for one so young as him, Claude knew the dangers of getting attached to patrons. "You know what our mistress says." She didn't. She hadn't. She wouldn't...except for one, perhaps. While she liked Felix a bit more than some, he wasn't someone she'd die for. She never preferred the males anyway.

She took a deep breath. "Will you help me or not?"

He eyed her for a heartbeat longer then nodded and disappeared through the front door. She waited, trying to calm her flustered heart. Deep breaths, she told herself. Just keep breathing. Several patrons slipped past her, some coming, some going. Those who had just arrived eyed the empty host booth. "He'll be along in a minute," she said, covering for Claude. "Please, have a seat in the parlor."

The clatter of hooves and a carriage sounded outside. Claude returned a moment later. "I found one. He will wait. Let's see to Mr. Long."

She led him upstairs. As expected, the room was completely empty save Felix Long, who was now laying unconscious on the bed. The bed. She blinked. That's not where he'd been moments ago.

Claude went to him and felt for a pulse, then grunted, satisfied. "Passed out cold," he concluded. "You must have given him far too much. Here—take his other arm." Together, they managed to stagger outside with him. The driver helped them haul Felix into the carriage. She gave the address then bid Claude a short goodbye, promising to return in an hour.

Her heart was aflutter. She sat beside Felix, doing her best to hold him upright as the carriage clattered down the streets of Chroma. They didn't get far when the door suddenly slammed open—while they were in motion, no less!—and the masker barreled in. She screeched, pressing back against her seat, clutching at her heart.

"You did well,"the woman said, her voice still deeper than normal. "I promised you your life, and I intend to uphold that promise, but I'm afraid I have a few more instructions, for your own protection."

She opened her mouth, but didn't know what to say.

"Close your eyes. It won't hurt. When you wake up, you'll be safe. You have my word."

The word of a masker?! She would have laughed were she was not so terrified. But this woman could kill her in an instant, and would have already if that was her intention. She could do nothing but trust her. So she closed her eyes, not certain she'd ever wake up again.

***

"Light! You brought him here?" Steiner gazed into the carriage at the three unconscious bodies slumped over, one of which was clearly the driver. Tabby had given Steiner's address to the driver and there was naught to do about it now, other than eliminate those involved.

"Just help me move them and quit your gripping," she barked.

They stood in Steiner's carriage house, which abutted his townhome, where she'd moved the cab. With his own carriage currently ferrying Elias deep into the countryside, there'd been a vacancy. The horses neighed, pawing restlessly at the floor.

She quickly told Steiner what had happened.

"And the female?!" he demanded. "Was she really necessary?" He glanced at Clarabel, eyes narrowed.

"I'm not planning to kill her."

"Too bad. You shouldn't have involved her. She goes. So does the driver."

"Damn it, Steiner!" Tabby slammed her palm against the carriage wall. "Would you just help me lift them out? That's Felix Lane, that is. Maybe you should be thanking me instead of complaining."

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and set about removing first Felix, then the driver, then Clara.

She made sure Clara was comfortably situated in a guest bedroom upstairs. It would be another hour or two before she woke. She would make good on her promise. The driver though...she'd made no promises to him.

"I'll need your help with Clara," she said, once they'd gotten Felix into the basement. "She can go to Solaris with Elias."

Steiner stopped short, then spun to face her, his face cold and unreadable. He already had Felix stripped naked and tethered to a chair. The servants had been sent from the house to attend the opening night of the opera at Brixby Theater—for obvious reasons. The house was otherwise quiet.

"Really, Tabby?" His voice dripped with judgement. "You're going to send a whore into hiding simply because you can't kill her?"

"Don't you dare!" she hissed, baring her teeth. He didn't flinch. "Don't you dare call her that."

"Light. I never—"

"She's not just a whore." Well, she was, technically. "She's..." But what was she, really? "The only female friend I have."

His demeanor calmed, and then—"You have friends?"

"Very funny," she sneered. She rocked back and forth on her heels. "Will you harbor her or not?"

A long pause. "Fine. I will do it. For you." The way he said it...

She paid him a sidelong glance. A warning. She didn't have time for his flirtations. Nor was she interested.

It was a wonder Clara hadn't recognized her. She'd stowed her satchel and fixed her hair differently before storming the pleasure room, but still. Clara had been too preoccupied with her mask to notice the other details, like her build and skin color.

Felix Lane moaned. His head flopped over and he began muttering.

"Do you think it's...?" She couldn't say his name—didn't want to give anything away to Steiner about her past. Steiner didn't know her history, didn't know about Clora, except for the one slip up she'd made in his study. He had no idea the things she wanted to do to Reaper, the ways she planned to make him suffer.

"It could be either of them," Steiner said. "Or a three quarter mask we are unaware of."

Her eyes raked over Felix Lane. She studied the shape of his head, trying to imagine what Reaper might look like maskless. Lane's body was hardened. Scars covered his chest and arms. He was certainly a Spect. There was no doubt of that now.

Steiner took a step back and glanced at her. "I can do this, if you need."

She shifted from foot to foot. "Just get my things so I can get started."

"Fine." Steiner returned minutes later with her satchel. "I'll leave you to it, then. Clarabel should be waking up soon. I'll attend to her, make sure she's comfortable. Hide his screams, if you would, or I'll have a right time subduing your...friend."

She turned to him, letting out a breath. "Thank you."

He held her gaze in a way that nearly left her squirming. "Don't mention it."

With Steiner gone, she blanketed the walls of the basement undercroft and set to work, laying out her tools. This was a fitting place for it. Maybe it would remind Lane of the Temple, of the training they were subjected to as children.

Nit stayed with her, perched on a pile of barrels in the corner. Her mechanimal didn't need to say a word. Their mere presence steadied her.

Felix jerked awake. His keen eyes immediately landed on the collection of prisms Steiner had removed and set out on a nearby table. He stiffened.

"A pentachrom," she said, more for his benefit, calling his attention to her. Reaper was a pentachrom. So was Midnight. And one or two others on the Council, if she remembered correctly. It wasn't enough to tell her what she needed to know.

Lane's eyes roved over her mask. "Tempest...what an interesting turn of events. I wondered if I might be next." That he knew her—remembered her—was already a good sign he was on the council. As was his statement about being next. "I hope Clarabel didn't put up much of a fight for you earlier. " His words were calculated, perhaps intended to elicit guilt, as if Spects felt any.

"Not at all. She practically begged me to slit her throat. I was all too happy to oblige." There. A slight tightening of his jaw. Was he...fond of her? She pounced on this, clicking her tongue. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you care for her? You know what they say about attachments—"

"What do you want from me?"

A smile twisted her lips. "Someone's in a mood." She went to the table, to her tools, and picked up a thin knife, making a point to pick her nails with it. "I want your Spect name. That's all. Maybe a few others if you've got them."

He barked a laugh, like she was crazy for even asking.

She rounded on him. "Did you enjoy killing Clora? Did it give you pleasure?"

"Clora?" He frowned then. An expression easily faked.

"No, I wouldn't expect you to remember," she added, almost to herself. Clora hadn't told anyone but Tabby her real name. Their real names were the only things of value they'd had to offer each other. "She was insignificant, after all. And you'd probably only remember her as One-nine-six-seven. How many years has it been?"

He didn't answer.

She clenched her muscles. Her body burned with fury, with a need to repay him, to shove her knife somewhere that would leave him screaming.

"I'm afraid I don't know who Clora is, or, One-nine-six-seven." His smug tone made her want to rip his throat out.

"What. Is. Your. Spect. Name?" She bit out the words like they were acid on her tongue. "And don't lie to me."

"Unlike Clarabel, I'm not in the pleasure business. So I don't think I'll give you the pleasure of my cooperation—especially not my name."

"That so?" This had to be Reaper. She needed it to be. Red spots filled her vision, but she kept her voice calm. "Then I'm afraid it's time to say goodbye to your fingernails."

No starting easy—not tonight. She went to him and pinned his hand down. A single glance gave her all she needed to know. He wasn't going to shatter easily. She shoved the blade beneath his pinky nail. He didn't scream, but he growled through clenched teeth and his muscles bulged.

The nail broke away after a bit of prying with the tip of her blade. She flicked it on the floor without bothering to see where it landed. Beads of sweat dripped down her neck, making her itch, making her skin crawl.

Lane panted, gazing at her with daggers for eyes. "Keep trying," he spat.

"Taunting will only make it worse." She slammed her fist down on his the back of his hand. His wrist cracked. "Better to keep your mouth shut if you have nothing to say. But when you're ready, tell me your name, and I'll decide if this is worth continuing. Or, better yet, extra points if you can name a few of our beloved council members. And I might just end things swiftly if you give me Ghost's name too. Consider him...a bonus."

She was well aware that Felix Lane could give her any name he wanted. Make one up. Or lie and incriminate someone innocent.

Pain was necessary. Not just the initial pain of a few missing fingernails, but the shattering kind, the incensed kind. So she went for another fingernail, and then another. And another.

He screamed then, and gave her a name. "Bloodlust—my name is Bloodlust. Just—make it stop." Too soon.

"Good boy," she cooed, but immediately went for another nail. He screamed again. "I wish I could believe you."

"It's...the truth," he panted. Spects were such good actors.

She worked her way through the other tools until his screams echoed throughout the undercroft, swallowed up by the dirt and earth. The evening wore on, bringing with it an exhaustion that was far more than physical. Steiner appeared on the stairs at one point, watching from a distance, but she hardly noticed his presence.

"I can make this stop," she purred, gazing over his bloodied body. Her voice didn't even belong to her anymore. Sweat coated her face, causing flyaway strands of hair to stick to her forehead and temples. She raked her fingers down Lane's cheeks, releasing his face. "Tell me what I want to know and this will end. The pain will go away. I can end it."

"Fuck. You." He spat at her and she wiped it away.

"Very well." She took one of his fingers then, slicing clean through the bone.

He cried out through clenched teeth, writhing beneath her deft hands. "Fine! You want to know the truth? Hmm? I enjoyed Clora's death. I couldn't wait to drive my blade through that bitch's flesh. To hear her beg. To watch her die. I only regret not killing her more slowly."

She screamed then, and drove a serrated knife into his leg. "You piece of shit," she gasped. Her vision blackened at the edges. Clora had never begged, and she hated that out of everything he said, she'd picked that out. "How did you kill her?" A final test of truth. "Tell me how?!"

He laughed then, a raspy manic grumble bubbling up from his chest. It took everything she had to withhold a killing blow.

"How do you think? I slit her throat."

"Liar. I was there. It watched her die." Still, she took another finger for his impertinence. Something dark and furious stirred deep in her chest. She wasn't angry that he'd lied, she was angry that he wasn't Reaper. "Give me your name."

He refused.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," she said at last, lifting a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from her face. "But it would seem I have no other choice." Dropping the gauzy fabric, she went to the stairs where she found Steiner still lurking, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Shall I take over?" he asked.

"No. Bring me Clarabel." He hesitated, brows pulling tight. "Blindfolded, so she doesn't see him." Steiner waited a beat then nodded and disappeared. She gazed at the empty stairwell, waiting.

Steiner returned with Clarabel, minutes later. Her hands were outstretched, groping, shaking, as he gently guided her. He whispered words of encouragement, reassuring her that all was well.

The moment Felix Lane saw her, his posture changed. He turned rabid, pulling against his bonds. "You said she was dead," he hissed.

"I lied." She smiled for his benefit.

"Felix?" Bell's voice was shaky. "Are you...are you okay?"

"I'm fine, my beauty. Just fine. Don't worry on my account." He turned then, hissing, "How dare you bring her into this? She has suffered enough."

On that, they could both agree.

"Love is a blade used to gut you in your weakest moments," she quoted, still hating that Midnight had taught her such a valuable lesson.

"I don't love her," he spat. Clarabel flinched.

"Of course you don't. So you won't mind when I..." She moved over beside Clara, lifting her dagger. Clara couldn't see a thing, had no idea she was less than an inch from the blade.

"Don't you dare!" he hissed.

"A name, Felix. All I need is a name. You would dare let me harm her, when all you have to do is tell me your name?"

"You fucking cunt." His face was splotchy beneath all the blood.

"Cunt. Huh. That doesn't sound like a Spect name to me. Does it to you?" She looked at Steiner, who still gently held Clarabel's arms.

"No, can't say that it does."

Lane growled then. "Fine! You want my name? My identity? Promise me her safety and I'll tell you."

"I'm a Spect. You know we don't leave trails."

"Send her into hiding," he amended.

She hesitated, considering. "Fine. I swear it. I'll see that she's safely removed from Chroma—alive and unharmed. Not by my hand or any other. This I promise." It was an easy promise to make—one she'd already technically made.

He laughed then. "I wish I could trust that. But what choice do I have?"

"None, really."

"Fine. Fine." He hesitated and his shoulders slumped. All the fight in him, gone. "You know me as Rampage. But you can call me whatever the fuck you want. Just uphold your promise. She doesn't deserve this."

"Good." She signaled to Steiner. He led Clara from the room.

"You already knew my name, didn't you," he added.

She shrugged. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

He gave her Daunte Sanders then—gave up without any further resistance. Knowing she had Clara had changed something in him. It had changed something in her too. There was humanity lurking beneath his facade. Something she hadn't expected. Perhaps that was why she believed him when didn't know any more names, not even Ghost's.

It was for this shred of his humanity she considered giving him a a clean death. A quick death. A humane death. He wasn't Reaper, after all. He didn't kill Clora. She'd gotten what she needed from him.

But that was it, wasn't it? He wasn't Reaper. And she was no closer to discovering Reaper's true name. And that infuriated her. So she didn't give him a clean death. And she didn't give in to his begging. She harvested his screams, bathing in the sounds of his agony to remind herself of what she was, of what the Spectrum—and people like him—had made her become. A monster.