look alive, sunshine! - silver_990 (2024)

Chapter 1: pull yourself together (day one)

Chapter Text

I’m standing against the bathroom counter, and I grip the edge of the washbasin a little tighter as I rock back and forth, back and forth. The dripping of the faucet washes over my ears, soothing like the release of a long-held nervous breath. I tell myself that if I concentrate just a little harder, I’ll block out the sound of the breaking glass.

But it’s not my windows that were smashed. It was those of Dave Wilson, father of four, who’ll be lucky if he can restore the shop to its former glory within the year. He’ll be spending hours scrubbing out the word DEFECT that’s plastered over all the barber shop walls in red paint and aerosol. I heard his voice crack, as he begged Gabriel and Aurora and Charlie and Phoebe to stay upstairs so they wouldn’t accidentally tread on broken glass. His pleas mixed with their shouting from over the staircase, asking why the neighbours joined the bad men. Then Laila’s voice, reassuring, told me it’s going be a cold day in hell before she would let this kind of thing happen again.

“It might be you and me next,” I said for the third time.

Here, she bared her teeth like an animal. “No, it won’t. When I say something won’t happen, it usually doesn’t,” she told me, self-assured as always. “Isn’t that right, sunshine?”

I’m standing against the bathroom counter with the sound of running water dribbling from the faucet. My arms shake from supporting my weight for so long. Laila had told me a lot of things. For example, she said she was the coolest person on this planet by a mile because she only drank hot chocolate with French vanilla syrup in it, seeing as marshmallow is for losers. (We were both children back then, but I digress.) She told me I could stay with her if I got down on my knees and begged. So I did. Then she laughed and told me she was going to let me stay no matter what. I laughed too, even though it wasn’t funny. Then she told me no Demon was going to touch a single hair on my head under her watch. And this time I laughed for real, because there was no way she could possibly keep that promise.

I’m standing against the bathroom counter, lost in my own thoughts when a voice outside the bathroom door makes me tense up. “What’s wrong with you?” demands Laila, the annoyance in her voice only matched by the concern. “It’s been half an hour and I heard you mumbling to yourself. Were you bored without my presence or have you actually lost your mind?”

I mumble immediately, “The Defects.”

The door flies open. There she stands, a living, breathing, coffee-sipping napalm bomb, packed into the four-foot-ten stature of a young woman who had no business being as freakishly strong as she was. Her harsh brown eyes study me for several heartbeats, her expression saying, yeah, you’ve definitely lost it. Mercifully, she wrings me by the arm and drags me to the main room of the house, where she flings me onto the sofa. “Is this about the dipsh*ts who ransacked Dave’s shop?” she frowns at me. There’s something like worry behind the coldness of her face, and my first instinct is to avoid her gaze. “And if it isn’t, then will you tell me in comprehensible English what you’re thinking about?”

Why was Dave so open about his Defecthood? While we’re on the matter, why would anybody be? It’s just inviting the Demon to attack you. And it would, because why would it pass up using your curse as a distraction? I’m not saying the Barber deserved what he got or that he’s asking for the Demon to finish him off later.

But it’s stupid to not protect yourself.

I don’t know if I said that or if I merely thought it. I certainly imagined I said it. But Laila doesn’t say anything back, she just stares at me with that inscrutable sharp-eyed clenched-jawed expression. So I apologise and say I don’t know.

She squats down in front of me. Her nails trace over my thigh before she pats my kneecap twice. “Get up, loser.” I nod mutely. “No, seriously, get up. We’re hauling ass over to Dave’s shop and seeing if he needs anything.” He isn’t expecting us. Can’t we leave him a letter or something and swing by tomorrow? In truth I know I’m just finding whatever excuse to avoid seeing him. “Okay. Fine. In that case, we’re going shopping.”

Are you serious I ask? She grins darkly. “Look. It’s gonna take more than one measly murderous Demon to stop this girl from shopping.” Next I ask if nothing ever fazes her. “Nah. Honestly though, there’s fewer better distractions than running up three weeks’ salary of debt.” I don’t know whether to bring up the fact that I don’t have that kind of money to splurge right now. “Shh. You know I’m right, sunshine.”

I ask if she’s ever going to call me by my real name, does she even know it at this point? “You know I don’t speak Baguette, Jean-Pierre.” It’s just Jean. Jean Toulemonde. She has a guttural sort of laugh and it seeps into my arm as her hand crawls up my skin, before delivering a sharp smack to my lower leg. “Oh yeah, that’s the ticket. Now get up and put on something else, unless you want to look like a total eyesore next to me.”

Just one more reason why I could never be Laila, I think to myself, because she takes all these words that you and I would never think of saying, and she screams them out loud. The whole concept is really hilarious to me because I do look like an eyesore next to her. I put on my ill-fitting mask while she adjusts her blush to better match her outfit. Off-shoulder white top and denim miniskirt; “model ass bitch”, she’d laugh and say. She blows a kiss at the mirror and I try not to roll my eyes because if I’d been born with looks as good as hers, I think I would never put on makeup.

I stay silent as she wrangles me out the front door into the shotgun seat of her car. She slides in next to me, revs the engine up to twenty over the speed limit. The blur of white townhouses and rosevine-covered rooftops manages to dull the angry honking of other cars, if not my surprise. Because what did I expect? She drives like a maniac; she is a maniac.

When I emerge from the car into a parking lot, miraculously unscathed, I take in the view of the large plaza, and the towering white-gold fountains complementing the entrance of the Little Ravenswood Mall. A man on a unicycle barrels towards us, several colourful balls in his arms.

“Brye!” Laila appears out of nowhere and claps me on the back. “Say hi, sunshine. Brye’s the only person I know that’s an even bigger nerd than yourself. Brye, this is Jean. I kidnapped him from the circus.”

Brye whips his head towards me, polo shirt and jeans like those frat boys in teenage movies. “Whoa. Are you sure you aren’t hot in that?”

I know he means the clothes, thick and baggy, that I wear to obscure my body shape. I’m sure my mask hasn’t escaped his scrutinising gaze either. “I think I’m alright.”

Laila comes to my rescue, lying smoothly that I get sick easily, so I put on layers and wear a mask. That’s been the cover story for as long as I can remember. Brye furrows his brow in sympathy. He tries to change the topic, “She mentioned you’re a circus performer, right? That’s so cool. You’re an Acrobat? A Magician?”

“No way,” I pull on a bashful smile, like clockwork. I don’t want to seem defensive. “It’s nothing fancy, I’m just a humble Juggler.”

Just a humble Juggler.

And I know I’ve ruined everything just by the change in how Brye looks at me. He sucks his teeth to hide his tension, but I catch his fingers curl. “Well — I’m the Juggler.” He carelessly tosses one of his balls into the air and catches it, to emphasise the point. “And I approached you guys because I needed help with a trick. So Jean, I’ll give you one chance to take back what you’ve said. Are you sure you want to say you’re the Juggler?”

I don’t want to start a fight.

Drip, drip.

I’m once again standing at the bathroom counter, while the sound of the faucet spills over into the washbasin before swirling down the drain. I’m thinking of the Barber, thinking of the state of his shop, my fingers are itching with a fervour I don’t understand, so I fill a cup with water and hurl its contents at my own reflection. Mist grazes my face. I repeat the action because I’m not a person who can scream and shout to vent frustration, and Laila would get on my case if I tried anything more drastic. But what do I know? Just because I’m also a Defect doesn’t mean I know any better. I scrub down the mirror with a washcloth that I drive my nails into. How come he’s fending off attacks in the streets when I’m hiding away: in a mask, in a coat, in the house of somebody normal?

Brye looks at me expectantly. Laila, too, turns towards me with a look that I can’t place. I’m suddenly reminded of the fact that I’m a guest in her house, and that if I don’t regain control of the conversation in time, she’ll suffer the consequences far more than I will. So I force myself to swallow all the trivial little things I’ve been thinking up till this point. Concentrate on the singular imperative gesture of acting like a normal human being. “Yes,” I answer, more forcefully than intended.

Brye looks at Laila, then shrugs. His warm smile returns. “Who says there can only be one? This town’s plenty big enough for the both of us. Tell you what, I’m putting on a big show tonight in the middle of the town square. You should join me. We could make it a competition.”

I can’t help the little “what?” that bursts from me. I had expected him to yell at me, to turn Laila against me. Or something.

“Have you heard of the Fortune Teller’s Five-Ball Cascade?” When I shake my head no, he goes on to explain. “It’s more of a fortune-telling trick than a juggling trick, maybe that’s why you don’t know it. You take five balls or less, write a message on each one, and ignite them all. Of course, as soon as your gloves catch fire, dump the whole thing into a bucket I’ve prepared. It’ll burn like fireworks. In the morning, the balls left intact are supposedly the ones with true statements written on them.”

“Is this about scoping out the Demon?” Laila frowns. “The messages won’t stay legible if the balls have been burning for a whole night.”

“We can use the process of elimination.”

“I am in the process of eliminating your mother, Brye,” she deadpans. “Which part of ‘don’t touch burning things’ do you not understand exactly?”

I try to take Laila’s hand. I interject softly, “A number is better than no number. Besides, Brye’s right about the elimination.”

“Okay then,” Laila answers, scepticism still evident in her voice. “Well, you’re both welcome to put me down as the Flowergirl. But there’s no sense in writing down each other as the Juggler.” Because one of you is lying, she doesn’t add. She and Brye surely know as well as I do that there are no duplicates. But Brye’s nonchalance about it might be the only thing keeping my neck from the execution block. So I stay quiet.

The tension from earlier gone, Brye makes some kind of small talk with Laila before finally excusing himself to talk to other people. I can’t say I blame him for trying to find people that won’t lie to his face. After he leaves, Laila turns to me with a sense of urgency, “Just wanted to be sure. You two wouldn’t be long-lost brothers, right?”

I give the answer that’ll cause the least amount of conflict. “No.”

Her hand clamps down on my shoulder so hard, I wobble and yelp out loud. “Better pull yourself together then, sunshine.” Laila’s tone softens the way it usually does when it’s only the two of us. But it’s tinged with a kind of seriousness that I rarely hear from her. “Don’t get me wrong. I still think juggling five burning balls at once is the dumbest thing Brye’s ever proposed, and it makes you even more moronic for going along with his plan to murder you. But if you think that’s for the best, I’ll stand behind your choice.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Laila snorts. “Whatever, loser. What I’m saying is, I’ll take your word over Bryan Whatshisface’s any day. But it might take more to convince the rest of the town, objectively speaking. So when he takes this public, you need to be prepared to stand your ground.”

As she links her arm with mine to gently usher me towards the mall’s entrance, only a single thought manages to surface in my brain.

I don’t deserve you, Laila.

Laila is being her usual, disgustingly social self, while I’m just trying to sip my kiwifruit bubble tea in peace. “I can’t help that I’m magnetic,” she would say, “and I can’t help that people worship me every time I walk into a room.” Like the sun above you. Also, she’s apparently friends with half the town, judging by the sheer number of people who come up to say hello. She waves, exchanges words, curses, insults even more people to their faces, occasionally flips the bird, and laughs. I privately wonder what somebody has to do in order to earn a compliment from her. Maybe it involves a sacrifice to Shabaloth.

She’s this abrasive with everybody, and I suppose that’s part of her charm. She’s a force of pure personality, and she makes you laugh at yourself but it’s all in good fun. I’d only ever seen her be soft with me, which I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased about.

Laila points out people as we walk past them. That’s Eli, they’re an idiot since their forehead is so big. It means their only two brain cells have never had the chance to rub together. Yeah, I don’t care if you overhear, Eli, f*ck you. That’s Delaney, Dave Wilson’s brother. I’m pretty sure Dave is the sky daddy’s apology present to Mrs Wilson, for you know, not dropping Delaney off at the orphanage once he learnt to speak. Watch him talk to Mar, we call them the Ten-Year Marvel. Why? Because the whole town has been waiting for them to confess to their best friend for that long. And that’s Kasumi, she’s just a f*cking bitch.

“What did Kasumi do?” I ask while trying to nudge tapioca balls with my straw.

Laila’s entire body tenses up in a way I’ve never seen before. “Nothing too bad, really. I just had to ignore the jokes about my weight." She stares long and hard at her low-fat keto-friendly bubble tea, which is still almost full. “And the passive-aggression.”

Later, she would throw the rest of the drink away.

The walk through the mall itself is mostly a blur. What turns over and over in my head is that everyone we spoke to had acted reserved. Eli, or Elliot, had seemingly been friendly, but paled as soon as we brought up we’d need information from them. “Look, I’m sorry, I can’t just go telling my plans to a Juggler. That’s a common disguise for demon-servants. Besides, isn’t Brye claiming to have the same occupation?” We spoke to Delaney and Mar together. They told us that they had information, but they would make a formal announcement in front of the rest of the town. I brought up talking to Kasumi, but that made Laila tense up and sigh, so I quickly changed my mind.

I think I see Dave among the faces in the crowd at the food court, but after I’ve pulled Laila in the opposite direction, I realise it’s a different man.

“I’ve got a treat for you, Jean,” Laila announces finally. She reaches for my hand. She presses all but my index finger into a fist, then holds it up so that I’m pointing at a white storefront, on the floor above ours. Large gold letters spell out the name: BEST BUDS. “You see that shop over there? It’s mine and it’s going to open soon. You’ll be one of the first people to see it.”

“I didn’t know you owned a flower shop now,” I comment as we ride the escalator up to the shop in question. I had no clue that she even liked flowers, much less enough to start a business with them. “I guess times really have changed.”

“I saw a Binterest post and decided I wanted one too,” she admits with a small laugh. “The payments took forever, but I convinced my parents to give me a portion of my inheritance early. Since, well, the rest of it is locked up in a trust fund until I turn twenty-five.” She talks about this business venture the same way a mere pleb like me would say ‘I treated myself to an ice-cream’. My jaw drops open.

“You have a trust fund? You always seemed so —” Extravagant. Neurotic. Borderline psychopathic. “— normal.”

Laila holds up two hands. “It never came up! And I never liked to talk about it anyway. I guess it’s time you found out, huh?” She huffs quietly to herself. “My dad’s a Politician. Mum’s a Noble. I was the black sheep of the family, you know. While my siblings were studying etiquette, I was running around in the circus with you.”

She smiles fondly at the memory, but I remain silent, even as we step off the escalator. The two of us had been best friends despite training in different disciplines. Then her aunt and guardian died suddenly. Back then, I could never tell if she was grieving or simply wanted space, and maybe if I’d said something then she would’ve stayed. In the end, though, she left the circus on the day she turned fourteen, and we hadn’t spoken since. Until I moved in with her now.

“Here we are.” Having finally unlocked the door, she steps back with a flourish. The door is thrown wide open.

Stepping inside, my eyes squint to adjust to the dark, and the smell of paint is still fresh in the air. Then I’m face to face with all the flowers in varying displays, the rainbow of iridescent colours, the riot of fragrances. There’s baskets hanging overhead, overflowing with peonies and tulips, in the subtlest pastels and creams. They look good enough to eat. Roses are laced into elegant patterns and interwoven with golden crocuses and other exotic blossoms in romantic bouquets and arrangements. A large easel to my left catches my attention, laden with snowy-white carnations and lilies, framed by off-green leaves. In the centre sits a black-and-white funeral portrait of Dave Wilson, father of four, who had broken-in windows and a fate that I should’ve shared.

You’re a dead man walking, Jean.

Living on borrowed time.

The intrusive voice in my head is back again, and it grows even louder. Laughing at Jean Toulemonde, who had the audacity to live unlike the other one.

“That’s Mr Pottinger.” Hearing Laila’s voice makes my head swirl. I close my eyes for a moment and reopen them, and when the hazy spots in my vision clear, the man in the portrait has grown different. His eyebrows are less pointed and the wrinkles on his face are more pronounced. “He used to run the bakery downtown. He was a good man, always a family man.”

You have to look away, I force myself to think.

When I finally take my gaze away from the baker's portrait, I notice Laila has already crossed the room. She’s inspecting a pot of wilted flowers next to the window. “Aww, they brought you here in this condition?” she coos, as if it were a pet or a small child. “This simply won’t do. Reanimate.”

Under Laila’s healing touch, the stem straightens, the drooping leaves rejuvenate, and colour comes flooding back until the petals come to resemble miniature fireworks. I hide my awe by secretly biting the inside of my mouth. I always act like such a damn child around magic displays from anyone whose magic isn’t defective.

“Dianthus conspiciens,” she smiles at me. “It’s the spoilt brat of all flowers. If it’s not watered three times a night, with five different solutions, it wilts — take it as the plant version of a temper tantrum. But, if you do everything right and it still wilts…” she picks up the flowerpot securely in her arms, brushing away a smudge of soil on the rim. “…then it’s said that a demon’s presence has caused it to wither.”

“Demon’s bane,” I realise. “I didn’t know the scientific reason. Are you going to take it home?”

“Of course. You wouldn’t mind, right?” When I stare at her, she clarifies. “I meant there’s no need to be jealous. You’ll still be getting the brunt of my attention, sunshine.”

I groan a little. “I’m not going to be jealous of a plant, Laila.”

“You sure?” she hums, sounding more smug than should be humanly possible. “Don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice you sulking when Brye was getting chummy with me. And you should’ve seen the look in your own eyes when we were at the food court. It’d be very much in character for you.”

“Don’t psychoanalyse me,” I snap before I can control myself. I didn’t mean it. After all, it’s difficult to read the face of someone that’s wearing a mask. Maybe I’m scrunching up my brows without realising? I try to relax my facial muscles to iron out the creases in my forehead. Maybe that’s why Laila misinterpreted my intentions. Maybe.

“I didn’t mean to. I guess I do it without thinking.”

“Well, you’re wrong anyway.”

Because I don’t want her attention.

I want her ability. I want to be part of the town, to be as good as the rest of them. Because, well, you can picture Laila at a meeting in the town square, directing votes to help us all. You can picture everybody else helping the town in a meaningful way. Contributing the light inside of them. Their magic. And since I’m clearly not up to par, I just wish I could contribute more than just words.

What contribution? I’m not just a regular liability like Dave Wilson: a liability, still, but honest, and he gets to face himself at the end of the day. I’m just an impostor in human skin.

And before I realise it I’m circling the backside of the red-and-white tent that used to be my home, walking to where the animals are kept after shows. Teenage circus-goers perch on the fences, a half-empty box of popcorn passed between them. The older boy with the black letterman jacket with an R. You! You’re that Defective freak. He grabs the neck of my jacket and pushes my face into the feeding trough. Tells me to taste what I came from. What I’m made of.

That was the day I stopped being stupid enough to end up like Dave Wilson.

It makes me feel like a coward, but at the same time, it makes me want to laugh.

Because I can look up to Laila all I want, I can imitate Brye or Delaney or Mar to my heart’s content, but I’ll never be on the same level as them. And that’s fine, because someone like me belongs on the sidelines. Where I’ll support the others as best I can and not drag Laila down with me.

I’m happy to just be Mr Nobody.

Jean's Notes:

Jean -
Laila - Flowergirl
Elliot -
Delaney -
Julian -
Sergio -
Brye - the real Juggler
Anita -
Dave -
Kasumi -
Lyra -
Mar -

Chapter 2: - dramatis personae

Chapter Text

MAJOR CHARACTERS

The twelve participants of the demon hunt. From 12 o’clock, going clockwise:

1. Jean Toulemonde (he/him): The Mutant. Laila’s “sunshine”. The newest member of town. Lives with Laila, his childhood friend from Cirque du Roi, after his performer contract was terminated.
2. Laila Krickett (she/her): Jean’s childhood friend who left the circus at age fourteen, and now manages local businesses. Her closest friends are Elliot and Anita.
3. Elliot Blackmoor (they/them): Called “Eli” and “Snake Eyes” by their close friend Laila. They own an astrology-themed coffee shop and run a tarot-reading side gig.
4. Delaney Wilson (he/him): An engineering professor at the illustrious University of Donohoe. Has a strained relationship with Dave, his younger brother.
5. Yulian Ageyenko (he/him): Called “Julian”/“Yulian” interchangeably. A loner, seemingly without ties to any of the other demon candidates. A cashier at the local music shop.
6. Sergio Virostko (he/him): Most look upon him with pity because his past psychotic breakdown and hospitalisation are public knowledge. A gamekeeper. Friends with Dave.
7. Bryan Bellaco (he/him): Called “Brye” by most. A university student who is on friendly terms with Lyra, Delaney, Laila and Kasumi. Jean has been uneasy around him ever since doubling up with him.
8. Anita Paterno (she/her): Given disparaging nicknames such as “stoop ass bitch” by Laila. Yet, they are close and she has few friendships outside of Laila and Elliot.
9. Dave Wilson (he/him): Delaney’s younger brother. Single father of four children after his partner’s untimely death. His barber shop was recently vandalised in a hate crime.
10. Kasumi Asai (she/her): The daughter of a businessman who seems to have no discernible day job. Calls everyone by their family name. On surprisingly good terms with Brye.
11. Lyra Khan (she/her): Mar’s best friend of twelve years, and secretly in love with them. She works odd jobs to save enough money for a good programme at Donohoe University.
12. Mar Shirazi (they/them): Lyra’s best friend of twelve years, and secretly in love with her. A nursing home assistant who dreams of becoming a children’s book writer.

MINOR CHARACTERS

Listed in order of appearance:

• Demon, the: The target of the demon hunt. They murder by night and assume a human form during daytime.
• Gabriel, Aurora, Charlie, Phoebe: Dave Wilson’s children.
• John Mercier: The Ringmaster of Cirque du Roi. Jean and Laila’s former boss.
• Tiya Krickett: Laila’s aunt only eight years her senior. A performer at Cirque du Roi, she was Laila’s guardian until she died in an accident.
• Seagrave, Kwon, Greer, Thornton: Prison guards, responsible for overseeing executions during the demon hunt.
• Trike Ass Bitch: Laila’s orange stuffed dinosaur, specifically a triceratops. Jean prefers to call it TAB (tee-ay-bee).
• Niamh Kelly: Sergio’s old flame. He hasn’t moved on from her even until present day.

FIRST NIGHT TOWNSQUARE

Traveller Sheet: 7 Townsfolk, 2 Outsiders, 2 Minions, 1 Demon.

SECTS AND VIOLETS SCRIPT

TOWNSFOLK

• Clockmaker: You start knowing how many steps from the Demon to its nearest Minion.
• Dreamer: Each night, choose a player (not yourself or Travellers): you learn 1 good & 1 evil character, 1 of which is correct.
• Snake Charmer: Each night, choose an alive player: a chosen Demon swaps characters & alignments with you & is then poisoned.
• Mathematician: Each night, you learn how many players’ abilities worked abnormally (since dawn) due to another character’s ability.
• Flowergirl: Each night*, you learn if a Demon voted today.
• Town Crier: Each night*, you learn if a Minion nominated today.
• Oracle: Each night*, you learn how many dead players are evil.
• Savant: Each day, you may visit the Storyteller to learn 2 things in private: 1 is true & 1 is false.
• Seamstress: Once per game, at night, choose 2 players (not yourself): you learn if they are the same alignment.
• Philosopher: Once per gene, at night, choose a good character: gain that ability. If this character is in play, they are drunk.
• Artist: Once per game, during the day, privately ask the Storyteller any yes/no question.
• Juggler: On your 1st day, publicly guess up to 5 players’ characters. That night, you learn how many you got correct.
• Sage: If the Demon kills you, you learn that it is 1 of 2 players.

OUTSIDERS

• Mutant: If you are “mad” about being an Outsider, you might be executed.
• Sweetheart: If you die, 1 player is drunk from now on.
• Barber: If you died today or tonight, the Demon may choose 2 players (not another Demon) to swap characters.
• Klutz: When you learn that you died, publicly choose 1 alive player: if they are evil, your team loses.

MINIONS

• Evil Twin: You & an opposing player know each other. If the good player is executed, evil wins. Good can’t win if you both live.
• Witch: Each night, choose a player: if they nominate tomorrow, they die. If just 3 players live, you lose this ability.
• Cerenovus: Each night, choose a player & a good character: they are mad about being this character tomorrow, or might be executed.
• Pit-Hag: Each night*, choose a player & a character they become (if not-in-play). If a Demon is made, deaths tonight are arbitrary.

DEMONS

• Fang Gu: Each night*, choose a player: they die. The 1st Outsider this kills becomes an evil Fang Gu & you die instead. [+1 Outsider]
• Vigormortis: Each night*, choose a player: they die. Minions you kill keep their ability & poison 1 Townsfolk neighbor. [-1 Outsider]
• No Dashii: Each night*, choose a player: they die. Your 2 Townsfolk neighbors are poisoned.
• Vortox: Each night*, choose a player; they die. Townsfolk abilities yield false info. Each day, if no-one is executed, evil wins.

*Not the first night.

ONLINE CLOCKTOWER GRIMOIRE

GAME STATE JSON

Chapter 3: don't fret

Chapter Text

It was a summer so far back in time that it almost feels like a memory. Hands, far too warm, press into the junction of my shoulder and my neck, and the Ringmaster kneels down, crooning face becoming level with mine. The brim of his top hat tingles my forehead. He speaks so softly into my neck, “I want to see your pretty smile. Would you let me see?”

Even at that age, I knew to keep my face covered. But my age was also the reason why I didn’t dare to disobey. All I knew was that adults had authority and I had to listen.

"The skin smiles, the flesh doesn't," I grumbled, brattishly, as I unhooked the mask from my ears and wrenched the corners of my mouth apart. I didn't yet have the vocabulary to disentangle the superficial skin from the flesh that reflects a person's true thoughts and desires. The skin’s smile is a farce. That's how the acrobats criticised each other. ‘His skin smiles, but his flesh doesn't.’

The Ringmaster studied my face. His eyes glimmered almost with sympathy as skin and flesh parted together in sync, “Ah. That won’t do.”

I don’t know whose idea it was to discuss the Demon situation over a potluck dinner. I'm not sure who chose one of the town’s best tourist spots as the location, either.I’m sure that person meant well, thinking good food and good company would improve our moods. But when I’m under huge pressure, social mode is the last mode I want to be in.

“You’re just too introverted to understand,” Laila tells me, as we’re carrying our homemade lemonade and vegan cheese dip over to the buffet table. “Some people find comfort in having nice surroundings and supportive people.”

I just raise an eyebrow back. “It’s not like that. My idea of nice surroundings just happens to be someplace where crazy people like you aren't present.”

The ‘discussion’ (yes, that’s what we’re calling it, instead of the ‘execution’ or anything else that would force us to face our circ*mstances head-on) takes place at the town’s edge, in a large gazebo overlooking the woods. The trees are purple with flowers at this time of the year, and combined with the lazy sun of late afternoon, they make for an idyllic scene.

Just as we set down our food, Laila squeals. “Eli! Anita!” the extrovert squeals, extrovertedly, as she rushes off to extrovert with these two other extroverts. I shake my head, grab a paper plate from the buffet, and check the guest list taped to the edge of the table:

Seating order, going clockwise:

Jean Toulemonde | |

Laila Krickett | |

Elliot Blackmoor | ✓ |

Delaney Wilson | ✓ |

Yulian Ageyenko| ✓ |

Sergio Virostko| ✓ |

Bryan Bellaco |✓ |

Anita Paterno | ✓ |

Dave Wilson | |

Kasumi Asai | 　|

Lyra Khan| ✓ |

Mar Shirazi| ✓ |

The space next to Dave Wilson’s name is blank. Did he decide not to come? He must be busy with repairs — but even as I think that I know, I know, I’m just making excuses in my head in order to put off the mental idea of seeing him.

And I’m starting to think I’m just as bad as the people who call it the ‘discussion’.

I swallow hard and put down ticks next to both Laila and my names. I scan the list once more: Elliot, Delaney, Kasumi and Mar had proven to be dead ends when it came to giving out information. And I had to stick to my story about being the Juggler, because Brye had given me a chance to back down and I hadn’t. Cowardly as I am, I don’t know how I feel about fighting Brye and claiming he’s evil just because of my own lying. Worst case scenario, I get an innocent man killed, but that’s a problem for later. I suppose nobody could fault me for being a badJuggler, but if I came up with two statements while Brye came up with five, it could certainly be construed as a less genuine attempt at Juggling, and it would make him seem much more credible.

Time to put on my extrovert mask, and see if I can convince more people to put their trust in me. Scanning the area, I call out Mar’s name, and they wave me over. They motion to the young woman next to them, their cheerful tone in sharp contrast to their friend who seems to not have slept in a week, “Jean? This is my best friend and roommate, Lyra Khan.”

“People are going to get the wrong impression,” Lyra grumbles in reply, but I see her reach for Mar’s hand and clasp it. “Jean, is that gas mask supposed to be a fashion statement?”

“Yes…?”

She clicks her tongue and drawls, “You have to go further. Add some neon lights and put a slasher grin over the mouthpiece.” I don’t really understand what she’s talking about, but I see my opportunity. And really, that’s all I need.

“That’s really Artistic of you,” I push forward, not really caring if I’m drowning her in flattery. “Or maybe your eye is as sharp as a Seamstress’s?”

Lyra exchanges a long look with her friend, and her gaze finally returns to me. She co*cks an eyebrow, “Mar wasn’t exaggerating about you.”

“What?”

“But I can work with direct. Artist. Philosopher. Seamstress. One of the three.”

I make a mental note of this. “Thanks. I should return the favour, right?”

“I already told her,” Mar interjects, lifting a hand to fiddle with their necklace. “I hope you don’t mind. The whole town will know after tonight, right? So I thought there was no point in hiding.”

“I don’t mind, but…” I trail off as my mental train of thought hits me in the head. Idiot, idiot, idiot! There is no good reason for me to vocalise my displeasure with anyone’s actions at this point. With Brye already on my case, I don’t need to be making any more enemies. “But nothing. I’m sorry, I’m distracted. I don’t know how to feel about executing someone tonight.”

“Well, what if I told you that we don’t have to execute somebody today?” Mar clasps their hands together. “You’re not alone in not wanting to execute, and the only reason we feel compelled to is to appease a possible Vortox. But if! If we manage to show that there’s not actually a Vortox, then we won’t need to sacrifice one of our friends!”

A voice cuts in, slow, warm as melted butter. “Excuse me, could I speak for a moment?” We whirl around to face her, a statuesque woman in an eyelet lace dress and jewellery far above my old pay grade. She has the kind of presence that sucks the collective breath out of a room. She places a tray of homemade cheeseburger sliders onto the buffet table as she continues, “Shirazi, I hope you realise that in a twelve-person demon hunt, we have five executions, and even fewer if a Witch gets the better of us. If you propose throwing away one of our precious executions, I hope there's a better reason than a sentimental one. — it’s nice to meet you, Toulemonde. I’m Kasumi.”

The formality of her words compels me to hold out my hand for a shake, but she doesn’t take it, so I pull it back awkwardly. Next to me, Mar’s entire demeanour changes, as they snap, “Don’t talk down to me, I’m not being sentimental. How’s this for a reason? We don’t have enough information to determine the Demon’s identity yet, or even who would be beneficial to execute. So instead of impulsively executing whoever and possibly killing a powerful townsfolk, we hold off until we have more leads.”

“I’m not talking down to you. I’m just pointing out your reasoning is terribly misguided. You’re demanding proof of the demon’s identity, but sometimes — get this — we just have to make the best decision with what little information we have. We can’t throw away an execution for lack of information, because executions are how we get information. I see two possibilities: one, you don’t actually want this Demon gone,” Mar’s mouth drops open, but Kasumi pushes forward: “Two, which is more troublesome in my opinion, you don't have the cortex to grasp the concept of ‘best decisions’ —”

Something flashes in Lyra’s eyes, and she snaps, “Watch your mouth, you passive-aggressive bitch. Don’t talk to Mar like that.”

“Anyone can talk to Mar in any way they want,” retorts the butter-voiced girl. “And I’ve been nothing but civil and polite. I suggest you two have a bite to eat and think about proper behaviour in a life-and-death situation.”

Before either of them can respond, Kasumi’s already pushed a slider onto Mar’s plate. She puts the tongs she used on the table and, without another word, walks off.

“That was —” I begin.

Lyra props one elbow against the buffet table. She snorts derisively, “Typical Kasumi Asai. Why do something productive with your life when you can spend your time antagonising people?”

Mar notices my confused expression and explains, “I don’t eat meat and dairy. I’ve told her a million times, it’s just…” they try for a smile once again. A forced, chipper lilt enters their tone. “Yours is empty, can you take my plate, Jean?”

I nod, bile rising in my throat, as Laila comes up behind me. She wants to link arms. She leads me away from Mar and Lyra, asking in a low voice what had happened. I tell her and she just furrows her brow.

“Don’t let her get to you, she’s a raging bitch. She does whatever it takes to get under your skin and she shows you you aren’t worthy of her respect,” she spits, with much more venom than I had expected. “She’s the kind of person who would join a bipolar support group despite not having it, just so she could learn who’s in their manic phase and when, and use that info to solicit investments from them at the right time.”

What a specific thing to say. “Did that actually happen?”

My vision zooms in and out like a camera in a film. Laila just gives me an ominous look that I can’t really place, and as we walk further and further from the buffet table, the voices around me grind to a paste, seemingly never-ending. Then I hear Laila greet someone much more politely than her trademark, and she introduces me. Then I’m pushed in front of Dave Wilson, father of four, the man and the legend.

Sometimes, the flesh can smile without the skin.

Tall, dark, only really recognisable because of his vibrant hair, and yet he’s a face I’ve come to memorise from the photos Laila had shown me. I sneak a look at his face. He could have been conventionally handsome in his youth, but there's dark bags under his eyes and worry lines mar his skin. He wears an open flannel shirt and his nails are chipped and bitten.

“How are the children holding up?” Laila asks. I recognise this move for what it is. Coyly skirting around the question of whether he’s doing alright.

“Phoebe is still too young to understand,” he answers, after a pause. “Charlie’s turning into a little adult, helping around the house and comforting the others.”

I respond with a generic, “That's good, isn't it?”

“Children deserve to have a childhood, Jean,” Laila points out the obvious, and I hang my head. I spoke without thinking it through. I’m an idiot, I’m lost, in the memories of my teenage years, when Laila and I would stand on the stony beach, staring out at the sea, and she’d tell me God, I hate what the world does to kids like us.

Dave exhales, quietly as though he thinks he’ll be overheard, and scratches the side of his head. “Well, Charlie’s acting like me. I never wanted their lives to be like mine. But on the other hand…”

“You need to prepare them in case something happens?” Laila prompts.

“Something might not happen, since their mother isn’t like me,” Dave trails off. “It’s possible for all of them to have gotten lucky. At least, my eldest hasn’t shown any signs yet.”

Our eyes briefly meet, before I wisen up and look away. I don’t want to give him anything that could be construed as an insider’s understanding. But I know just as well as he does, that the phrase “his daughter hasn’t shown any signs of Defecthood” means about as much as “my friend never told me he was depressed, and now he’s in the hospital”.

So, grain of salt taken.

I notice the people around us breaking away from their twos and threes, and returning to their seats back at the main table. That’s our cue to start. Laila gives Dave a final word of reassurance, and her hand slips into mine, as we take seats numbers one and two. Mar is seated on my other side, with Lyra Khan next to them, and they give me a nod of greeting.

I stab my fork through a piece of broccoli, and with my other hand I pull the bottom of my mask down just enough to slide the fork through the gap. Mar is staring at me while I eat. I turn my gaze away, trying to convey that there’s nothing to look at. They mumble a quick apology before returning to their own food.

The first to stand up and address the group is Anita, a girl sitting roughly opposite me. A large statement necklace, red jasper encrusted with gold, glimmers over her otherwise baggy and unassuming clothes. “Good afternoon? Good evening? Good afterevening everyone, and I hope you’re all comfortable. Brye and I spent a long time setting up the gazebo like this…” she starts rubbing the pendant with her thumb as she trails off. “First order of business is whether anybody has an announcement they’d like to make to the rest of the town.”

As she sits down, the table falls silent for a moment, until a well-dressed man stands up. “For those of you who aren’t familiar with my work, I am Delaney Wilson, Associate Consultant and Deputy Head of Engineering at Donohoe University. My announcement will be made in conjunction with Ms Khan and Mx Shirazi.”

“He’s just getting warmed up,” warns Laila me in a whisper. “The bragging will only get worse.”

To my surprise (because Laila’s usually right about these things), it doesn’t. Professor Wilson explains in layman terms how his activity probes function: “It detects disruptions in atmospheric magic. For example, if you tried to divine two people’s true natures but the No Dashii’s miasma made you fail, the tension between your magic and the demon’s would trigger the probes. But that's the thing, my probes don’t interpret who caused the tension, they simply inform how many signals are there. And yesterday, there were no signals.”

Mar jumps up and takes over the announcement, “Based off this, we made two conclusions. One, we know our enchantments didn’t fail us last night, and any information from them is true. And two, we can conclude the demon is not a Vortox. I’d like to prove this theory, and our trustworthiness, by asking all of us to not execute today.”

Julian, a young man with tousled black hair and a winter jacket, seems to mull it over. “Let me get this straight. If a Vortox is affecting us as we speak, it’s possible that Wilson’s signals are unreliable. Am I wrong?”

“In theory, yes,” Mar gives a slight nod of their head. “However, Lyra helped me verify that the information I gathered last night was true. We are truly, absolutely confident in our conclusion, so please allow us to prove it to you.”

Lyra gives a quiet confirmation, and I speak up as well. “I’m in favour of this. I’ve spoken with all three of them, and they seem genuine to me. Going forward knowing that we can trust our enchantments for the most part would be incredible information.” My train of thought had gone like this: I knew Lyra was likely either a Seamstress or a Philosopher, so she’d probably gotten some information that confirmed what Mar knew. The two of them understood the situation far better than me, so it seemed reasonable to back them up.

Amidst the chatter of the town, a single voice speaks up. “This again?” grumbles Kasumi Asai, still butter-sweetly. She levels her gaze at Mar, “Give me one reason not to nominate you right here and now. From where I stand, you’re the Vortox setting us up to fall into your trap. What did Khan even tell you for you to be so certain of yourself?”

Mar’s nails dig into the dining table. I wince in sympathy, imagining what it’s like to be forced to stand there. “I… I’d rather not say, I’ll make us both targets.”

Brye speaks up, naturally reassuring, “Mar, almost all of us are targets. Almost all of us will gather useful information at some point or another. That’s the sacrifice we make so our town can be free from the Demon.Would you please tell the group, so we can make the best decision today?”

They sigh and stare down at their nails. “Alright. Um, I had a vision last night. I was in a cavern lit by flames so bright, I could see the unlocked gates of Pandemonium itself. Chains bound condemned souls, skull-shaped keys lay at the feet of the damned, doors to never-were horrors were sealed shut… and as the fire rose higher, I saw Lyra. She was taking notes in her sketchbook, like she was visiting hell for a field study. After that, I woke up.”

“You mean you had a Dream?” he prompts.

“Ah, yes,” Mar laces their fingers together. This prompts Lyra to give their hand a squeeze.

I exchange a look with Laila. Mar’s proposal had sounded a lot more convincing before I knew they’d simply gleaned Lyra’s role in this demon hunt. I ask if we should trust them. She just shrugs luxuriously and tells me to eat before my food gets cold.

Kasumi probably feels the same way. “The way I see it, you’re the Vortox yourself and you’re setting up your lackey as an Artist. Or maybe it’s the other way around, but it doesn’t matter for my point. Wilson is the poor fool you roped into your scheme, once you realised you could manipulate his data to suit your narrative. Oh, I’m so innocent, I don’t want any of my friends to die. In truth, you’re tricking us all into giving up our lives!” Mar turns even paler, and they finally sit down, at Lyra’s urging. They shakily cling to her hand like a drowning person. Kasumi doesn’t bat an eye and hisses, “Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t execute you.”

“I still have information to give!” Mar cries.

She scoffs. “We all do, silly!”

I blow out a slow breath, and turn to Laila, who’s tossing her salad and watching the entire scene unfold with an inscrutable expression. “She’s just hammering Mar over and over,” she observes, just barely audible. “Singling them out, too.”

“Are you going to do anything?”

Laila chews her lower lip. Elliot, who’s seated on her other side, leans over to murmur something into her ear, and she nods quickly before leaping to her feet. “Your argument boils down to ‘we should execute Mar because they gave correct information’. That’s absolutely nonsensical. It’s good to be sceptical, yes, but all I’m hearing from you is ‘Mar is lying, Mar is lying’. You’ve never even considered that Mar could be telling the truth. That’s because you’ve already decided Mar is guilty in your head, and there’s no argument or evidence that can change your mind.”

Kasumi blinks at her, stunned, but regains her composure. “I wouldn’t push so hard if I were the villain. If I were, I would sit quietly and let Shirazi talk you all into signing your death warrants. Or even if we aren’t facing a Vortox, I would happily behold my Demon safe for another day.”

“Don’t diminish my point. You’re pushing Shirazi specifically, and you haven’t even entertained the thought that the evil mastermind could be Lyra or Professor Wilson. You haven’t even asked whose idea this arrangement was, and yet you’ve tunnel-visioned on Mar, and went out of your way to antagonise them twice tonight. Why not Lyra who was Dreamt as the Vigormortis?” Laila reasons. “Is it because they’re the Dreamer and you need them gone before they zero in on your Demon? Or are you just a manipulative bitch who has it out for Mar, and you’re resorting to social aggression in order to get your way?”

Kasumi seethes and her nostrils flare. The irony of the tables being turned is not lost on me. “How — dare you speak to somebody this way —”

Laila shakes her head. “You still haven’t argued why Mar is a better execution than their allies. See, there’s no actual reasoning behind what you're suggesting. You're just manipulating people to go along with your irrational crusade, and when that failed, you tried manipulating even more instead of convincing us with actual reasoning.”

“I’m not manipulating.”

“Stop it, Kasumi.” There’s a screech of a chair against the floor; Lyra has stood up. “You can execute me if you’re that stupid and scared, but you don’t get to kill my best friend. Come back when you have a real argument backed by actual logic and reasoning.”

Silence falls across the entire table. Then, a crumpled piece of paper falls in front of Kasumi, apparently thrown by Brye. She unfolds it and sighs, but nods in his direction. Her neighbour, Dave, whispers something in her ear, and she shows the note to him. I raise my eyebrows at the secrecy, but nothing comes out of it. As the tension starts slowly winding down, everyone takes their seats once more.

Anita stands, clasping her hands for attention. “I just wanted to say that if we’re indeed not going to execute anybody today, I think it’s best to still make a few nominations. And I’d also like Mar, Lyra and the professor to nominate each other, just in case there’s a Demon-servant among them.”

“We should let half of us vote, too,” I add, thinking of Laila’s demon-detecting plant. “There are twelve of us, so splitting the group in half gives us six. Maybe two on each execution?”

Sergio speaks up, a young man with a presence so small I’d forgotten he was at the table. He grips the sleeves of his flannel jacket, “Having Mar, Lyra and Professor Wilson all vote wouldn’t give us much information, because we’d still need to sort out who exactly is the evildoer. However, I’d really like to test Lyra Khan against the other two. Since she was seen as the Vigormortis, it would show whether she’s the one lying to her friend.”

All eyes turn to Lyra, who nods easily. “That’s reasonable.” She glances around the table. “How about everybody at my end of the table votes? Starting from the left of the gazebo entrance and going clockwise. That’s Dave, Kasumi, me, skip Mar, Jean, Laila, and Elliot.”

“Not Dave,” interjects Delaney. Elliot, who’s on his right, turns to him with mild surprise. “My brother’s a Defect. He’s more likely to betray us to the Demon than be one himself. So we ought to test somebody else.”

Dave stares straight ahead, his eyes not meeting his brother’s. I find myself glaring at the professor before I can even stop myself. Anita speaks up, “Sergio, is it alright if I do the honours?”

“Go ahead,” Sergio hums. “Alright, that’s Anita and Kasumi for the first execution, Lyra and Jean for the second, and Laila and Elliot for the third. However… are we not afraid of the Witch?”

Professor Wilson shrugs faintly. “A fifty percent chance of our little group harbouring a Witch, plus twelve possible Witch targets… that’s 1 in 24 odds. I think that’s a reasonable risk.” Lyra nods too, though Mar bites their lip. “I’ll get us started, shall we? I nominate Ms Khan.”

My nails dig into the palm of my hand as we all wait with bated breath. But thankfully, a few seconds pass and nothing happens. Just the sound of Anita bringing out a notebook and scribbling a sentence. “Delaney Wilson nominates Lyra Khan. Votes begin from Mar, circling all the way back to Lyra. If you raise your hand when I reach you, that’s a vote, and if you don’t, that’s not a vote. Mar Shirazi votes no, Jean Toulemonde no…”

Anita has raised her own hand to vote, even as she’s jotting down the votes with only one hand, and it’s a bit awkward to watch her notebook squirm this way and that. Kasumi glowers and only raises hers when it’s her turn. I note all of this down in my head. Elliot and Laila start to whisper, probably discussing something similar.

Lyra then nominates Mar, and Mar nominates Delaney. The votes proceed without much incident either. I think the whole table breathes a collective sigh of relief when Mar’s nomination goes through safely. Not having to execute anyone, combined with the fact that the Witch didn’t claim any lives today — it would have made anyone fall to their knees and thank our Lord and Creator.

“This is ridiculous,” Kasumi suddenly blurts out, staring pleadingly at the rest of us. “I nominate Dave Wilson. Everyone and their dog knows he’s the Barber, so we should kill him now, when the most damage the Demon can do is to swap themselves with one of their servants.”

Elliot’s voice is cold and objective. “Where did this come from?”

“Well, we clearly don’t have the votes to execute Shirazi today, so I nominated our next best option, for reasons already explained,” she glares pointedly at Laila. “If I die, I want to die because the Demon out-manoeuvred us. Not because our town was floundering with indecision.”

“I hate that girl so much right now,” Laila snarls under her breath.

“Dave has four little kids,” Sergio points out. “We can’t just execute him on a whim.” I catch Mar and Lyra both levelling disapproving glares at Kasumi.

Anita makes a face, but makes a note in her notebook anyway. “We have to treat every nomination equally. Kasumi Asai nominates Dave Wilson; Mr Wilson, do you have a defence?”

“Of course,” Dave answers evenly. “This nomination came out of nowhere and clearly wasn’t made in good faith. If Kasumi must nominate, there are better nominees, for example she could have argued Laila’s defence of Mar was overly fanatical. And most importantly, if we kill me now, all our planning will be for naught.”

This nomination gets exactly zero votes. (Kasumi tries to vote, but the whole table stares her down until she relents.) She sighs and mutters something like “well, I tried”. Anita concludes the discussion with a cheerful smile, and suddenly Laila calls for a toast to making it through the day without anyone dying. It seems like everybody has returned to their food, exchanging comments and theories with their neighbours.

“Are you ready, Jean?” calls out an energetic voice. Storytellerdamnit, it’s Brye. I look up at him with what must be a startled expression, and he tilts his head and grins. It could just be an extrovert being extroverted… but my instincts tell me to demand an explanation. His friendliness has to be a farce. Has to be.

As I rise to my feet, Laila puts a comforting hand on my back. “Don’t fret, sunshine,” she quips, with the same easy tone she used to console Dave. “You were the best Juggler the circus had ever seen. I’ve seen you juggle ten batons at once. Five should be no problem for you. Unless you can’t decide what to Juggle?”

“I would have had more time to think about it if you’d told me that vegan cheese doesn’t melt,” I deadpan.

Next to Laila, Elliot cracks up. “What, were you whacking the clumps with a fork over and over again?”

“Leave him alone, the poor boy can’t use Boogle,” Laila supplies in-between giggles. Boogle is this service where you type a question into a computer, and someone sends you the answer or relevant articles. Laila showed me how to use it the day I moved in with her (“this ain’t the Caveman Age anymore, loser. You need to know how to Boogle.”). It’s very convenient, but I don’t use it much because I feel bad about making someone compile a whole page of articles when I’m only going to read one or two. “I gave him the recipe and told him to start, and I’d join him. But instead I took a nap. And I woke up to find he’d gone around the block asking for culinary books, and was desperately flipping through them on the couch.” She leans over and ruffles Eli’s hair like she has something to prove. “See? Why can’t you be good like him, Snake Eyes?”

I raise my eyebrows at the nickname as Brye calls my name again.

Mar wonders aloud, “Wait, why do we have two Jugglers in this town? Are you two long-lost brothers?”

Brye just laughs heartily. He flicks his wrist, and his magic sends five multicoloured balls into his hands, and five into mine. They seem to be plastic, but I’m not certain. “Shabaloth, no. Do we look like twin brothers to you?”

Their brows furrow together. “Well, we’ve never seen Jean without his mask on. He even ate while wearing it.”

Brye gracefully pretends not to hear, and instead picks up a marker to write on the balls. I frown, because his behaviour is making no sense. He could be up to something but for the life of me, I can’t work out what he wants.

“Amigos, amigas, amigues. And Laila Krickett, of course,” Brye addresses the whole table, and I see him hand three balls to Mar. “Please pass these around so that we’re all on the same page. I wrote ‘Mar is the Dreamer’, ‘Lyra Khan is the Artist’, and ‘Professor Wilson is the Mathematician’.”

He didn’t put Laila as the Flowergirl in the end, then?

“Just three Juggles?” Laila notices the same.

“Don’t wanna bite off more than I can chew,” he answers wryly. “It’s called accountability; you should try it sometime.”

“Reporting you on feetpics.com was one time, Bellaco.”

Brye’s angelic smile doesn’t falter in the slightest and I wonder if it’s skin or flesh that’s pulling at his face. He tells me to make my choices, and I do, announcing them aloud as I write the corresponding words.

“Laila is the Flowergirl. Mar is the Dreamer, Lyra is the Artist. Brye is the Mutant,” I chose to write that because I can use it as a signal later on. “And Elliot is the Snake Charmer.”

Elliot’s dull blue eyes meet mine as soon as I finish. “Jean, surely you’ve made a mistake? I never told you anything about my occupation.”

“Sorry. I don’t know what got into me,” I show them the ball with their name on it. “But I think this marker is permanent. Sorry again.” In truth, I’d put their name there purely because of Laila’s nickname for them. I knew from the start that presenting five statements would do wonders for my credibility, and the chance of getting Elliot’s occupation right was so miniscule that it was probably not an extra risk. But Elliot’s glare, unimpressed, threatens to vaporise me on the spot.

Brye takes a few steps back, then beckons me to do the same. We each pull on a pair of gloves, and Laila brings out a lighter to ignite our props.

Juggling is second nature to me. I can feel the heat fanning my face, but any kind of knee-jerk reaction has long since been trained out of me. I juggle slowly at first, then slowly gain speed, as the table of people cheers us both on. Once I have a steady rhythm going, I look over at Brye, who’s laser-focused yet still manages to crack a smile.

I once read that in the animal world, humans are the only species that don’t bare their teeth as a sign of aggression.

Suddenly the edge of my glove catches fire, and I realise I’ve fumbled the catch. Laila’s scream and Brye’s “the bucket, the bucket!” Terrified, I jerk forward as if pulled by a string, throw everything I’m holding into one of the buckets on the floor, and just manage to jump back as a stream of fireworks whistles past my face. Red-and-green dragons dance between gold explosions, and there’s a smattering of a thousand heartbeats. It’s started to lightly drizzle. In that moment, I see the colours, but I barely register that I’m the one causing them, because seconds later imaginary waves hit my head and I feel a sudden urge to sit down.

As I stagger back to my seat and take off my gloves, a purple-and-silver firework goes off next to me. And I’m left wondering if Brye could have held out for longer, but chose not to to avoid showing me up.

It can’t be normal for someone to make you want to puke just by standing there, right?

Laila grabs my arm and fusses over it loudly, while I protest I’m not even injured. Though the sleeve of my parka is a little singed. She flicks her finger over the spot and it's gone. I have to tell myself there’s no point in imagining what life would be like if my magic was reliable.

Then, her hand slips into mine, and she pulls me about halfway across the gazebo, to where Elliot has also moved to sit with Anita. Seeing us, the nearby Sergio and Julian offer us their seats. I mumble my gratitude and stumble onto one. Drowning out the others’ chatter with my hands over my ears, I take a moment to recover before joining the others again.

Laila stops abruptly in the middle of whatever she’s saying to Anita. “Oh — Anita, meet Jean. Jean, there's two types of nerds: there’s Brye who goes to med school, and there’s Anita and Elliot who contribute jack-all to society. Anita is going to take one look at you and say, wow, no wonder you behave like that, that is such typical Pisces behaviour.”

The blonde girl shrugs. “Pisces are often quite intelligent. He may seem quiet now, but I imagine he has all sorts of interesting things to say.”

Laila stifles a giggle with her hand. “He’s a Virgo, stoop ass bitch.”

Anita blushes and fidgets even more with the pendant on her necklace. Elliot, meanwhile, pulls out a deck of tarot cards and offers it to me, spread out like a fan. “As I was saying, we shouldn’t scare our newcomer. Here, take three and put them face-down. It’s what we always do to wind down after a big event.”

I take three cards, but only because I felt like I had to. Laila and Anita do so too, and as soon as we turn them over, Elliot immediately snorts and Anita wonders if they’re “scaring the newcomer”. I’m lost, too, until my eyes land on what Laila has drawn.

“Oh my Shabaloth, Laila picked Death,” I breathe in a hushed whisper. “Are tarots accurate? Is she going to die?”

It takes Elliot a whole minute to stop laughing, and this is when I realise I’ve never seen them genuinely smile before. Laila smiles from the flesh inside and Anita has a warm one that adorns her gentle face. But when Elliot’s not speaking, they just look arrogant. “The Death tarot is more akin to the end of a cycle. Change, new beginnings, metamorphosis. That’s Laila’s future. Her past is Four of Wands, family conflicts. And her present, Seven of Swords…”

Laila looks sideways at Elliot. “…trickery, tactics and strategy. Alright, fine, this might not be total garbage after all.” Elliot smirks, prompting Laila to add, huffily, “But you’re still a nerd.”

Elliot tsks and crosses their arms over their chest. “And to the surprise of absolutely no one, Anita’s main character energy brings all the Major Arcana cards to her spread. Again.” I somehow know what the individual words of Elliot’s sentence mean, but strung together, they’re incomprehensible.

“I would happily trade my past for a Minor Arcana,” she gestures to the Justice card that she pulled.

Elliot’s grin widens even more, and I think — unnatural. “Jean, you know those children’s cartoon characters who think the world is brave and good and want to help everyone? That’s Anita.” Yet, Justice seems like a nice card to draw. It’s certainly better than my draw, the Fool. I decide to just go home and ask Boogle about it.

At some point, Laila taps her fingers against the dining table and the card representing my future floats up. “Jean, you drew the Tower. That’s the general ‘uh-oh’ card, I think it represents imprisonment.”

“Broken pride and sudden upheaval,” Elliot corrects.

The card falls back onto the table with a gentle rustle. “Too bad,” Laila says as she reaches for my wrist. “You might have scared someone dumber, but I don’t believe in fortune-telling garbage. Come on, sunshine. Let’s get some more of that cheese dip before Julian takes it all.”

Though I’m stunned at how quickly she changes the subject, the gentleness in her tone stops me from asking questions. She pulls me to the buffet table and I lean against its edge, watching her load a generous serving of my cheese dip onto her plate, and top it off with roasted vegetables. Then I spot Kasumi sitting alone with her chin on her hands. All downcast eyes and tight lips, she looks almost fragile like this. She’s a sharp contrast to her neighbours, who are speaking animatedly with other people. Our eyes meet, making me recoil in shock. Then she points at her head and then at Laila, and shakes her head no.

Is she referring to her dispute with Laila? “Laila (I point to her) isn’t (I shake my head) stupid,” I sign back to her, showing the last part with a cuckoo finger twirl. She holds my gaze for a moment and jumps to her feet, I think heading over to speak directly with me — no, she’s only getting up to talk to Brye.

I watch the last of the raindrops fall to the grasses around the gazebo, nourishing the earth.

This is only the beginning.

Jean's Notes:

Jean -
Laila - Flowergirl
Elliot -
Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0)
Julian -
Sergio -
Brye - the real Juggler
Anita -
Dave - Barber
Kasumi -
Lyra - Artist
Mar - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor)

----

Anita’s Cards:
- Past: Justice, reversed (severity, bigotry, complications)
- Present: Wheel of Fortune (changes, cycles, inevitable fate)
- Future: Empress, reversed (light, truth, unravelling)

Laila’s Cards:
- Past: Four of Wands, reversed (lack of support, transience, home conflicts)
- Present: Seven of Swords (trickery, tactics and strategy)
- Future: Death (end of a cycle, beginnings, change, metamorphosis)

My Cards:
- Past: Fool, reversed (recklessness, taken advantage of)
- Present: High Priestess, reversed (uncentered, lost inner voice, repressed feelings)
- Future: Tower (sudden upheaval, broken pride, disaster)

Chapter 4: the world looks at you and me (day two)

Chapter Text

The rain stops at about 4 o’clock in the morning. Using the dark as a cover, I take the bike in Laila’s garage and head back to the gazebo.

Golden streaks begin to paint the clouds overhead as the silhouettes of buildings are gradually illuminated against the inky sky, like the town itself is stirring from a slumber. The faint petrichor in the air is pleasant, and every now and then, I hear the squelch of my wheels against puddles on the ground. Fortunately, the streets are deserted so there’s no one around to question what I’m doing so early in the morning. I smile in relief, a bit involuntarily, knowing there won’t be any witnesses. Before I realise it, I’m thinking of how Laila used to say that weather behaves like humans. If that’s true, I prefer the weather infinitely.

See, weather and people are both always changing, but weather changes in a way that’s nice and predictable. Cloud too heavy so water fall from sky. See, it’s nice and simple. People on the other hand are anything but nice and simple, and if they do change, there’s probably a really good reason for it. To conjure up a few examples: Brye’s interrogation at the Little Ravenswood Mall, and then flipping to kindness. Kasumi antagonising Mar, then looking downright vulnerable sitting alone at the gazebo table. And then there’s Laila herself; has she lost her anti-establishment streak in the years since I last saw her?

The trip is even longer than expected — it took Laila fifteen minutes to drive us to the gazebo yesterday (give or take, I was focused on memorising all the turns on the way. I thank the Storyteller above for my good sense for directions), and it takes me nearly three times as long to get there. Granted, I had known cycling is slower than driving, but I’ve never been behind a steering wheel in my life, and I doubt I could learn on the spot. And should anything go wrong, a dented bike would be less conspicuous than crashing Laila’s car and getting hospitalised.

As soon as I arrive, I prop the bike up against the gazebo railing and sprint over to where last night’s buckets were kept. I pull a lighter from my hoodie pocket (I had been unable to find a torch in Laila’s house, and thought asking would just draw more attention) and spring the flame to life with a click.

I hover the flame over the first bucket. I spot five balls, sitting in a mixture of liquid and black ash. That’s my bucket, since Brye only made three guesses. I move the makeshift flame over to the other bucket and find it completely empty.

Had Mar, Lyra and Professor Wilson all lied to us? If that was the case, Brye’s enchantment would cause all three balls to burn up, which is consistent with what I’m seeing… but how likely is that? I bite down on my bottom lip, and look back at my own bucket. No, Brye’s bucket should have some liquid and ashes like mine, or at least some residue from yesterday’s fireworks.

Yet it’s been scrubbed clean.

The “why” is easy enough to answer. Brye had declared his guesses in front of everyone. The Demon, or one of its allies, must have wanted to prevent his enchantment from working. But why clear out only Brye’s bucket? Why not also dispatch mine that was right next to it? Unless they knew? But that wasn’t possible, I had been absolutely careful, and besides —

I had planned to model my own bucket after Brye’s, and now I don’t know what to do.

With a gloved hand, I pull out a ball at random and hold it up to my light. Laila was right, the writing has already been burnt off. Instead of lamenting, I should be thinking of how to take advantage of this situation.

I think back to what I had bluffed yesterday. Laila is the Flowergirl. Mar is the Dreamer. Lyra is the Artist. Brye is the Mutant. Elliot is the Snake Charmer. I repeat this several times to myself, as if it’s an incantation. God, I hate myself, I shouldn’t even be doing this but I’m a coward and I don’t want to die. Even if I might get Brye killed down the line. “I’m just twenty-two,” I try to justify to myself. “I’ve barely gotten to see the real world.”

Cry me a river. That puts you at the same age as Laila. Brye, Anita and Lyra Khan are all younger than you. Aren’t you supposed to look out for them?

I would’ve liked to say I chose the ethical option, but when you’re in a situation that is life or death, it feels only natural to want to extend your own life. That is exactly what I did. In that moment, I realise that if I don’t keep my word, if I show the slightest hesitation, then my neck will be on the chopping block. This applies not only yesterday, but today as well, and every day thereafter. If I want to live, I need to wear the mask and continue the charade.

I know that Brye can’t be the Mutant, and the chance that Elliot actually is the Snake Charmer is so small that it isn’t worth thinking about. On second thought, maybe I should have guessed one of the Wilson brothers instead of someone I had no information on. But it’s too late now. I know our town’s Demon isn’t a Vortox, and Professor Wilson’s probes picked up no signals last night. The chances of us facing an ancient No Dashii is slim, and my chance of being in a vulnerable position is even slimmer. Therefore, if I were normal and a townsfolk, my enchantments would most likely have functioned perfectly.

“Jean, you saw three balls,” I mutter as I slip two of the balls into my pocket. I need to destroy or hide them somehow, and burning won’t do the trick if they’re still so large after burning overnight. I could probably throw them in a river or something… but then I think of how they’d shot off fireworks when they touched Brye’s mystery liquid. I can’t take the risk of making light and noise, either.

So, opting for option three (smash it), I get back on the bike and make a few turns until I arrive at a dark, rain-slick alleyway. Checking one last time that no one’s around to witness me, I hurl one towards the ground. It shatters at my feet. Bingo.

I spend the next few minutes smashing the balls against the ground, stomping on the shards, and then picking up the larger ones and smashing them again. I make sure they’re an unrecognisable fine powder on the ground before I hop back on my bike and start heading home.

A light drizzle starts falling as I round a neighbourhood filled with fine gardens. I instinctively reach to pull the hoodie over my head, but are my eyes playing tricks on me or does my glove suddenly have a golden sheen? I hold the glove up to examine it closer and saw brilliant flames dancing on its surface. Extinguish. Please, I think to myself. My magic works sometimes, please let this be one of the times, but I’m not naive. Not even a second later, the fire soars upwards from the bicycle handle, and I have the sense to launch myself from the bike. I hit the ground, hard, but I don’t think I’m injured. I rip the gloves off me and toss them to the ground, before pushing myself up by the elbow.

The flames on my gloves had spread to the bike handles, and billowed to glowing pillars. I curse as the rain catches both bike and human with full force.

Of course. I had residue powder on my gloves, because that’s just Jean for you. I watch the fire burn, burn, and eventually go out. By this time, the rain is beating down so hard that I have rub my eyes in order to keep them open. I first pick the gloves up and pull them back on, because even though they’re charred, I have always felt strangely naked without them on. As for Laila’s bike… I grimace while I examine the wreckage. There’s damage to both handles and one of the front lights, and the air smells faintly of burnt rubber.

I give the bike an experimental push. The front wheel is a complete bust. I settle for push-carrying the bike down a few streets to a gas station, and borrowing a phone in its convenience store. The cashier stares at my drowned rat-looking self while I punch in the numbers then pause, wondering what to say.

Hi, Laila, it’s Jean. I’m sorry to wake you up at 5 am, but could you please come pick me up? By the way, I ruined your bike after you graciously took me in for free.

Come to think of it, I didn’t really have to tell Laila what I was doing. I could leave out the critical details and say I was simply exploring the neighbourhood. But the girl was damn near omniscient and she’d probably see right through me.

Just as I’m wondering what to do, the cashier suddenly calls out to me. “Wait, I know you! You’re Laila’s mate.”

I make eye contact and nod, just to be polite.

Grinning broadly, he continues, “My shift ends pretty soon. Do you need a lift or something?”

One impromptu ride in a near-stranger’s car later, the bike and I are dropped off on Laila’s doorstep. I try to invite Laila’s friend in for some breakfast, but he speeds home in favour of getting more sleep. I can’t really blame him. I carry the bike back into the garage, then sneak back into the house, hopefully without waking Laila.

I scrub the bathroom from top to bottom. I do the laundry that Laila had said she’d “wash tomorrow” for the third day in a row. Then, I start preparing breakfast for the two of us. I caramelise onions over the stove, prepare a waffle mix, and even whisk together the ingredients for bechamel sauce in a small skillet. It’s a transparent ploy for Laila’s forgiveness, but I’m out of ideas at this point.

Once I hear Laila’s room door open and the bathroom door slam shut from upstairs, I know it’s time to throw everything together. Minutes later, Laila sits down at the dining table, eyebrows raised incredulously, and I don’t blame her. Normally, our breakfasts are plain bread with a smoothie of whatever fad diet of the week Laila is into. Today, there’s mini waffles, Greek yoghurt with keto replacement honey and preserves, fresh strawberries, orange slices, and croque madames with the ham substituted for garlicky caramelised onions.

“Jean, what’s the meaning of this? My birthday isn’t in months. Your love confession can wait until we aren’t all dying of Demon-in-town disease,” she deadpans, but there’s no bite in her tone. There are curlers in her hair and it makes her look strangely comforting. This is, of course, in spite of the fact that her brows are narrowed in suspicion, and her fierce eyes are pinning me to the spot.

I could have just recounted exploring the neighbourhood, and the part where I stopped at the gas station. I could probably get away with that lie. After all, the best lies contain a grain of truth. But the moment I open my mouth, there’s a twinge of pain in the back of my head and it stabs deeper and deeper, like a needle twisting its way in. I grind my teeth together. Then suddenly all of the sensations melt together and my cranium feels watersmooth like waves crashing into rock at the beach.

I could lie to the world, but Laila — Laila had been on my side since the beginning.

And just like that, my resolve melts like butter. I confide in her about everything. She’s silent while she listens, head co*cked to one side, and only gives a long sigh after I finish. I ask her for her thoughts.

Her answer is a very curt, very succinct, “Use Boogle Maps, idiot.”

I can’t help but laugh at her statement, but the confrontation isn’t over yet. “I also kind of broke your bike.”

Laila rolls her eyes through a mouthful of waffles and fruit. “I’ll just get another one. I thought you made a pact with the Demon or something.” It sounds like a joke, so I chortle. Then she turns serious, “It’s good that you cooked so much. Just so you know, Brye is coming over at nine.”

“Oh,” is all I manage to say.

“I know, right?” Laila pouts. “He’s bringing Bitch with him. Why does he even put up with her?”

“Who knows?” I shrug. “Why do you put up with me?”

“Cause you’re cute,” is her dismissive answer. “Every five cuteness points cancels out one bullsh*t point, and Kasumi’s face alone is worth negative twenty cuteness points. Now, are you just going to stand there or are you going to eat your portion of the breakfast?”

Later, when the doorbell rings, Laila turns off all the lights with a flick of her arm before running to get the door. I reach for the mask that I’d left on the kitchen counter, pull it on, and then go back to reheating breakfast on the stove. I hear chatter from the living room, but I can’t make out any individual voices. Eventually, the door to the kitchen opens behind me.

“Hey, Jean. I know you prepared breakfast, so I had Kasu bring some cookies as thanks.”

I whirl around, and the spatula suddenly swells to the weight of steel in my hands. It clatters to the floor, and I rush to pick it up and pretend like nothing is wrong. But my expression has probably already given me away. The sight in front of me is unforgettable, unforgivable, all colours of plain wrong.

Brye’s skin is a translucent, ceramic colour, and it shimmers as he passes the rows of shelves. I can see every bottle of condiments, every ingredient, through what had used to be his face. Yet, there’s a sad sort of smile on his face, lacing his lips with the familiar gentleness. My vision floods with blue.

“Brye?” I whisper.

He twists his fingers together — the first I’ve seen him drop the laidback demeanour. “You’re talking to his ghost. As much as I’d love to stay and chat about Theseus’s ship, I think it’s best if you join us as soon as you’re finished.”

Despite not knowing what a boat has to do with anything, I nod. “Can ghosts still eat?”

The stupidity of my question dawns on me the moment it leaves my tongue. I should have asked if he was okay. If there was anything I could do for him or his family. But I didn’t know how to say it without making things awkward, and what could an impostor’s sympathy even mean to him? Nevertheless, I probably should have said something that didn’t remind him of his condition.

Brye’s expression shifts. Then, he smiles through the skin of his teeth. “You’ll find out at the same time I will,” he answers, before stepping back out.

I dish up two croque madames with waffles and fruit, and bring the steaming plates over to the dining table, where the other three are already sitting. I set down the breakfast and slide into a chair, next to Laila and opposite Kasumi. The latter’s eyes are downcast as she picks at her food with a fork. “Thank you for the breakfast, Jean,” her voice sounds supremely of defeat. “I apologise if I seem out of sorts today. I’m still in shock over what happened to Brye.”

Laila glares in her direction for a full five seconds, then returns to stirring her Indonesian Sumatra coffee. “Even my grand-aunt wasn’t this emotionally manipulative,” she comments, then her tone turns sickly sweet. “Bryan, you have twenty seconds to convince me that she needs to be here. I’d be very happy to continue this conversation with you and Jean only.”

Brye holds up both hands. “Laila, she’s had a headache all morning. I don’t think she’s making a ploy for sympathy.” Laila doesn’t buy it, evidently, with how her accusing glare doesn’t relent. But he presses on: “I’ll be transparent with you, but in return, you have to be honest with me. Are you really the Flowergirl?”

Kasumi looks up with an indignant scowl. “I’m sorry, Laila here is the Flowergirl?”

“Are you hard of hearing? That’s literally what he just said,” Laila’s face flushes. “Yes, I am the Flowergirl. Is there something you’d like to say to my face?”

The other girl purses her lips. “Oh, nothing. I just saw the rose bushes around your house and I thought…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, because at that moment, Laila jumps up and runs to her room. She comes back with the Demon’s bane in her arms. The gorgeous red flowers are in full bloom. “I’m still proud of myself for coming up with this — I approached everyone who voted yesterday and asked them to sign my notebook. At home, I ripped that page out. I filtered all the solutions through it before watering the plant, so if a Demon had touched that sheet, its essence would be transferred to this little cutie over here. And yet! Still she blossoms.”

“So the Demon is someone who didn’t cast a vote yesterday,” I deduce. “That’s —”

“Professor Wilson, Julian, Sergio, Dave, and Mar,” Brye beats me to the punch. He lets out a soft exhale and exchanges looks with Kasumi.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Jean, have you already been to the gazebo? Have you seen the results of your enchantment? In full disclosure, Brye and I have already seen them.”

Break a leg, Jean Toulemonde. Just pretend you’re putting on a show.

“I went there pretty early, at sixish o’clock,” Brye doesn’t pick up on my sigh of relief. “My results were beyond recovery. I guess the Demon wanted to leave no stone unturned.”

I take a deep breath before I speak, “I saw my results. There were three balls in the bucket.”

Brye visibly relaxes. “As expected. It’s good to know we’re on the same page. Thank you both so, so much for being honest with us.”

Laila brings her coffee mug to her lips. “But what’s this all about? And where does she come in?”

We all turn to Kasumi, who is now clutching her forehead. I rush to pour her a mug of hot tea, which she accepts with a murmur of thanks. “Every day, I meditate at the Temple of the Storyteller,” she begins, in a low and shaky voice. “’I light incense and shine the statues, and in return, I’m… allowed to see things.” She sounded slightly embarrassed, then quickly added, “I know it sounds unbelievable, but it’s the honest truth.”

Brye attempts to break the tension. “Laila has a demon-detecting plant. At this point, if you told me there’s actually no Demon and everything’s just a prank from the spirits above, I’d believe you too.”

Kasumi doesn’t smile. “Today, I saw Brye Juggle like he did yesterday, and the three balls fell into the ocean, splashing up dragons made from fireworks. They burnt so beautifully, but even after the colours were gone, the balls didn’t burn up.” Her fingers tighten around her mug. ”I think the Storyteller meant to tell me that if Brye were truly a Juggler, and the Demon hadn’t interfered with him… he would have had three true statements to work with.”

Laila’s eyes sharpen. “That matches up with what Jean learnt. But I’ve never seen the Storyteller operate in such a straightforward way.”

“Aside from giving me the sight, the Storyteller shows me false visions in kind to confuse me,” Kasumi mumbles quietly. “But it’s alright. The other vision is so obviously false that we know this one is the truth.”

I know I can’t just take her word for it. Even if she doesn’t have some ulterior motive, she could still be plain wrong. “Kasumi, tell us the truth,” I say. “Transparency is a two-way street. You’ve sat here listening while Laila and I gave you all the information we currently have. If we’re to be transparent about what we know, it should be mutual.”

Laila nods in agreement, then Brye speaks up. “We know the other piece of information Kasu received is wrong, because we were using it to double-check my information.”

Laila’s eyebrow quirks in confusion. “Your information? But you’re just a —”

Brye’s dark eyes are distant. Absolutely distant. “I lied to everyone last night. My skill in Juggling is just something I picked up while babysitting in high school. I’m not even remotely as skilled as Jean over here.” He places his hand over the bottom of his throat, scratching his neck as he continues. “After the Demon attacked me last night, I… the pain was horrible. I must’ve sat in my room for an hour, just trying to process. But on a whim, I sketched down the Demon’s body from memory and cross-referenced my textbooks. It was about two metres tall, which is within the expected height range for males. The melanistic blotches down the chin also showed they had significant levels of pheomelanin.”

“Speak English, nerd,” Laila grumbles.

“The Demon has light skin and light hair,” Brye obliges, as patiently as ever. “So I ruled out both Wilson brothers, put Sergio as significantly likely, and Jean and Julian as quite likely. But then I remembered Julian is a natural redhead, which bumps him up to ‘significantly likely’. Since the human body reflects the demon form according to the Duong-Waldner ratio, I made some calculations…”

“So it’s either Sergio or Julian, correct?” Laila surmises, and Brye nods. “Looks like Nerd over here has the Demon’s identity figured out. Of course, that’s assuming you didn’t pull a double-bluff and kill yourself to waste our time executing the people you pointed out. That’s what I would do if I worshipped an ever-hungry demon that wants to devour the town.”

“Laila, Laila,” Brye smiles thinly. “Yesterday aside, when have I ever lied to you?”

Spoiler alert: ghosts can’t eat.

Brye puts back down his fork with a feigned nonchalance that we can all probably see through. “Should’ve seen that one coming, honestly,” he admits with a half-smile. “Every time I try to touch something, my hand instead goes through it. I have to use magic to help if I want to interact with objects normally. That includes my clothes, by the way.” He chuckles while Kasumi just shakes her head.

“Brye is so considerate of others’ feelings,” Laila drawls, somewhat dreamily. “Even when he’s murdered, he remembers that his hairy ass is ugly. — Why can’t you be more like him, Kasumi?”

I don’t know if I should be amazed that Laila managed to insult both of our guests in the same breath, or exasperated that she’s picking a fight yet again. Either way, Kasumi jumps to her feet with a huff. “Thanks for everything, Jean. Food was great,” she snaps before picking up her plate and cutlery. With clenched teeth, she puts everything in the sink, and stalks out the front door without another word.

“I, um, better go after her,” Brye murmurs. I don’t detect any disappointment or anger in his tone of voice, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t either of those things. “Thank you for hosting us, Laila, I’m glad we got to talk. By the way, Jean, do you even wear your mask indoors?”

Being addressed out of the blue makes me freeze. “Yes?” A lie. A blatant lie. I only wear it around non-Laila people.

“No worries, of course,” he nods good-naturedly, then smiles, right as he’s poised to leave. “I’d have liked to see you without a mask. But allergies are the worst, aren’t they?”

I say nothing. He heads after Kasumi and I’m left standing there, at the dining table in my mask and heavy coat. Then, my hand clenches and re-clenches into a fist, because I don’t know what else to do with the surge of energy inside of me. Brye had downplayed his own death and cracked jokes so that the others wouldn’t feel awkward. He addressed my Defection with incredible grace. He bridged Laila and Kasumi for however long he could. He’s educated, patient, and people flock to him. Charisma comes to him naturally. Easily. He's almost perfect. Exactly the kind of person teenage Jean could only wish to be.

And to be honest, none of us probably deserved him.

But he’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how much I envied him or how much of his life he had ahead of him. It doesn’t matter how perfect he had, was, would’ve been. One day he was still corporeal, the next he was gone.

As they say, the good die young.

“Jean, sunshine, I need you for something important,” Laila calls out, and I join her in the kitchen in order to hear her better. “Take the bus and get off at Rue aux Vizirs. Turn left and walk to Preacher Gardens. Delaney Wilson lives at Number Thirteen. Our talk just now would be meaningless if any one of us had gotten wrong information. Could you check in with Wilson and his probes? Could you do that for me?”

My stomach twists into a knot as I see Laila pick up a sponge and pour shampoo (gelatin anti-breakage with milky seaweed extract) over it. “Sure,” I shrug. “Just rinse out the dishes with lots and lots of water, please.”

There’s a bubbly, saline smell in the air and I have no clue how she survived so long without a second person in the house. But it’s futile to try to change her mind on anything, even if it’s something as simple as using detergent like a normal person. I already put on my outdoor clothes and mask for Brye and Kasumi’s visit, so all I have to do now is grab my wallet.

But just before I leave, I wonder, “Why aren’t you coming with me?”

Laila replies stiffly, “Because my pores look like sh*t and I need to fix it before the discussion tonight.”

I may have sounded bitter as I grumble out, “Nobody will notice, for Shabaloth’s sake.”

“The world looks at you and me differently.” She finishes the dishes and pulls a compact mirror from her pocket, examining her reflection with a critical eye. Shaking her head, she snaps it shut. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Jean's Notes:

Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer)
Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no)
• d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
Elliot -
Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0)
Julian -
Sergio -
Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio)
Anita -
Dave - Barber
Kasumi - Savant
• d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician)
• d2b) ???
Lyra - Artist
Mar - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor)

Chapter 5: anything we want to be

Chapter Text

I pull on an extra wool cap before I leave.

Sunlight and the summer heat alike beats unforgivingly down through the window that’s next to my seat on the bus. It’s a vibrant, ruthless day. A few stops in, I fan myself and try to ignore the way my jacket sleeves cling to my sweat-damp arms. A couple glances sideways at me and I wave back. It’s better to be stared at for something I can control, rather than something I can’t. The jacket I wear is like a second skin to me, and I cling to it as stubbornly as I would to a physical skin.

People have always asked me whether I’m hot, and why I don’t just take off the jacket and mask if I’m sweating so much. The heat isn’t so bad once you get used to it, and honestly, I just manage by not thinking about it.

About twenty minutes later, I arrive at the address Laila gave me and ring the doorbell to Number Thirteen. Wilson answers it after a few moments, looking supremely imposing even in his plain pyjamas, “Jean, was it? What can I do for you?”

“You mentioned your activity probes yesterday, and I wanted to offer my help, Professor Wilson,” I try to use my most respectful tone.

“‘Delaney’ is alright,” he throws the front door wide open, motioning for me to follow him inside. “I appreciate your offer; I’ve actually been wanting to run some maintenance checks before I send them out tonight. But first, come in! I’ll pour you something to drink.”

As I venture into Delaney’s living room, I notice everything is impeccably in place. The shelves are filled with artefacts and displays from every period of history I can think of. A row of silent, floor-to-ceiling screens fill one of the walls. It doesn’t even seem like a home, but more like a museum. While I’m busy admiring everything, Delaney prepares us two iced coffees and beckons me over to the sofa. He even offers to take my coat. I shake my head and sip the drink, wondering if we’ll have to go on a field expedition to find all the probes he set up around the town.

Delaney pulls out his phone and types on it. Seconds later, a loud buzz rumbles through the air. A black square of plastic topped with four whirling blades charges through the window. I yelp and cover my head.

“Detector drones,” Delaney explains, and from my position, curled up into the sofa, I spot about ten more of them. Some are flying. Others resemble toy cars and drive forward on their own. Most are covered in mud or grime. “They each have implanted memory discs. Their data is already uploaded and being processed, but I need to make sure my probes are perfectly calibrated. You can never be secure.”

He types another command into his phone, and my mouth falls open as the giant screens on his wall light up one by one. They project some sort of graph, and I squint at it. The only thing I understand is a bunch of times written at the bottom.

“It’s a tension level chart of last night. The tensions between magical activities are plotted against time,” Delaney taps me on the shoulder to get my attention, but I instinctively shrink away. He doesn’t react to this, but just points at the chart, “Some tension is natural, but over a certain threshold, we’ll suspect demon interference. See that strong peak at 10:30. It’s far below the critical threshold, so it’s probably something as harmless as two children fighting over a toy.”

“That’s already the tallest peak there is,” I furrow my brow. “So there were no signals last night too? Maybe interference isn’t our Demon’s preferred method of splitting us apart. Assuming, of course, that your probes are working correctly.”

The professor mulls it over. “It seems that way, yes. We’ve conclusively proved it isn’t a Vortox, and a No Dashii would have to be tremendously unlucky to not have affected anyone during this timeframe. However, that isn’t to say it’s impossible…”

“I don’t think it can be a Vigormortis, either,” I reason. “We’ll have too many Defects if the defect-healer is in our town.”

He snorts mirthlessly. “If the defect-healer came to our town, I may as well fall on my knees and worship it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I didn’t mean it literally,” he sounds apologetic. “I don’t condone murder, of course. But if a Vigormortis was willing to get rid of some Defects for us, I don’t see why I should complain.”

I blink at him. My mask hides my expression, but I have to control my rising tone of voice. “But your brother is a Defect, Pro— Delaney.”

“I rather wish he weren’t. Weren’t a Defect, or weren’t my brother, either way it would be for the better,” he bites down on his lower lip for a moment, before continuing. “I know you met him first, Jean. I don’t know what lies he told to you, but whatever he said to you isn’t representative of our family and our values.”

“Don’t talk about him like that. What are you being so defensive for?”

“I’m not Defectphobic, Jean,” Wilson’s tone lowers to a snarling whisper. “I don’t hate my brother for being a Defect, I hate him for being a selfish Defect. You would know exactly what I mean if you walked in my shoes. You’ve never seen how ridiculous he was. You’ve never known how it felt to —”

“How it felt to what?” I uncontrollably snap.

“How it felt to stand next to him in public, to be with him at family dinners, or to be held responsible for all of his choices,” the professor clenches his hands together for a moment, then sighs. “Let me tell you about my family. My parents were simple, hardworking types that did everything right. They just wanted my brother and I to have good lives. But the inheritance of Defective characteristics is a complicated thing, Jean. It’s heavily debated even today, and though the consensus is that genetics plays a large part, there’s also been cases of Defective children being born to families with no history of it. Dave was one such case. We never thought we’d have a Defect in the family. Growing up, he seemed so normal. Pleasant, even.”

I sip my drink because I don’t know what to say. My head isn’t traitorous enough to nod, and I’m not the kind of person who can detach my tongue from my mind, and make comments that I don’t genuinely mean. In fact, I’m half convinced that saying anything at this point will only end up making things worse.

I need to stay quiet so he doesn’t become a voice against me.

A vote for my head on the chopping block.

“We eventually realised that Dave wasn’t like other children his age. We thought he was just slow, and tried to support him as best as we could, but he simply had no sense of what was appropriate behaviour and what wasn’t. People like him are just incapable of grasping that their selfishness has wide-reaching consequences. When he reached eighteen, he refused to go into self-exile, and my soft-hearted parents backed his decision. I begged him to go, before he turned twenty and his Defecthood fully set in. The week before his birthday, he was considering it. But it turned out he’d gotten a girl pregnant and he refused to leave her. I was — I was just flabbergasted that my own flesh and blood could be so irresponsible. And now, all because of my idiot brother: his wife is dead, he attracted a Demon, and now there are four Defective spawn running around the place!”

His last sentence makes my face flush with irrational, childish heat. “Then by your logic, anybody with a genetic health condition shouldn’t have children,” I try to keep my tone level. “Where do you draw the line? Blindness? Down syndrome? What about a slight predisposition to catching the flu?”

“If a person with any heritable condition wishes to have children, it is their right. And that is so, because it is the business of that child and that family, and no outsiders have the right to judge. Except for Defecthood.” His hands are folded in his lap. His tone is very even. He doesn’t seem angry, just didactic, if I’m reading him right. “You understand that it’s wrong to take on risks that involve other people, right? If your child is likely to have X, and you’re willing to accommodate that, then by all means; it’s the business of your child and your family. But a Defect child affects the entire town.”

My Defecthood has never affected anyone. I’ve made sure of it. “Professor. I know you’re Dave’s brother and I’m sure you have the best intentions. But Dave’s children are the business of his family — immediate family. Don’t make sweeping assumptions like his children will all turn out to be Defects. They don’t affect the whole town and they certainly don’t affect me.”

Wilson stays calm, and it irks me. It would have been much more preferable if he had gotten angry at me too, because I feel like the one who’s blowing things out of proportion. “Do you realise that in fifteen years, we’ll have four more fully-realised Defects or Defect carriers in our town because of Dave? Have you heard of the Theory of Thaumaturgic Instability?”

“I didn’t have a traditional education,” I confess. “I was raised in the circus.”

“Let me give you a thaumaturgy lesson,” Wilson says without any emotion. “There are two measures of magic: tension and stability. Tension is the interplay between magics with conflicting intentions, which we’ve already gone through. Stability is the default state of magical energy. When we use magic, we create small instabilities that last just a few seconds. However, Defective magic is inherently unstable. You can just think of a Defect as a steady stream of instability that cannot ever be turned off. And when a Demon detects a town that’s rife with internal instability… he knows that town would be easy to attack.”

“Defect magic… attracts demons?” I clarify in a small voice. This is completely new to me. But it can’t be true, right? The circus had dozens of Acrobats in training, and we’ve never experienced a Demon attack.

“Defects attract demons,” Wilson corrects with lordly authority. I can see why he became a professor now. He speaks with such self-assurance that nobody in the lecture hall would dare fall asleep during his lecture. “Towns with many Defects are easier to take. We were basically waving a flag, begging a Demon to invade us. Of course, I’m not a geneticist and the science is complicated, but I still maintain that my idiot of a brother should have been exiled the day he turned eighteen. Maybe if he had been, this Demon would have left us alone.”

He pauses to brush some soil off the surface of one drone on the floor. I just nod, feeling a strange sense of hollowness in my stomach.

“You’re going to WHAT?”

I wince as the car screeches to a stop at the side of the road. I brace against the dashboard for an impact that never comes. Instead, Laila’s hands grip onto my jacket collar and she starts shaking me back and forth, at a frenzied pace.

“Jeanathan Croissant Toulemonde, I cannot believe you are letting a stuck-up mathematician dictate how you live your life!” she screams in an ear-piercingly high-pitched voice from point-blank range.

I try and fail to shrink away. “One, people shouldn’t die just so I can maintain my way of life. Maybe self-exile really was the best option for people like me. And two, please stop butchering my name, it is literally just one syllable: ‘Jean’.”

My yelp of protest is muffled as she continues to thrash me against the car seat. “Well Delaney is f*cking wrong, and you just believed him like a total — complete — blithering — inverted — little — gerbil!” At this statement, I gape blankly at her, which she takes as an invitation to slam my head against the headrest one final time. Her voice deepens to a snarl, “Nobody tells my sunshine he doesn’t belong here. Nobody.”

“But he knows the science better than I do —”

“The Storyteller crafted you a brain so you could use it, James!” Laila shrieks. “Yes — that’s what I’m calling you from now on, because James is a dumb ass name! You can be Jean again after you stop listening to this dumb ass professor. Have you noticed that our circus had never suffered any demon attacks, even though half of us were Acrobats and Tinkers?”

“A circus is not a town, Laila!”

“Then do you recall anyone, anyone ever saying ‘my hometown was invaded by a demon’? Half of our friends should be survivors of multiple invasions. But you’ve lived to twenty-two and only seen one invasion. Point is, there really are towns out there that banish all their Defects, and guess what? Those towns still get attacked.” Laila huffs loudly and continues driving like nothing happened. “There is no rationality behind any claims from people like Delaney. Hatred always comes first. A thin veneer of rationality comes after.”

I sit dumbly in the car, my thoughts racing. Laila has an uncanny ability to lift my spirits. But for the sake of my own sanity, I really hope that she’s right. I want to believe her, of course, but that’s just putting a thin veneer of rationality over what my heart wants to believe.

And I really hope that it was just a coincidence that the Demon invaded our town soon after I arrived.

“I am so glad I managed to fix my skin before heading out today,” Laila rambles while I look out the window. The boy in the oversized mask stares back. I decide to roll down the window so I’m not stuck looking at my own reflection. “All it took was my glass skin moisturiser, blemish-calming serum, followed by five-in-one concealer…”

“Uh-huh.” Actually, I don’t get it. She looks exactly the same as she did yesterday.

She chuckles all of a sudden. “It is so funny watching you pretend to know what I’m talking about. But it really isn’t that complicated. See, it’s a shallow world out there, sunshine. The smart girl loses to the pretty girl, but neither has anything on the smart and pretty girl. And in that same vein, Kasumi has nothing on me.”

“Doing a fourteen-step skincare routine because you don’t like this woman. Uh-huh. Those two things are definitely related.” My skincare routine consists of two steps: one, wash face with water. Two, if needed, shave.

Laila laughs loudly, boisterously, as she checks the rearview mirror. “What, you think Brye would take her seriously if she wasn’t pretty? You think anyone would? She gets away with what she does because she can cry on command! If anyone tried to harass her back, she’d play the perfect victim. Her head’s as empty as my hydramoisturising cream after today.” Silence descends between us for a moment. She drums her fingertips against the wheel, “It’s ultimately the same as you wearing your mask, isn’t it? When we control how we’re perceived, we can be anything we want to be. We can even be Beauty and the Beast!”

If it were up to me, I’d rather not be perceived as a beast.

“You’re Beauty, of course, cause you’re cute,” she continues. “And I’m the Beast because I’m a wild animal from the inside out.”

I can’t contain the grin that spreads across my face, so I just shake my head. “I don’t think you’ve actually watched Beauty and the Beast.”

Our bickering comes to a close as we pull out of the woods. Into the familiar clearing we go, where yesterday’s gazebo stands tall and proud against the cerulean sky and the afternoon sun. Once again, we’re the last ones to arrive, but mercifully nobody makes a big fuss about it. We unload the boxes of mini breakfast waffles and croque madames from the car, and hurriedly take our seats.

Mar’s demeanour is stiffer and more solemn than yesterday, but she addresses us with a half-smile. “Laila, Jean. Why don’t you two get your food so we can start the discussion right after?”

“You guys should start now,” I stumble over my words a little. “We can listen as we’re getting our food.”

“Straight to business, then,” shrugs Kasumi, who I notice is in far better shape than she was this morning. She’s more focused, for one, and her voice is sharp. It’s the same tone she taunted Mar with yesterday. “Anita Paterno, I assume you are a townsfolk?”

“Yes,” Anita coughs. “Yes, I am. Why are you asking me in particular?”

Kasumi closes her eyes and pulls a coin out of her pocket. She stands up with a blank expression on her face and flips the coin, covering it with her palm as soon as it lands on the back of her hand. “Just one more thing. Paterno, if you could assign heads or tails to Ageyenko and Virostko?”

Confusion is evident on Anita’s gentle features as she looks over to Julian and Sergio, who seem similarly dumbfounded. But she shakes it off with a tug at her necklace, “Ah, you meant the coin. Sergio tails, Julian heads.”

Judging by everyone’s reactions, it seems that Brye hasn’t revealed his findings yet. I assume he has a good reason for it so I go with the flow. Kasumi, meanwhile, pulls her hand back to show everyone the coin. “Tails. I nominate Sergio Virostko.”

“Kasumi Asai nominates Sergio Virostko,” Anita repeats in confirmation, then frowns down at her notebook. “I ran the votes yesterday, so I suppose I’ll do it again? Normally, I would let the nominator and the accused both make a statement before everyone votes, but the discussion has only just started. I’m sure the rest of the table has plenty to add, but no chance to speak yet. Could we discuss a bit more as a group, and get back to this nomination in say, twenty minutes?”

Everyone agrees with her. Laila and I return to the main table with our plates full of food, now ready to give our full attention to the discussion.

“Excuse me, may I say just one thing?” It’s Sergio, squeezing the table for support. “I’ll gladly accept whatever decision the group thinks is best today, but whatever you do, please don’t execute me or Yulian. I didn’t dare reveal this earlier, but we’re fraternal twins, raised in separate families. While in the orphanage, we made a blood pact to find each other one day, and to never be separated again… for better or for worse.”

Kasumi turns to Brye with a raised eyebrow. “Brye, are you sure —”

“Yes, I’m sure.” The man who was alive just a day ago addresses the table. “Yesterday, I lied and pretended to be a Juggler to lure the Demon into attacking me. As you can see, my plan succeeded, and I used my knowledge of anatomy to narrow down who it might be. Both Sergio and Julian are direct matches for the Demon’s phenotype.”

I try to gauge everybody’s reactions, but it’s impossible. The group has barely digested this information before Elliot interjects, pointing one finger straight at Brye. “Don’t believe him! The dead man is a demon sympathiser. I know this for a fact — I saw the signs in the stars. At first I wanted to observe the natural course of things, but Brye’s actions showed that I needed to say something before our town runs afoul of this blood pact.”

My vision starts to blur. Laila puts a steadying hand on my back, and I force my brain to jolt itself back to reality. Sluggishly, it does. I try to run the possibilities in my head. Either Brye or Elliot’s loyalties lie with the Demon, but it’s not apparent who the traitor is. It’s not outright impossible for Elliot to simply be mistaken, but that would require…

“My God, look at all these rats and fleas who have stepped up to protect their Demon!” Kasumi exclaims in mock-theatrical fashion. “Congratulations — you proved Brye’s point. Paterno, you saved Ageyenko from execution today, so you likely agree with wherever his loyalties lie. Given Brye’s information, there’s a 50 percent chance of him being the Demon. I think you should nominate yourself as a show of goodwill.”

Anita starts fidgeting with her pendant again. I wince in sympathy, knowing what it feels like to have a nervous habit that you barely even notice yourself. “I don’t understand what that accomplishes. Shouldn’t you be asking me to nominate Julian?”

“Nominating both Ageyenko and Virostko could cause a tie in the votes. We currently don’t have a reason to nominate Ageyenko over Virostko, or vice versa. That’s why I decided by a coin flip,” Kasumi lays out, her voice returning to butter-sweet. “And as a potential Demon-worshipper, you’re showing that you’re willing to die for the good of our town.”

Willing to die for the good of our town.

Realisation strikes me, as sudden and as cold as a bolt of lightning. “Kasumi, you better not be the Witch!” All eyes swivel towards me, and I let out a slow breath. I don’t expect someone like Kasumi to admit to it. But as long as I bring up the possibility, Anita could make an informed decision.

She makes an expression that’s halfway between confusion and derisive laughter. “I’m not stupid, Jean. If I goaded Anita into nominating and she triggered a curse, I deserve to be executed.”

I note Laila’s worried yet supportive gaze, Brye’s fists clenched in determination, and the way Elliot’s cold blue eyes are fixated on me. I continue, “At the very least, I don’t think you’re being honest with us. If we’re really executing one of Sergio and Julian today, Anita nominating herself doesn’t prove anything. And she didn’t know what the coin flip represented when you asked her to call it. Why don’t you just tell us the real reason why you want her to nominate?”

Kasumi purses her lip, and turns to face Laila and I. “The Storyteller was kind enough to grant me… a true and a false vision to guide our decision-making. I saw that either Brye would have learnt he made three true statements this morning, or the Witch cursed the neighbour of a Defect.”

I catch Dave’s gaze from across the table, and I see his chest deflate, though I don’t hear him sigh. “So you were testing her,” he realises. He repeats this once more to himself, seemingly in shock. “You and Anita are both my neighbours. You were hoping her survival would prove your first vision true.”

“Yes,” Kasumi holds her chin high. “Professor Wilson’s probes never picked up any abnormal tensions, and we’ve used that as a baseline for all our other information. If Paterno survives, the professor is reliable, therefore Brye’s deductions are reliable. You’re sharper than everyone else, Mr Wilson.”

Laila reacts exactly as I expected her to. “For the sake catching this Demon, will you shut the f*ck up?” She jumps swiftly to her feet, and levels a death glare at the first girl. “No more talking. Don’t even breathe out loud while you’re sitting at this table. Wow, the Storyteller bestowed upon me incredible information, I should test whether it’s true! But what if Anita refuses because she’s rightfully attached to her life? I just won’t tell her that she’s gambling with her life! Ehehe, she’ll do exactly what I want since she doesn’t know sh*t!”

“Distorting the facts again?” Kasumi snarls. “How typical of you, Krickett.”

“You have not considered whether my best friend will f*cking die!” Laila slams both hands on the table, causing several plates to rattle in alarm. “What happens if Anita nominates and is cursed? We’d still be no closer to figuring out which of Lyra, Mar and Wilson is a liar, and Anita would have died for no reason! At this point, I don’t think it’s possible for someone to be this stupid in good faith, so I’ll ask you: do you have zero regard for anyone else, or are you faking stupidity to aid the Demon?”

“Kasumi, don’t answer. Anita, I’ll take care of this,” Mar announces suddenly, with a resoluteness that I didn’t know they had in them. They stand up too. “Kasumi, your behaviour is erratic and every plan, every word out of your mouth seems calculated to benefit the Demon instead of our town. Laila just hit the nail on the head with your scheming. I don’t think anyone will object to this — I’m going to nominate Kasumi.”

Time itself seems to slow down. Milliseconds expand into seconds. I find myself taken with the artistry of the hazes of orange that are currently painting the sky with somniferous strokes. My hands automatically return to my dinner, already gone cold, already forgotten during this altercation. All in all, this seems like a good moment to eat.

The moment is shattered when Lyra Khan begins to scream.

Jean's Notes:

Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer)
Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no)
• d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
Elliot - Oracle (n2 1)
Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0 n2 0)
Julian - twins w/ Sergio
Sergio - twins w/ Julian
Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio)
Anita -
Dave - Barber
Kasumi - Savant
• d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician)
• d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider
Lyra - Artist
Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor)

Chapter 6: all just make-believe

Chapter Text

Laila used to have an aunt called Tiya.

People always thought they were sisters, not only because they were so close in age, but also because they were both strikingly beautiful. Every summer, talent scouts from acting and modelling agencies would come to talk to the faces of Cirque du Roi. The star Acrobat and her up-and-coming niece.

Laila lost her aunt when she was fourteen.

She had been looking for her aunt and entered the big top just as the coroners were carrying away the body. She was gone instantly, they said. It was almost painless, they said. But Laila still screamed when she saw the blood splatters on the floor, and the body of Maverick the lion, put to sleep forever.

Nobody was present for Tiya’s final moments, but we could all surmise what happened. I imagined Maverick chomping through her head like an apple. I imagined Tiya going about her day, talking to him as she always did before training.

And then, silence.

The silence of someone dying in front of you is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. The first thing you think is, this can’t be happening. But it is. But it is and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it from happening, or give it a meaningful shape.

All you can do is submit to your new reality.

Mar’s tiny frame is lifted two feet into the air, as if hanging from an invisible noose. Shallow coughs erupt from their lungs as they clutch at their neck. Lyra and I, sitting closest to them, hurry to grab their arms and pull them back to the ground, but physical strength is useless against magical energy. All we can do is watch. Mar lets out one last scream of pain before their limbs go slack, and their head falls limply to a side. Something floating and ghostly blue is pulled from their face by an invisible hand, slowly at first, then is ripped from their body. Mar’s remains crumple to the ground, covered in grey veins.

“Mar!”

Lyra’s scream is first to break the deafening silence.

“Mar! Stay with me, please…”

Something in my chest tightens as Lyra falls to her knees, cradling her friend’s body. Like an angel descending, the ghost of Mar floats slowly down behind them.

“This can’t be happening,” Lyra’s blinking repeatedly now. It’s in a futile attempt to keep her tears from falling. That’s when the ghost starts to speak.

But it’s not even speech. It’s a high-pitched screech, dotted by garbles of words that are utterly incomprehensible to the rest of us. Someone hands over pen and paper, but as soon as Mar reaches for it, it flies away from their hand as if repelled. “Let them be,” interrupts Professor Wilson. “It takes time for ghosts to fully materialise in our world. Right now, Mar is neither truly here nor there. They have to accept their situation before they can join us on their own terms. It should take… two or three days.”

Lyra curses viciously. “You want Mar to accept their death? They have their whole life ahead of them! It wasn’t meant to end like this, we were meant to publish our book together —” Suddenly, her brown eyes widen. “What about Brye? How come Mar’s unable to communicate while Brye’s basically a ghost version of himself?”

“Brye has his whole life ahead of him too,” Laila points out, voice wavering. “Med school, girlfriend, plus he’s still a teenager. There’s no ‘accepting’ you’ve lost your entire life as you know it in one night.”

“Unless he planned to die,” Elliot glowers darkly. “Unless he’s a Fang Gu that’s content with body-snatching and possessing the living!”

Whispering explodes around the table. At this, Brye sighs and wrings his hands. “Of course I’m upset to die. But since no amount of denial is going to bring me back, I don’t see a point in rejecting reality. Of course, mileage may vary,” He waves a hand in Mar’s direction. “By the way, could we objectively list out what happens at each discussion? That way, the dead can catch up more easily.”

“Anita’s already on it,” I begin. “It’s just that…”

Somebody else starts talking immediately, either Sergio or Brye; I can’t tell because they sound similar and I’m really, really trying to block them out to keep my train of thought. Mar died to a curse, I’ll assume Mar is a true Townsfolk because Witches wouldn’t murder their own allies. Mar dreamt Lyra was either the Artist or the Vigormortis, Lyra affirms this so I don’t see Mar’s Dream as disrupted, and that means — what does that mean? Dave’s mouth is moving. His soundless words are lodging themselves in my skull. Just like that, I lost the thought, God I need to pick the pieces back up.

“Today’s visions are one, Shirazi is the Dreamer, Khan is the Artist, and Wilson is the Mathematician,” Kasumi’s butter-warm voice is strangely clear over the chaos. “Or two, the Witch cursed somebody who is the neighbour of a Defect.”

“The second vision is false, innit?” asks Sergio rhetorically. “Lyra is either the Artist or our Demon, and Jean is our Juggler. So the first one —”

I frown, looking first at Lyra, then at Mar who was between us.

“I’m sorry — one thing,” Lyra has both hands in front of her in a defensive stance. “Since Mar’s… away, I should tell the town on their behalf. Last night, they Dreamt about Dave. He’s either the Barber like he swore he was, or the Fang Gu.”

“Dave is a known Outsider,” Elliot exhales, slow. “He’s a natural target for the body-snatcher. If Brye the Fang Gu wanted to point towards the twins, he needs a living host. Dave is the most sensible choice to set this plan into motion.”

The rising cacophony is loud enough to rip my ears open. Everybody is talking at once, and it’s hard to think with all the sensory overload, and I’m just —

Deep breaths, Jean.

I take out a sketchbook, draw two circles, and force myself back into my earlier mindset. Laila and I are the only two people who know Kasumi’s first statement is false; Mar, Lyra and Wilson aren’t all telling the truth. Again, Witches don’t curse allies, so the liar is Lyra or Wilson. Lyra gives fewer possibilities so I work through her first. Per Mar’s Dreams, which have so far been reliable, she’s the Vigormortis. Brye’s analysis would be wrong, so he’d have to be Lyra’s ally. But Lyra would have healed one Defect before starting her rampage, so the last servant would be Dave by sheer numbers. Yet, this can’t explain why Mar thought he was a Fang Gu, or the Sergio-Julian mess. Therefore, Lyra is not the Vigormortis.

Wilson has to be the liar then. He’s either with or against Elliot. With, Brye’s deduction is correct and the Demon is either Sergio or Julian, but the innocent twin has no reason to go along with this charade unless they were a Demon-loyalist themselves, and that gives the Demon a four-man team, which is too many. If Wilson and Elliot are opposed, Wilson could be the No Dashii that infected both Elliot and Brye, but that would mean Sergio and Julian are his two loyalists. Else, Wilson could be the Vigormortis that killed Brye, but once again that makes Dave a loyalist too, and there’s still no explanation for Mar’s Dream or the Twins.

I write down my two conclusions. One, the Demon isn’t a Vigormortis. Probably. It necessitates Brye, Dave, Sergio and Julian to all be on the Demon’s team, which can’t be right. Not to mention, Dave’s role in this demon hunt contradicts Mar’s Dream.

Two, the Demon is… Wilson? But that’s still hinging on the assumption that Kasumi isn’t lying. Given her earlier stunt got Mar killed, I trust her as far as I can throw her.

I finally notice Mar’s body has been laid among the flowers circling the gazebo. Their ghost clings to Lyra Khan’s hand, the two of them isolated in their own world.

At this moment, Julian speaks up. “I nominate Dave,” he declares, matter-of-factly. “Dave, I’m sorry, but you’re our best execution today. Multiple sources point to Brye being the deceased Fang Gu, and you’re the best Fang Gu candidate.”

I run the possibilities through my head. Brye’s the Fang Gu, Dave’s the convert, and one of the twins is evil. The final Demon-loyalist can’t be Mar, because a Witch wouldn’t curse themselves. If it’s Lyra, Mar Dreamt her incorrectly, which again, needs an explanation that I don’t have. Once again, that takes us back to Wilson.

“Julian, your actions are not making sense!” There’s a note of agitation to Brye’s voice, one I’ve never heard before. “If you aren’t the Demon, Sergio is. You claim he’s your Evil Twin. In either case, if your token is blue, his has to be red. We nominated him for execution. Why are you trying to get him off the chopping block?”

The intensity of that last bit takes me aback. Laila’s hand appears on my shoulder, authoritative. “Don’t look so scared,” she advises, and I nod. “They’re both just playing the role of showman for votes. It’s all just make-believe, really.”

Julian, too, looks momentarily stunned, but he covers it up with a scowl and a cross of his arms. “Dave is the Demon. Sergio is a servant,” he enunciates these words slowly and condescendingly. “Of course I’m gonna prioritise the one that’s f*cking murdering people.”

“You hesitated,” Brye points out. “If everyone would take a step back, Sergio and Julian are protecting each other even though they’re logically nemeses. They’re clearly a Demon and a servant pair.”

“The nifty thing about Dave Wilson is he’s either the Barber, or our Demon,” Kasumi reasons, flexing her fingers. “If he’s our Fang Gu, we execute him and redirect our efforts to whether Virostko or Ageyenko is the one we need to defeat. If he’s genuinely the Barber, then the Demon and all its allies have to be among Bellaco, the twins, Blackmoor, and Professor Wilson. This execution is actually not a bad idea.”

Dave’s composure isn’t just incredible now. He must have the patience of a Monk to put up with us discussing his death for the second day in a row. “You’re accusing me of being a Fang Gu. If there’s indeed one, there’s two more Defects hiding among our number. Any of the information you’re using to accuse me could be faulty.”

“Exactly,” Brye affirms. His body language is aggressive, daring anyone to challenge him. “Anyone derailing this conversation by bringing up Dave is likely on the Demon’s side. We kill Sergio today, and if necessary, Julian tomorrow.”

“Don’t!” Sergio cries out. “Look, I’m sorry I made a blood pact, I was young and stupid and I didn’t think it would come back to bite us. But the covenant that binds us won’t be sated with just my blood being spilt. It’ll come for every member of the town. It’s suicidal to execute me.”

Wilson looks conflicted. “Yet you didn’t advocate executing Julian. In fact, you defended him.”

“So what? He’s my brother.” This leaves the older man silent in contemplation. “I’d like to ask everyone once again to look at who is accusing me: Brye. Elliot the Oracle has sensed the darkness of his soul. He himself doubled up with Jean, which highly suggests one of them is Demon-aligned. Delaney said ghosts take three days to materialise, and yet Brye’s completely functional. Occam’s razor: Brye’s allies used strong magic on him so he could continue spreading lies.”

“I can only be the Demon if Brye was the Fang Gu, but we don’t know that for a fact. The Demon can still be a Vigormortis,” Dave’s hands have started to shake with the weight of all this pressure. “And if it’s a Fang Gu — then who are the other two Defects?”

“Jean,” Wilson murmured, just barely audible.

He knew?

Wilson shuts his eyes with tremendous effort. “Jean paid me a visit this afternoon. We discussed the Demon, and he said our town had too many Defects to justify a Vigormortis.” He sighs before he continues, “He knows about these two missing Defects.”

“I do,” I take a steadying breath. “A certain person, or persons, came to me in private and confessed that they were a Defect. I’d rather not name names right now, especially since most Defects don’t like being found out, but…” Laila’s hand envelops mine, and I let her squeeze it. “But, I think all of us should take Wilson’s information with a grain of salt. It’s a mad world out here, you know? Anyone can be a Defect, and anyone could be Mad. So we shouldn’t take everything at face value for now.”

Let me try to play this right.

“I want to nominate Delaney Wilson. Elliot and Brye’s information contradict, so what if one of them’s simply wrong? What if the Demon interfered with one of them? Now look between them and you’ll see Wilson. I’m not saying he’s the No Dashii for sure, but I think it’s a possibility worth considering.”

Silence descends across the table. Julian stares at me, flabbergasted, like I’ve just declared myself to be the Apprentice-Pixie-Cannibal-Philosopher-Atheist. Or, more accurately, he’s wondering why this weirdo who never shows his face is talking about a ‘mad world’. But he quickly pulls back to whisper to his neighbours. Lyra Khan, meanwhile, is blinking back tears as she runs her hand through Mar’s hair, over and over. It’s admirable how she’s still following the conversation. Finally, I notice Brye.

Brye glares straight at me, staring me down with a mixture of irritation and… curiosity? Disdain? He doesn’t say anything, though. Good for me. Every word out of his mouth is an enigma, and I don’t need him muddling my brain any further. Then, his eyes narrow, and it makes me wrench my gaze away violently. I don’t want him to look at me like this. In fact, I don’t want him to look at me ever again.

“This is ridiculous,” Wilson begins, after a terse moment of thought. “Kasumi’s visions prove my innocence. Besides, Julian and Sergio sit between Brye and I.”

“Brye,” Kasumi manages weakly, “We should abort the plan.”

Plan? What kind of plan? “No,” Brye half-snaps, before he regains control over his tone. “The Demon can only be the so-called ‘Twins’. Since they’re protecting each other instead of proving themselves innocent, they’re Demon and servant, and it’s safe to execute them. If we kill Sergio today, we kill a Demon candidate. If we kill Dave, we make my information essentially worthless.”

“Brye…” she repeats pleadingly.

Dave spots his opening. “Kasumi, listen to him. I’m a terrible execution target. If the Demon harnessed the residual magic from my dead body, it could implant its soul in another’s body. They could transfer their Demonhood to a cultist, and like Brye said, his information would be meaningless.”

“Or…” Lyra ponders, slowly. “We could execute Kasumi.”

Anita taps her glass with a spoon for our attention. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to start voting now if we’re to finish the ritual before the golden hour finishes. The first nomination was Kasumi Asai nominating Sergio Virostko. This nomination occurred before our friend Mar… so, um, six votes are needed to put Sergio to the wards. Sergio, do you have a defence?”

The man nods, his eyes frantic. “Absolutely. I’ll say this one more time: killing a blood-bonded person is a terrible idea, and Brye has been accused of lying by multiple sources. I believe he intended to pretend to be a Juggler, and changed his plan after Jean proved to be an obstacle. Our best execution today is Dave, since it’s extremely likely that our town harbours a Fang Gu.”

“Voting starts with Brye, and circles all the way back to Sergio,” Anita glances up at the sky. The orange streaks of the clouds are giving way to grey, so we don’t have that much time left. “Brye, it’s customary to let the dead have one last chance to vote. Will you do so now?”

Brye’s eyes, once startling brown and full of life, dart from face to face. Then, he sags his shoulders. “I won’t spend my only vote now, but I strongly believe we should be voting out Sergio.”

“I’m next. I vote yes,” Anita continued to scribble in her notebook. “I’m sorry, Sergio.”

“Yes as well,” Dave affirms.

Kasumi is busy writing down notes too, and she’s startled when Anita prompts her to vote a second time. “Virostko? No.”

Brye gapes at her, stunned by her change of allegiance, but the vote continues. Lyra votes no too. We tell Mar to knock over a tissue box if they intend to vote, which they don’t. It’s my turn. I sigh, knowing in my heart that if Wilson is the Demon, the only situation that makes sense would be for Sergio and Julian to both be his servants, and therefore…

“Jean, yes. Laila, no. Elliot, no. Delaney, yes. Julian, no. Sergio, no. With four votes, Sergio is safe for today,” Anita concludes.

Sergio blows out a breath. “Thank you, everyone.”

“Next nomination, Mar Shirazi nominates Kasumi Asai…” Anita trails off as she glances apologetically at the newly-deceased person. “Kasumi, your defence?”

She laughs. Is her confidence a farce? “I was nominated out of spite, for no ostensible gain, by a person acting recklessly. The Demon’s teammates are contained within Bellaco, Ageyenko, Virostko, Blackmoor, and the two Wilsons. There’s only one scenario that leaves me a town-traitor: if Brye the Fang Gu had possessed Dave, in which case we should be executing Dave.”

“Five votes to execute Kasumi, starting from Lyra…” Lyra and Laila immediately raise their hands to vote. A moment later, Dave and Anita follow suit. At the last moment, Delaney Wilson shifts in his seat uncomfortably, then raises his hand too.

Kasumi’s expression changes from astonishment to a snarl when she realises she’s been placed on the chopping block. “You can’t be serious. If I’m an evildoer, what am I? I’m not a Fang Gu or No Dashii candidate, and it clearly isn’t a Vigormortis. It’s not my fault Shirazi nominated me. I’ll ask again, what am I? If you can’t answer this question — get me off the block.”

“You got Mar killed,” seethes Lyra Khan, with deadly deliberation. “The entire nomination mess felt exactly like that: a mess. I can’t imagine why someone good would trick Anita into nominating, rather than laying out all the information and letting her decide for herself. I’ll be able to sort out the possibilities more clearly when we meet up tomorrow, but I’m certain you’re a Demon or a servant.”

“What am I, Lyra Khan? Let’s go back to the situation between Brye and Blackmoor. If Brye is loyal to the town, Blackmoor’s divination is wrong. One: Blackmoor is poisoned. It has to be by Professor Wilson the No Dashii. Since Brye’s diagnosis was wrong, he was the other corrupted target, meaning Virostko and Ageyenko were skipped over and therefore serve Wilson. Two: Blackmoor protects their Demon, one of Virostko and Ageyenko, and the other is a lying servant. In either combination, there’s three in the Demon’s party. There’s no room for me in the alliance if Brye is on the town’s side.”

“I said, I’ll sort through the possibilities —”

“If Brye is evil, he’s either a Fang that bodysnatched early, or dying for his master the Defect-healer.” Kasumi is speaking so fast that I’m rendered completely stunned. “In the second case, there’s a minion among Virostko and Ageyenko, and the Demon is one of the people that pretended to be Defects to Jean, which I’m not. At worst, I’m serving Brye who snatched the Barber’s body, and the best solution is executing this suspected Fang Gu. Either way you slice it, we should kill a Wilson today.”

I look to Laila, who seems to be utterly lost in thought. “She’s right,” I affirm, deepening my tone to sound authoritative. “Dave is the Fang Gu candidate. Delaney is the No Dashii candidate. I think we should make the decision of who to execute as a group, and then have everybody who’s already voted so far vote on the person we’ve chosen. Even if we execute wrong today, the Flowergirl will help us pick ourselves back up.”

“I don’t understand why you keep insisting I’m aligned with the Demon,” Delaney’s voice is superficially calm, but his teeth are gnashed together. “Kasumi’s vision clears me from consideration. If she’s been hoodwinked, I don’t see a source. And even in the scenario that she’s lying, the Demon has to be my brother and the servant is either Sergio or Julian. In no scenario is it ever possible for me to be Demonic.”

“Ignore Kasumi’s visions for now,” Elliot cuts in. I brace myself, hands twisting together. “Jean’s the Juggler, of course. But of Mar’s neighbours, Lyra has always been a reclusive sort. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bluffed as the Artist to avoid poisoning our info pool. — You don’t have to say anything, Lyra. This is pure speculation.”

Lyra gives them a weird look, then slowly shakes her head. I don’t think anyone would take her word for it, though. People rarely admit to Defecthood.

“Rather, I think today’s decision should be made based on one thing only. We have a perfect measure of which Demon type is the most probable. The body-snatcher creates an additional Defective person. The Defect-healer cures one. The corruptor doesn’t change the numbers.” The way they list off everything is cold and methodical.

If they had been campaigning for my execution, I would be terrified.

“Jean, I’m putting all my trust in you,” Elliot says lightly, but they don’t sound like they trust me. They bare their famous wide grin that just looks like a smirk. “How many non-Dave Defects do you know of?”

I feel Laila clasp my arm, and I don’t know whether to lean into the touch, or run off somewhere to be alone. Not that I don’t appreciate her supportiveness, but Dave and Delaney are both waiting expectantly for my answer. The pressure of two stares dig into my skin. And before I realise it I’m cold all over, despite the brilliant sun. Even Laila’s grip isn’t enough to stabilise me now. And I’m back to that evening.

“Authorities are investigating after vandals trashed a barber shop earlier today,” reported the news anchor, with very detached professionalism. I stood in front of the television, immobilised. Laila sat on the sofa watching, expression unreadable. “They threw bricks through the windows, destroyed furniture and left rubbish everywhere.”

A ‘one’ condemns Delaney. A ‘two’ condemns Dave.

All I see when I look at Dave is shattered glass, and the faces of four children. I’m trying to shut off this part of my brain, because the fact that he’s a father doesn’t mean anything in a demon hunt. It’s a logical fallacy to assume a father wouldn’t willingly host a Demon, thereby endangering his children… but that actually makes perfect sense now that I’m thinking about it. And God, I don’t want either of their blood on my hands. Elliot’s put me on the spot and I have to answer, I have to, because it’s for making the right decision today. I could lie, but I don’t particularly believe it’s Dave, and Delaney being the evil one would line up perfectly with Kasumi’s vision as well as everything we currently know. But what if it’s really Dave? What if I lead everyone down the wrong path?

No, how could I be so arrogant as to presume everyone would follow me? The whole table thinks Delaney is innocent. Maybe everyone would shrug, execute Dave anyway, and come for me next because of my nonsense. In that case I’m better off lying about knowing two Defects, if my information won’t change the outcome. But if my initial assumption is wrong, then…

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mar; shadowy all over, clutching at their throat, blue. Mar died because someone wasn’t fully honest with their information. I know it’s rich of me to say it like that, especially since my own track record of honesty would make Brye roll over in his grave. But I’m going to give it my best shot and lay it out for the entire table. Because they’ll make a better decision than I would have on my own.

“I know one other person who’s a Defect.” There’s a sense of finality to those words as the whole table falls silent, processing what I just said. Wilson, in particular, glares daggers at me. If he really is innocent, then I can’t blame him one bit. But it’s the honest truth and I don’t see myself replying any other way.

“Very well. I think I trust Jean,” Sergio concludes, with a nod in my direction. “Since there’s two people with Defections at our table, the possibility of having a No Dashii is higher than a Fang Gu. Are we all in favour?”

Brye sighs, and crosses his arms. “For the record, I don’t like this. I’d much rather we executed one of the so-called twins, but we already missed our chance today. At least we aren’t unleashing Dave’s post-mortem curse on ourselves… I guess.”

“Brye. Forgive the bluntness, but your diagnosis is hard to believe. With the Oracle divination, the way you’ve been addressing the town, and so on,” Anita says gently. “But I promise you, we will treat your information with due respect.”

“I know I’m right about this. I just don’t want anyone else to die.”

Dave’s dark brown eyes meet mine, somewhat uncertainly, like he’s holding himself back. I tear my gaze away — how do you even look at the brother of the person you condemned to die? — but even moments after, I feel his eyes on me. Eventually, he speaks. “Someone confided in me about being a Defect. Likely thought I was trustworthy, because my identity is out in the open.” He tangles a hand through his locs before he addresses me. “I want to know if Jean and I talked to the same person. Do they like comfortable shoes?”

Do they like comfortable shoes; “do they plan to come out regarding their identity at some point, instead of hiding it until they die”? Evidently, half the table has no idea what he’s talking about, judging by the befuddled expressions. “No, he’s a penfriend of Dee’s,” I blurt out, immediately wanting to slap myself for this impulsiveness. Idiot, idiot, idiot! How could I be so stupid as to reveal in front of everyone that I understood Defect slang?

“Euphemisms for Defecthood,” Dave explains to the table. Finally, achingly slow, he smiles. It’s all skin and no flesh, no genuine emotion, just a one-man show of make-believe to an audience that doesn’t legitimately care. “It’s two separate people. My person wasn’t a ‘he’.”

As he says this, I want to scream. Dave still has that thin kind of half-smile, but I can tell he’s sweating. He’s protecting Delaney with a claim that may or may not be true, but certainly comes at the price of his own life. Did he know the things Delaney said behind his back? Would he have done the same if he’d known?

“I’m going to believe Dave on this,” Julian reasons. “I can’t think of any possible scenario where Dave and Delaney are both evildoers, so we don’t have to worry about Dave covering for his Demon or anything like that. Besides, it’s good to get the Barber out of the way early rather than late.”

Dave can’t hide the wince on his face. “Who, um, hasn’t voted so far?”

Laila looks down at her notes. “Eli, Sergio, Julian and Kasumi. Damn it, we should have evened out the numbers more to test Sergio and Julian against each other.”

“I’d rather vote,” Sergio offers immediately. “Dave, I’m sorry, but —”

“Of course you’d rather vote,” Laila shoots him down, eyes blazing. “Taking your chances with the larger group rather than the smaller one? No way, bozo. Julian votes with us! He already took the risk of nominating.” I get where she’s coming from. There’s more voters than abstainers, and wanting the security of the bigger group is a Demon’s way of thinking.

Sergio sighs but doesn’t challenge her.

Then, there’s the rumble of a car engine. An unremarkable white van is pulling up along the gazebo and then stops. A pair of security guards disembark and begin approaching us.

As the first man climbs the steps to the gazebo, Laila’s face changes. “Officer Seagrave, Officer Kwon. Just five more minutes, we’re almost finished.” When she turns to address us, her voice is coldly authoritative. “Everyone, don’t vote unless you already have today. Anita, call the next nomination.”

“Y-yes,” the younger girl glances at her notes. “Jean Toulemonde nominates Dave Wilson —”

“I nominated Dave,” Julian corrects brusquely. “Jean’s nomination was Delaney.”

Anita stammers apologetically for a while. “Ah, sorry! Julian nominates Dave. Votes start from Kasumi.”

I know the result even before the hands shoot into the air. But even as Anita counts the votes out loud, I notice that nobody is looking at Dave. Their eyes glaze over him like he’s not even there. Some, like Lyra, are looking abjectly down at their knees. Others, like Julian, are staring blankly ahead.

Everyone except Elliot, Sergio and Kasumi vote for Dave. No one votes for Delaney.

After finishing up the votes, Anita leans over and places her palm at the centre of the gazebo table. “The accusations are hereby over,” she declares. “Grim Creator, we ran the nominations as you commanded, according to the rules you set for us. We have chosen to execute Dave Wilson. Please grant us your blessing so that we may proceed.”

I shudder. It’s as if Anita has planted a neon purple seed in the centre. It blooms, spreads outwards, unfolding its serpentine pattern until it stops at the edges of the table. Yet, one single tendril of glowing purple magic continues to grow towards Dave. His face and his trembling hands are illuminated by the fluorescent glow. Finally, golden ropes spring from his chair, binding him more securely than iron chains.

“Dave Wilson is acceptable,” Anita announces, and there’s sighs of relief aplenty. Technically, we could execute Dave even if the spirit of the Storyteller didn’t approve our choice. But, understandably, the authorities are reluctant to execute anyone that isn’t recognised by the Storyteller. At worst, the entire table could be charged for manslaughter. But I’ve heard that the Storyteller only rejects executees if something seriously wrong had happened during nominations, so it’s all procedural.

“Who’s going to accompany Dave for the ward ritual?” Sergio asks. He frowns down at a plate of food that’s still completely full. “I’m going to preemptively exclude Delaney from consideration. Lyra, too; the poor girl doesn’t need to watch anybody else die today.”

Lyra opens her mouth to protest this, but freezes when a single tear resurfaces. She wipes it away on her jeans vigorously. As Laila fusses over her, Mar hovers over the two of them, face scrunched up like they can’t quite understand what is going on. Blue smoke swirls around the three of them.

“I’ll go, of course,” Sergio continues. “I want to be the one to send you off, Dave.”

A moment later, Elliot also stands up. “The ritual requires advanced magic. I’ll do it.” Anita thanks them for taking on the duty that nobody wants. Nobody wants to share in a dead man’s final moments.

I look upwards at the sun, which is beginning its slow, dreamlike descent down the mountains. The guards will take the trio to the edges of town, where the Demon wards are. Sergio and Elliot are needed to ease Dave’s transition into his ghost form, and to contain any excess magic that might be given off. My throat swells as the guards release Dave from his chair, but stay closely by, in case he suddenly decides to take off. Several people stand up to give Dave a hug or some last words of comfort. I get up and walk over to join the crowd. Strangely absent from our ranks, however, is Delaney.

Delaney sits stiffly in his seat, pointedly staring straight ahead as if he hadn’t just been complicit in sending his brother to his death. His arms remain folded across his chest. The sight of him fills me with rage. He should have been the one executed today. Was this how he repaid Dave’s sacrifice? A hand comes out of nowhere and clasps mine. Instinctively, I almost slap it away.

Then I see Dave Wilson shaking my hand.

Dave Wilson, father of four, soon-to-be corpse.

“It was nice meeting you, Jean,” his skin trembles as he pats our clasped hands. I can feel the rattle of his bones, the tight clench of his fingers before he finally lets go. “Under better circ*mstances, we could have been friends.”

“Oh, I believe so too,” I say, not entirely insincere, but not entirely sincere either. He turns to talk to Julian next, which is lucky for me, because I don’t want to think about Dave’s face anymore. Thinking hurts too much. The sound of the water faucet is coming alive again, and it shatters its way through broken glass, and the face of the news anchor on that night.

I scan the faces of those present. With the exception of Delaney, not one person seems at all happy that we’re sentencing the Barber to death.

But would they have been less eager to execute if Dave wasn’t born a Defect?

The van pulls away with Dave and the two others inside. I breathe out a terse sigh that I hope my mask is able to fully hide. Honestly, I don’t think Dave is the Demon, but I don’t have any idea who it might be, either. So I don’t have any right to say that this decision wasn’t for the best. The thought itself is a farce, an illusion of control, and I know it, but if I don’t hold on to it, I think I’m going to lose myself again.

Laila is still with Lyra and Mar. As I make my way over to them, I hear snippets of conversation —

“It’s perfectly alright to grieve. You and your brother had your differences, but he must have still been family.”

“I still maintain that my brother should have taken that woman with him, and left town on the day he turned twenty.”

— before I reach them, whereupon Laila embraces me, holding me tight. “At least we’re safe for another day,” she murmurs into my hair, and I know, and she knows too, that she’s searching for anything to be optimistic about. “Sunshine, I’m going to take Lyra home. I’m thinking I either come back for you, or we get someone else to drive you — argh, we need to get you a phone. Remind me next morning.”

“I’ll get one myself,” my cheeks flush at the idea of freeloading on her. “Once this demon hunt ends, I’ll find a new job and I’ll pay you back for everything —”

“In the meantime, Jean should just ride with us,” Lyra suggests. She’s stopped crying at least, which is a good thing. “I told Laila I wanted to be alone, but riding with three other people isn’t that much different from riding with two.” Mar puts their hand on Lyra’s shoulder, and she smiles weakly up at them. Hoping in her heart that Mar is still with us in spirit.

“Sure. Get in the car,” Laila rummages for her keys, and I find myself admiring the silent strength in her lofty posture and unfettered expression, in how she comforts everyone else before she herself is comforted. Right before we leave, however, a voice calls out for us to wait.

Brye sprints towards us, and as he passes me, he discreetly presses a folded note into my hand. I’m so caught off-guard by this I nearly drop it. “What is it?” Laila demands.

“Nothing.” A bold-faced lie. He purses his lips, “I just wanted to make sure you guys are doing alright, but it seems you’ll be taking care of Lyra. So, have a safe drive.”

I don’t manage to hide the scoff that escapes me the moment we pile into Laila’s car and shut the doors behind us. She and Lyra Khan sit in the front row, while I’m in the back with Mar’s ghost. When they don’t seem to be looking, I try to sneak a glimpse of their face. Wilson had said that newly-formed ghosts are not yet fully with us. Sure enough, Mar’s eyes are unfocused, and at random times during the ride, they sit limply in their seat as if they’re about to faint. But in moments of sudden lucidity, I can see the deep sadness stitched into their eyes as they stare out the window.

Eventually, the lights of Mar and Lyra’s neighbourhood come into view. After checking that the two women in the front can’t see me, I discreetly smooth out Brye’s note to read.

Is 10 am tomorrow at The Smoothie Spot alright? I need to talk to you.

Jean's Notes:

Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer)
Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no)
• d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
Elliot - Oracle (n2 1)
Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0 n2 0)
Julian - twins w/ Sergio
Sergio - twins w/ Julian
Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio)
Anita -
Dave [died d2] - Barber
Kasumi - Savant
• d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician)
• d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
Lyra - Artist
Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 7: - interlude i: the codex daemonum

Chapter Text

SECTION 1

• Overview of Demons
• The Vigormortis
• The No Dashii

OVERVIEW OF DEMONS

Demon is a genus which includes multiple extant species, such as Vigormortes, No Dashiis, Vortoxes and Fang Gus, as well as extinct species such as Skinkuli. Though there are physiological and cultural differences between different species, demons are generally distinguished by their large size, their natural glamour, and their ability to take a human shape. Most demons are territorial and nomadic, though some form small societies known as “covens”.

The Duong-Waldner ratio posits that the human body mirrors the demon form. In a study of 266 demon volunteers, the first of its kind, researchers Duong Bao Chan and Benjamin Waldner found that the human form’s characteristics are parallel or identical to those of the demon form. They were able to match 77,44% (206) of the participants’ human forms to their demon forms using only photographs and DNA samples. Although, the study has been criticised as not being comprehensive.

There are three common methods by which demons propagate their species: sexual reproduction, corruption, and possession. Sexual reproduction is rare due to the territorial nature of demons, though exceptions are known to exist. Corruption is the process by which a human being, willing or unwilling, is imbued with demonic qualities and thus transformed into a demon. All demons are capable of corruption as a means of propagating their species. Possession is the shedding of the demon’s own human body, followed by the implantation of its soul directly into the mind of its victim. This is characteristic of demons such as the Imp and the Fang Gu.

The legal status of demons is a complex issue. Some argue that as intelligent living beings, demons should have rights, protections, and legal liability. Others believe that it would be irrational to confer personhood upon a natural predator of humans. It is known, however, that some demon species are more amenable to human companionship and cooperation than others, and there have been instances in history where demons have willingly and peacefully coexisted with humans. The archetypal example is the Fang Gu, who, according to the myth behind Sweetheart’s Day, fell in love with a human and gave up its demonhood in order to live with her.

There are two known ways of killing a demon: taking its head, or pushing it into an anti-demon forcefield.

^{[return to index]}

THE VIGORMORTIS

The Vigormortis, also known as the Defect-healer, is a species of demon commonly found in inland areas. It is characterised by its well-developed skull and dentition, feathered wings, and the absence of flesh from the shoulders above.

The skull-shaped key is widely accepted as a symbol of the Vigormortis, due to its appearance as a human-like specimen with a skull for a face.

Historically, Vigormortes have been impartial toward coexistence with humans, and receive a warmer reception from humans in return. Vigormortes are one of the few species of demon that can exist in a mutually beneficial state with humans, as they passively emit powerful healing magic. Vigormortis magic has been known to cure the common cold, chickenpox, Defecthood, and even syphilis.

However, the same abilities that allow Vigormortes to cure and rejuvenate can also be abused. Vigormortes can put humans in a death-like sleep. These humans do not die, but merely register as dead. In a similar vein to projecting healing magic, Vigormortes can use these sleeping vessels to emit disruptive magic that undermines the magical abilities of those nearby. Such abilities have been used to great devastation during Vigormortis invasions.

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THE NO DASHII

The No Dashii, also known as the Eroder, is a nomadic demon that often travels alone or in pairs. No Dashiis bear visual similarities to octopi, dragons and humans, and were, at one point, misclassified as molluscs. They have bioluminescent golden eyes, a head with multiple tentacles, rubber-like scales, and small, narrow wings.

No Dashiis are intensely territorial. Generally, hunting within a fifteen-kilometre radius of another No Dashii will result in a bloody and brutal struggle for dominance. As a result of this infighting, No Dashiis are highly endangered, and can often spend years without encountering another demon.

There are no recorded instances of No Dashiis living with humans, a statistic often attributed to their hostile nature. In truth, most No Dashiis do not seek companionship, whether human or demonic, and spend most of the year either in hibernation or preparing for it.

Unfortunately, the existence of No Dashiis is largely shrouded in mystery. No one knows the true extent of their powers. It has been speculated that their presence sows discord, which they in turn feed on of to grow their powers. What is certain, however, is that their nickname, “the Eroder”, derives from their ability to ‘erode’ the minds of nearby townspeople, infecting them with hysteria so powerful that they are rendered unable to use magic properly.

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Chapter 8: lie to me (day three)

Chapter Text

I thank the smoothie shop owner as he hands me my smoothie over the counter. I tuck the straw under my mask to take a sip and immediately, the peachy, mangoey, yoghurty taste washes over my tongue. Who would have thought that a small town would have such an amazing smoothie shop? But before I head back outside to meet Brye, I go for an extra cup of ice to go. The owner furrows his eyebrows at me, but complies.

While I wait, I play with the sleek black phone Laila bought me. We settled on a compromise: a cheap, second-hand model that I’d easily pay her back for once I find a new job. I’m still figuring out all the different lights and squares and buttons, and it’s a long and complicated process. Laila had added me to a “Group Chat” with all the people involved in the demon hunt, but as soon as I got the hang of it, a stranger pretending to be my wife demanded I respond to her.

“Rule number one of phone usage, if somebody you don’t know tries to contact you, block and move on. Even if they say they’ll help you make money, in the end all they want is your money,” Laila explained patiently. “Rule number two, if I post something on Binstagram or BikBok…”

“I press the white heart until it turns red.”

“Attaboy. Welcome to the digital age at last, sunshine.”

The cup of ice is slid across the counter towards me. I turn off my phone’s lights (it takes me two tries) and, with the two cups in hand, I step out of the shop.

Outside, Brye is leaning against a parking post. The summer breeze ruffles through his hair, and it makes me pause. He’s in his prime, except for the fact that he’s a ghost now. Lean and athletic, with long, nimble fingers, a college hoodie and princely features that would have thrown teenage Jean into a tizzy. Next to him are two children who are poking his translucent blue skin, while their mother tries and fails to get them to leave the nice man alone, they’ll be late if they don’t get in the car right now. The ghost is laughing, but something in the tightness of his cerulean eyes tells me that the smile is just for show. Spotting me, he sidesteps the family and waves me over, “Hey, Jean! You got your smoothie?”

“I got you one too,” I smile, holding out the cup of ice. Buying him a real smoothie felt too much like dangling a reminder of what he’d lost, but getting him nothing had also seemed rude. The cup of ice seemed like a fair compromise.

Brye grins even wider, which is a relief because I’d half expected him to scold me for wasting time on something so silly. He takes the ‘smoothie’ and gives it a swirl. “Thanks. You’re thoughtful.” The mother next to us finally gets her kids to leave Brye alone and they drive off, leaving us behind. I swallow, feeling strangely like a mouse in a lion’s den, except a mouse would know the lion’s carnivorous intentions. Brye, on the other hand, is less easy to read. “There’s a park about two minutes from here, with a big waterfall. I used to go there to sit on the stone steps and think. I’ll lead the way?”

I nod, and on the way we talk about bland, inoffensive things like the weather and how I’m settling into the town. Brye, for his part, manages to keep the conversation going even though the topics are so mundane.

We arrive at a gorgeous cascade that’s nearly deserted. Patches of warm sunlight filter in through the trees overhead, glittering over the surface of the water. We sit at the top of the column of stone steps to the left of the waterfall, and fall silent. I pretend to take in the view so it doesn’t feel awkward. The sheets of water shimmer over natural rock. It’s all perfectly unstimulating and normal.

“I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while now,” Brye starts, pleasantly. His voice is like the ripples in the water — also odiously normal. Only the way he plays with his cup gives away that there’s more going on beneath the surface. “You’ve only ever known me as Laila’s buddy and it’s the same vice versa. Ever since we met, I’ve been wondering who you are.”

“I’m Jean?” I squeak out, hating how high-pitched my voice is in contrast.

“I know your name is Jean,” his eyes linger on a nest of the town’s famous ravens before darting back towards me. “I want to know who you are as a person. I can go first, if you want. Transparency is a two-way street, right?”

I bite my lip, taking silent refuge in the fact that at least he can’t see this defensive action. Brye has a way of staring you down without even looking the slightest bit aggressive, and my lips curl into a sneer because of it. Throwing my own words back at me? That’s so Brye of you. If only I had the words to describe what you are.

And I can imagine his congenial reply.

When you first said it, I couldn’t agree more. I’m glad we’re on the same page about this.

I nod to let him go ahead, more to progress the conversation than out of any genuine curiosity. Really, who does he think he is? I hate how normal he looks, how normal he sounds, and how I’m acting like a childish moron because who gets envious of a dead man? I remind myself that sure, he lived an easy life, but he died in his prime and he’ll never see his twentieth birthday. And I try to push the feeling of ensnarement out of my mind.

Brye’s lips sharpen into a somewhat guarded smile. “Alright. My name is Bryan Ignacio Bellaco Mão de Ferro, and I’m an easy person to understand.”

Looking back, I didn’t particularly want to listen. He tricked me into it. The boy with the perfect life starts by describing the two sides of his family, who speak Spanish and Brazilian Portuguese, and how nobody can understand each other at family reunions. He mimes everything and his great-great-great-grandmother impression has me in stitches. He talks about his relationships with his cousins and the sacrifices his parents made so that he and his siblings could have a good future. How he struggled with bullying and depression in secondary school (and here I keep my judgement to myself because Brye… struck me as the type to bully, not be bullied. Who bullies a handsome, charming, talented med student?). He recounts the most spiritually scarring moment of his childhood, the moment that would forever define his view of the human race:

“ — he ditched me to play Zonic the Hedgehog 2 with my brother.”

I can’t help but snort out a laugh at this. “Your best friend did what?”

Brye scoffs with exaggerated disgust. “One thing led to another and now they’re getting married in January. Can you believe it?”

“Little Bryan must have been mortified,” I giggle, but pause when I notice Brye’s expression. He may be teasing and ribbing with me now, but he’s near nowhere as carefree as he was outside the mall when we first met. Every time he finishes talking, he holds his expression for a few seconds, then it returns to that tight-lipped, practised smile.

With each passing moment, I become more and more self-conscious.

“When I applied for surgeon studies, Donohoe and Churchill both accepted me, but I wasn’t good enough for a scholarship. I mean, I’m no genius, but I figured if I put in hard work, I could still end up doing something great. So I stuck with local community college — City College For Bens, if you’ve heard of it. I’ve been saving up for tuition since I can remember. I did repairs, babysat, and during summers I was a camp counsellor for younger kids. We had to teach them creative activities or sports that they could use to perform, and during that time I picked up some —”

“Some juggling.” I can’t put my finger on it, but something is making it hard to breathe. I try to sip my smoothie and calm my own nerves.

“Yeah.” Brye stares down at his own drink. “The best way to learn is to teach, right? I really liked the idea of knowing something so simple, but still able to bring excitement to people’s faces. I taught all my siblings and cousins, all the kids at camp, I even kept doing it in university. Since, well, manual dexterity helps with medical procedures.”

I stare at a leaf being dragged downstream, along the waterfall. I don’t dare to say a single word.

Brye continues, “Of course, I’m nowhere near good enough to perform in a circus like you, but I consider myself pretty good. I can run eight balls continuously for hundreds of catches, and I know enough tricks to entertain a rowdy group of kids.”

Suddenly, his words from earlier ring in my ears.

“Have you heard of the Fortune Teller’s Five-Ball Cascade?”

I force myself to contain the gasp tearing at my lungs. Just because I’m wearing a mask doesn’t mean he can’t glean my reaction from the top half of my face. “Run”. “Catch”. “Cascade”. Brye clearly knows his terminology and his five-ball tricks.

Before the knot in my stomach can settle, Brye leans casually against the stone steps. “But that’s enough about me. I’ve info-dumped on you for long enough. What about you, Jean? What kind of person are you?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. The tension had resurfaced just as quickly as it disappeared. I don’t want to give him a piece of me. I don’t want him to have any piece of me. “My name is Jean Toulemonde,” I mumble, only because that’s how Brye started his introduction. “I was raised in Cirque du Roi.”

“The greatest show on earth?” Brye whistles. “I heard it’s unlike any other circus out there. And you get to see it every day.”

I got to see it every day, I inwardly correct. But he doesn’t need to know about my failures.

“What’s it like to work with the Light Merchant himself?”

I frown. “The Light Merchant?”

“Johnny Mercy. That’s his stagename, right? BouTube comments always call him the Light Merchant, and —” he continues rambling, but I don’t hear him.

What was it like working with Johnny Mercy?

I guess he had a flair for the dramatic. That much was evident from the day I met him.

Passport. Airport. Aeroplane. Takeoff.

I wrote all the new words that I had learnt on that day on a napkin with the plane’s picture on it. The lady sitting next to me said she would take me to my new home. She gave me a passport, which was a blue rectangular notebook with my name and picture in it. Except it didn’t say Jean Toulemonde, but Jean Newman, because Newman was her name, and I was to call her “Auntie” for the entire journey. I waited in the airport lobby with the other boys and girls, the oldest of us maybe ten or twelve, the youngest of us four. We boarded the aeroplane, which smelled like farts and car exhaust, and I tugged at my mask to breathe easier. But the stuffy air didn’t keep me down for long. Soon it was time for takeoff, and I let out a loud gasp when the ground below us dropped down, down, down. Not wanting to miss a moment of it, I pressed my nose to the aeroplane window, completely awed by how tiny the houses and streets had become.

The five-hour aeroplane trip led to a two-hour journey in a colourful van, and I looked out of that window too. This was a beautiful country. I smiled, because the hills were yellow and green and they looked sort of just like home, even though home to me at that point was already nothing more than an old photograph. We passed through the countryside and pulled into the shopping district, where cars of every colour drove together with us. People pointed, whispered, and waved at us. I waved back.

We were taken to a garage where two guards let us in only after the lady flashed a card at them. When we stepped out, a man was waiting for us. He towered over us, but not just in terms of height and his platform shoes. He had a presence — the kind of presence that could command a room — even though he wasn’t in his ringmaster getup on that day. Just a certain coldness, a certain sharpness in his eyes as he sized up his new children.

He called out each of our names in turn. When it was my turn, he smiled. Some people’s entire livelihoods are based on smiles. Courtiers and Politicians come to mind. This one here was a million-dollar smile.

“Jean,” he prompted, and I nodded. “My name is John too, so you’re my favourite from now on. You’re going to be something special.”

He put his hand on my head and gave my hair a few affirming strokes. I didn’t dislike it. But I felt uneasy because the other children were staring at me.

Then, he raised his voice to address everyone at once. His voice was loud and sonorous, even though he wasn’t shouting. “I’m John Mercier, the ruler of this little kingdom here. Follow me, if you please!” He led us up a high, winding staircase that creaked with every step, and I soon lost track of how many stairs I had climbed. My old home didn’t have buildings this high. Finally, at the top, he threw open a heavy door and invited us out onto the terrace.

The first thing I noticed was the wind. Crisp and fresh, I almost wanted to take off my mask to smell it better. We were so high up that everyone on the ground looked to be the size of caterpillars. But as I approached the terrace’s edge, I heard chatter, laughter, and shouts of joy. Families walked with their children. Couples embraced, strolling hand-in-hand. The amusem*nt park was enchanting, absolutely enchanting to look at. There wasn’t ever anything like this in my old home. I saw what I would later recognise as spinning teacups, carousels, roller coasters, and even a Ferris wheel. At the centre of it all, the crowning glory, was a massive tent painted in stripes of red and gold.

The music suddenly changed to an upbeat anthem, and there was a loud cheer from the amusem*nt park-goers. Intrigued, I listened as the park’s theme song came over the loudspeakers:

Everyone has light inside of them
Shining bright like a star or a gem
It makes each of us unique, don’t you know
And helps us make our friendships grow

So should you ever feel down, or you’re left all alone
Just remember your heart has a light of its own
Give me your light, just as I’ll give you mine
Together we can make the whole world shine

“Cirque du Roi — the entertainment of the kings,” says John Mercier, as he sweeps his arm over the sights below. “This park was our birthplace. We train and perform here when we aren’t travelling to meet Knights, Nobles and Barons. I’ve always believed that anyone can be a star, and that includes all of you. So, welcome! — to the greatest show on earth.”

We oohed and ahhed, mesmerised by the slow sunset that bathed everything in a warm orange glow. The rides, the circus tent, the faces of content people.

“I will teach you to believe in life.”

Brye frowns at me, and I stare back.

“I’m sorry, did I space out?” I stutter, wishing he would stop trying to meet my eyes. “I didn’t sleep well after what happened at the discussion last night.”

He shakes his head, then pauses, like he’s thinking. “You don’t want to tell me about yourself. That’s fine. I came on too strong anyway,” he begins, slowly. “But for the sake of catching and killing this Demon, I’m going to be completely transparent with you. And I really hope you can give me an illuminating answer to what I’ve been wondering since the day before yesterday.”

I swallow hard. So this is it, then. I should have known, but I had been so relieved to hear Brye back down from our doubling that I had just…

I had just gobbled up the lie without a second thought. Because it was what I wanted to believe.

“I’m not smart or experienced enough to be a Sage, Jean. Brye Bellaco is just a nineteen-year-old with a penchant for juggling tricks.” I purse my lips together in order to keep my expression neutral. “My deductions were complete bull. Yes, demons have melanistic blotches, but there’s no way to tell what pigments there are without a skin sample and a spectrophotometer.”

It takes every ounce of energy I have to keep my tone steady. “So you lied to us.”

Brye doesn’t react to my accusation. “I did. The morning after my death, I met up with Kasu outside the Temple of the Storyteller. She told me about her visions as we headed for the gazebo. We realised that if the Demon hadn’t voted on the initial day, the possible Demon candidates would narrow down to two: Julian and Sergio.”

This doesn’t sit right with me. “What do you mean? Six people abstained from voting that day: Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave and Mar.”

“Well, I’m Brye. I think I’d know if I’m a demon. Hm, maybe I sleepwalk.” His tone is so deadpan, the sarcasm almost flies over my head. Truly, he’s good at this. “Kasumi’s true vision about my Juggle clears both Delaney and Mar. And on the first day, she saw that Anita’s neighbours —”

“Dave and you.”

“— are more trustworthy than Laila’s. Meaning you and Elliot. Forgive my bias, but I think this vision is true.”

I find myself instinctively scooting backwards a few inches, but nothing in the air has changed. “The other vision?”

“Boils down to ‘there is a Pit-Hag’.” Damn it. An unverifiable statement.

“So you trust Kasumi, then.” I’m well aware that I’m grasping at straws, but there’s nothing else for me to grasp at.

“I do.” There’s no hesitation at all. “Kasumi is incredibly smart. In seconds, she can compute all these possibilities that would’ve taken me an hour. She’s a valuable ally even though she stabbed me in the back during yesterday’s discussion.”

“Maybe you got too close to the right answer. Maybe she was only willing to support you as long as you helped her shift the blame away from her Demon.”

My chest is heaving. Does Brye believe me? I can’t tell. He’s staring into the distance. So I double down:

“You decided to pretend to be wise, huh? You accused Sergio and Julian: fine. But you continued to push for their executions even though you didn’t have concrete proof. It’s just an amalgamation of sources from other people that may or may not be trustworthy,” I nearly shout those last words at him. He absolutely needs to believe me. Yesterday had shown that Brye may not have the social influence needed to get me executed directly, but he’s clearly sharp as a knife. A double-edged one, if he isn’t currently lying to my face.

“My deductions were only meant to test the waters. We planned to observe the pair’s reactions to decide whether to proceed.” I search Brye for any hint of deception, but his body language is open and natural. “I don’t believe they’re genuine Twins. They haven’t considered for a minute that the other might be the Demon. They’re just very, very protective of each other even though all information points to them being in opposing factions.”

“Is that why you called me to speak with you?” I sneer. “To convince me to help you, since the dead can’t nominate?”

Brye tries for a smile. But his face doesn’t quite light up in all the right places, and he only ends up looking marred by ghostly blue. “Really, it was my fault. I should have tried harder to get Sergio executed yesterday. But I didn’t, and Dave’s execution has effectively rendered my plan worthless. The culprit may have already transferred his Demonhood to somebody else. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

What?

“It’s because I can't figure you out, Jean. From the first day, you posed as my doppelganger. I assumed you were hiding a Defection, so I gave you a chance to back down. Yet, you insisted, so at that point I thought you were a Demon’s servant. The Cerenovus’ hex had also crossed my mind. But yesterday, right when I was convinced that you were helping the Demon, you cast a vote for Sergio. Why, Jean, why? I believe I was right. Sergio or Julian was the Demon. The servant could easily discredit me and claim to be listening to Elliot, or scared to kill a Twin, or following the group. But you showed support for me by voting for Sergio.

“I tried making configurations but gave up. There’s no room for you to be a servant when, in my view, Sergio, Elliot and Julian should be the Demonic Three. And even now you’re still claiming to be the Juggler. I don’t see why a Cerenovus would continue hexing you at this point. And with that, I’m back to square one.” Brye groans. I’ve never seen him so visibly flustered before. “Just what are you, Jean? Why does nothing surrounding you make any sense at all?”

The patter of the waterfall sounds like the steady drip of the faucet.

Think, Jean. What would a normal human being do? I bend down to drink my smoothie to buy myself some time. I need to think of an excuse that won’t make him even angrier. Option one: double down. This option has maybe a one percent chance of making Brye doubt his own sanity, and a ninety-nine percent chance of getting my neck on the chopping block. Option two: claim I was hexed by the Cerenovus. Brye would ask me for my real identity, and I’d take another punt, hoping I don’t double up with somebody else again. But my lie would be obvious if somebody had actually been hexed. Option three, the one I dreaded the most: tell the truth.

I can already see Brye’s warm smile turning into a scowl. He’d scream at me for diminishing his credibility, which is already in tatters because he’s a talking ghost. He would make me tell the entire town how I lied to them, took advantage of their trust… What if he made me take off the mask? The mask is the last shred of dignity I have left; it’s my personal amulet. I’m only safe as long as I wear it.

There’s only one viable option, then.

“You can’t tell anybody else, okay?” I look furtively over my shoulder to sell the lie. “I’ll be as transparent with you as you were with me. The Cerenovus did come for me, Brye.”

Brye’s shoulders relax as he nods. There seems to be a deep sympathy in the way he now repositions himself closer to me.

“I- I can’t sleep, I can barely eat. I just have this feeling in my bones that, if everybody doesn’t think I’m the Juggler, they’ll tear me to pieces. I’m only telling you this now because I have no other option, but please. If somebody asks, keep up the ruse that I’m the Juggler.” I try to think of what my fake profession could be. “In truth, I’m a tailor. I helped sew outfits at the circus.”

For a split-second, I think Brye won’t believe me. Hands, searing cold and icy hot at the same time, wring my stomach. But at last, he smiles.

All flesh this time.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret,” he promises, solemn. “You should keep doing what keeps you alive. Madness is no joke, isn’t it?”

Oh, thank Medway. The muscles in my throat can finally relax. I slowly sigh as I murmur my agreement.

Brye’s eyes glint. They’re sharp, focused and dangerous. “We’ll bury that Cere. In the meantime, use your magical opportunity, if you haven’t already. I think it’s worth checking out Julian and Sergio.”

“I’ll think about it,” I try to sound earnest, when my phone suddenly starts playing music. “Sorry, I think I got a phone call.”

I manage to accept the call on the first try, which makes me glow with secret pride, and I put the phone to my ear. “Laila, this —”

There’s a deafening shriek on the other end of the phone. “Jameson Tooth-le-brush, where the f*ck are you? Lunch started twenty minutes ago and we’re both sick and tired of waiting!”

She’s so loud I nearly drop my phone, and Brye leans in to show me how to decrease the volume. I nod gratefully before holding my phone back up again. “Why are you saying ‘we’? Just put the cheese on sandwich bread, it’s not that hard —”

“Julian had something important to tell us at lunch, remember?” I can practically hear Laila rolling her eyes. “He sent you the restaurant’s address. — You forgot to turn on mobile data, didn’t you?”

I switch it on and the texts start to pour in. There’s at least a hundred messages from the Demon candidate group chat, so I ignore them. I read my other messages:

“I did forget to turn it on. Sorry.”

Laila continues to scream at me from afar. “Make that rule number three of phone usage: turn on mobile data the second you leave the house. Rule number four: Nigerian Viziers are not real, they just want your money. Rule number five, stay away from the words ‘crypto’ and ‘NFT’. Rule number six, don’t send nudes —”

“What are nudes?” This question makes Brye laugh uncontrollably for some reason, and I shake my head. “Never mind. I’m sorry I forgot about lunch. I’ll head over right now.” Brye gives me a sly grin as I hang up, and I demand, “What?”

“Have fun on your date,” he replies, sounding like the most innocent thing. “Don’t keep your girlfriend waiting. I think I’ll stay here a little longer.”

I bid Brye goodbye, but not before clarifying that it isn’t a date date. Checking the Boogle, the venue is apparently a high-end restaurant located on the top floor of the Ravenswood Clocktower. No doubt Laila’s idea. A few minutes later, I burst into a fancy restaurant with floor-to-ceiling windows and tables laden with ivory lace.

“Jean, over here!” Laila waves me over to their table. Julian just nods. My first instinct is to be surprised that he’s still corporeal, but I brush that thought away. What a stupid thought. If Julian’s the Demon, he wouldn’t kill himself in the night, and if he isn’t the Demon, the real Demon would keep him alive, hoping we waste an execution on an innocent guy.

I slide into my seat, immediately bombarded by the sheer number of forks and knives in front of me. Laila pushes the basket of ‘organic artisan sourdough bread’ over to me, and I deliberate over it for all of two seconds before spearing a slice with the closest fork. “By the way, is it Julian or Yulian? Everybody seems to call you Julian, but I remember the seating order saying otherwise…”

He sizes me up with an inscrutable expression. “Either is fine,” he answers finally. “But technically it’s ‘Yulian’.”

I nod, secretly thinking that Yulian has a harsh gaze, but harsh in a way I’ve never seen before. Elliot glares at people like they’re better than everyone else, and Brye looks at me like he can read all my thoughts already. But Yulian stares at me as if he’s already calculating how to murder me without being caught. “Um. Do either of you know who the Demon targeted last night?”

Laila scowls at me over her glass of wine. “Jean. We do a roll call in the group chat every morning.”

“You’re being hard on him, Laila.” Yulian, of all people, is standing up for me. He spreads his arms, “And for your info, it was Lyra Khan.”

Something about this makes my fingers clench. “First Mar, now Lyra.”

“You can’t think of them as people while you’re hunting demons,” he adds, as plainly as you might declare your preference for tea or coffee. “For now, they’re two people who died and gave us information. We can mourn once the whole shebang is over. Right now, we have to find the truth and stay alive, in that order.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?” Laila interjects, but I can’t help wondering if she’s okay. There’s a fatigue in her eyes. This isn’t playful banter to her; clearly she and Yulian know each other less well than I initially thought. “Two can play at that game. You said you had information for us, so spill. And don’t you dare lie to me, because you will regret it.”

He sucks in his lips. “Look, I’m risking my own neck just by telling this to two people. I might not even make this public at the discussion tonight. And if I don’t, I hope you won’t reveal it anyway or tell it behind my back.”

“I won’t.” The lie slips out easily. It’s stupid to keep a secret unconditionally, and I bet Laila is thinking the same, so I add, “We won’t. You can tell us, Yulian.”

He winces at the name, but sighs. He avoids both our gazes and covers part of his face with his hands before finally spitting it out.

“I’m not really a Twin.”

Jean's Notes:

Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer)
Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no)
• d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
Elliot - Oracle (n2 1)
Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0 n2 0)
Julian - twins w/ Sergio (?)
Sergio - twins w/ Julian (?)
Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
Anita -
Dave [died d2] - Barber
Kasumi - Savant
• d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot
• d1b) There is a Pit-Hag (?)
• d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician)
• d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
Lyra [died n3] - Artist
Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 9: sillybilly

Chapter Text

“Excuse me?” Laila screeches, so sharply that the well-dressed couple at the next table turn to glare at us. “So you knew Brye would accuse you ahead of time? You pretended to be a Twin so nobody would dare execute you?”

“Not exactly,” Yulian dips his head apologetically at the couple. “But I had a feeling. I ran into Elliot yesterday and they were all like, ‘Do you know what that Brye guy is up to? I know he can’t be trusted, but if that’s the case, what the hell does he get out of acting like a Juggler?’ Which they’re right about. If a Demon-aligned like Brye is dying this early, it makes more sense to pose as Sage than Juggler.”

I raise an eyebrow. I decide against telling him Brye’s true identity, because what he doesn’t know is an advantage for me. “So you distrusted Brye even before he accused you?”

“Of course,” he squints at me. “I mean, everything surrounding that guy is suspicious. Elliot’s information incriminates him, plus he’s still the only speaking ghost. Even Dave, who died voluntarily, hasn’t come back yet. But somehow, Brye already has.”

I frown because he’s right. I want to trust Brye. Every time I spoke to him, he sounded absolutely sincere. Previously, I’d assumed that, being a Sage, he’d already come to terms with having to self-sacrifice for the good of the town. But now, with the knowledge that Brye wasn’t the man he claimed to be, I had no answers anymore.

“In retrospect, it’s obvious,” Yulian raises his normally caustic voice by a few pitches, and puts on a simpering smile in imitation. “My name is Brye Bellaco. I pretend I’m the Juggler so I can gain towncred by backing up these confirmed people. Ohh nooo, I’m getting CC’ed by Jean! Guess I’ll f*ck off —” This time, the judgmental eyes of every patron in the room converge on our table, causing him to cover his mouth in embarrassment.

Laila shakes her head as a giggle rises halfway up her throat. “We get it. You think Brye changed his story because clashing with Jean would get him into trouble.” She pauses to thank the waiter who’s setting our lunch down. “But let me lay this on the table for all three of us. Firstly, the fact that you just so happened to pretend to be a Twin on the day that Brye just so happened to accuse you is one hell of a coincidence. Secondly, has anybody ever told you that you talk weird?”

“I play a lot of Town of Zalem,” he blurts out, lacing his fingers together. A blush engulfs his sharp face. “I work in a music shop, right? During shifts, there’s long stretches of time where there are no customers, so… the vocabulary stuck.”

I dig into my food (cubes of white rice topped with coloured rubber that’s cold to the touch) as we continue talking. “What’s CC, then?”

“Counterclaim. If you say you’re the Juggler, but Brye insists he’s the real deal, then he ‘counterclaims’ you. Here,” he pulls out his phone and shows us a list of townsfolk. “This is what I’ve been up to lately, and it resembles our situation —”

“This game looks awful!” Laila exclaims, before I can shush her. “The Virgin character makes a good player die instantly? The Spy knows everything about the game state? This is broken. Why would anyone play this for recreation?”

Yulian shakes his head and puts away the phone. “Let’s get back on topic, shall we? With Elliot’s divination in mind, I texted Brye to ask if we could meet up and talk. He said he’d rather phone me, and I thought, why not. I asked if he was really the Juggler. He said, quote: ‘You can believe whatever you want, whether true or false. I don’t have to justify myself to you and I don’t think it’s beneficial to waste my effort doing so, either.’”

“That’s not like Brye,” Laila frowns.

“That’s exactly like Brye,” I say at the same time.

They both turn to me in mild surprise, Laila with her lips pursed, Yulian scowling. At that moment, I see the similarities between him and Brye. Both logicians. Both cold and methodical. Both intensely scrutinising other people despite using underhanded methods themselves to get their own way. The only difference is that Brye hides it under a veneer of affability, while Yulian wears his venomous intentions on his sleeve.

I can absolutely picture Brye saying that to someone when they’re alone together, when he has nobody to play nice in front of. When he has no reason to stay on that person’s good side.

Do I only feel good about trusting Brye because he was kind to me?

“Later yesterday, Sergio came into the shop looking for me. He said Brye had called him, paraphrased: ‘Exactly like me’. He asked if I had any idea what Brye meant. I said no, and we exchanged our roles in this demon hunt. The pieces were starting to fall into place. I realised we both had valuable abilities, like, the Witch curses you because you’re so valuable to the town. We agreed that in case Brye was planning to accuse us, we’d pretend to be Twins. At least, it would buy us more time to use our abilities.” Yulian’s eyes become downcast. “At this point, I truly believe Brye was a Fang Gu, trying to cause as much chaos and collateral damage as possible.”

“One thing,” Laila presses. “Does Sergio know you’re telling us this? Was withdrawing the Twin bluff a mutual decision, or did you not discuss it?”

“Sergio doesn’t know. But last night, I’ve been thinking: Brye is only going to clamp down harder on us. He was furious that we executed Dave and didn’t listen to him yesterday. And I figured…”

“Yes?”

Yulian’s voice turns a shade softer. “Shouldn’t somebody else know the truth? Humans love to self-preserve, and I won’t deny that it was partly my reason for posing as a Twin. But I never planned on sitting on this information forever; I don’t want to put myself in a position where everyone believes blah when the truth is actually flah. The big picture is something that everyone should have a hand in collaborating on and contributing to. I don’t want to withhold a part of the big picture.”

Damn. That’s not the answer I was expecting. I dunk another block of rice in the black dipping sauce and stuff it into my mouth so I don’t have to reply immediately. (My mouth flushes with the taste of rubber. Isn’t this a high-end restaurant?) I catch Laila’s eye, and after a split-second, she nods.

Laila always understands what I’m thinking even without me saying anything.

Laila always knows what to do.

She chuckles darkly and changes the topic with a swirl of her wine glass. “This restaurant makes fresh pasta dough from scratch every morning, and Jean orders the sushi platter. Only my sunshine could be such a gourmet.” I swallow, embarrassed. “When did you develop a taste for raw dead fish?”

Is she making fun of me? It’s actually hard to tell. “I thought it was seafood pasta,” I try to explain, but Laila ignores me and glances down at her phone. Then, without warning, she swiftly rises from her chair.

“sh*t, I can’t believe I’ve had a strand loose this entire time,” she gestures at her hair, which just looks artistically messy to me. “I’m such a sillybilly. Be right back. Toodles.” The rapid clacking of her five-inch heels follows her as she sprints out of the restaurant, leaving Yulian and I completely baffled. Seconds later, my phone shudders in my grip.

Yulian draws in a ragged breath, and the moment that his startlingly grey eyes flick over to meet mine, I’m aware that he’s sizing me up as harshly, or even more harshly than I’m sizing up him. He looks at me like I’m meat-shaped. A few times, I’m tempted to start a conversation, but then it looks too much like he’s about to start it, and we both end up sitting there in silence. Eventually, he just laughs. “There must be something really special about you for Laila to notice you.”

“There must be something really special about you for Brye to notice you,” I say lightly. I intended it as a joke, but Yulian’s eyebrows furrow.

“No — I mean, I figured you were childhood sweethearts or something.” I find this statement eyeroll-worthy. “Right. Sorry. You just seem to trust her a lot.”

“I’ve known her since I was five. I Juggled at the circus, right? All the different performers mingled together after training hours, and that’s how I met Laila. She was on the acrobatics track.”

Yulian’s eyes narrow. “Wait. She's an Acrobat?”

“No, she quit during training. She never got to be part of the main performances.” Yulian nods along, looking considerably less confused. “Anyway, she’s the person I trust the most in this demon hunt. I know Laila. A lot of people think she’s rude or underestimate her, but she’s actually the most loyal friend I’ve ever known. If the Demon ever asked her to be its servant, she’d beat it black and blue before insulting its fashion sense five different ways. She’s… not the type of person to work with a Demon.”

“People change,” he tosses out. “You said Laila trained her whole childhood to become an Acrobat, but she ended up sewing clothes.” He doesn’t notice my tensing up at this, or if he does, he doesn’t let it show. “It’s funny where life takes us sometimes.”

“One mo’.” I angle my phone so that Yulian can’t see it, and I manic-type out a message to Laila.

Oh no. I suck in a breath, holding it for a moment. This is manageable, right? The only person who currently thinks I’m a seamster is Brye, and Brye knows Laila merely pretends to sew. I don’t think he would go around revealing my abilities to other people; after all, he didn’t seem to suspect me. So there’s really no conflict.

Still, I don’t actually want to pretend to be a Seamstress. I know there’s no taking back what I said to Brye earlier, but as a Juggler, I can at least give information that isn’t total nonsense. Mar and Lyra are both powerful townsfolk, and their early deaths have cemented their trustworthiness. Laila I can personally vouch for. I can be ninety percent sure I’m not poisoning the well of information. But say I instead pretend to be the Seamstress. Let’s even shove aside the issues of Defect numbers and my “victimisation” by a Cerenovus. The table believes me, and everything’s smooth. I would then be asked to resolve the Brye-Elliot mess, either by pitting the two of them against each other, or one of them against a bystander. Honestly? I don’t want the responsibility of naming either of them as the evil one. I trust Brye a little because an evildoer has no reason to retract his information, but that barely fits with the rest of the information I know.

I look up from my texts, swallowing hard. “Hey, Yulian —”

He laughs quietly, making me jump. Did I say something wrong? I look at his hands and they’re totally relaxed, lying flat on the table. There’s a hint of self-deprecation when he finally comments, “You know nobody’s called me that in years, right?”

“You said it was okay!” I protest. “And it’s only one letter difference, so…”

“Yeah, look.” He doesn’t sound accusing, if I’m reading him right. “When I first moved here, I was a weird kid with a weird name, weird looks and a weird accent, right? And I thought: when in Rome. The name was the easiest thing to change, and everyone got used to it. Like you said, one letter difference. I even dyed my hair and did a whole slew of pretentious poser sh*t in order to fit in.” He scoffs at the last part, forcing a courtesy chuckle out of me as well.

“Oh, that’s why.” But once the words are out of my mouth, we’re left with a contemplative silence. Not an awkward silence, or a silence that needs to be filled, just a silence.

Yulian keeps talking, in-between bites of food, far more nonchalantly than expected. “I liked the hair. Everything else, I grew out of. But the name stuck. I never made an effort to correct people because I didn’t really care. I don’t care if people ridicule me anymore, and you’d be surprised by how many people can’t survive without having a white crow to laugh at.”

“A white crow?” I pick my own utensils back up.

“The white crow is the pivot of the flock. What I’ve noticed about large groups is that people revolve around the white crow. They lack their own identities, so they have to define themselves in relation to the white crow. So they surround it, overwhelm it with numbers, and laugh every time it screams at being prodded and pushed. When someone looks down on the white crow, he’s reinforcing his place in the flock. Cementing the fact that he’s not like the Other.” He sits and talks so casually, while he’s scraping his plate clean. It fills me with a low hum of colour that I can’t describe. “Oh, just so you know, people keep asking me about you. Nobody dares say anything in front of Laila, but me? I’m just a lowly cashier.”

I squirm in my seat.

“They think I know everything about you just because I see you at the discussion. What’s the deal with the masked guy? What’s wrong with his face? Why doesn’t he make eye contact? And I tell them the same thing every time.”

“‘They should ask me directly’?”

“‘Go f*ck themselves’.”

I laugh, I truly laugh — the sound rips violently out of my throat. Yet, Yulian continues eating like he isn’t trying to prove anything to me. There’s only the ghost of a smile, tracing the edge of his lips. Everything he’s done isn’t done for my sake. It’s just the way he is. I look him over head to toe one more time, and… I can see Yulian as a person I could tell my secret to. I doubt he would judge me or treat me any differently.

But it’s still just too dangerous.

So I pull back. “Yulian. Thank you for standing up for me. You’re looking out for a person who could theoretically be the Demon.”

“Demon candidate or not doesn’t really matter to me,” he shrugs. “But to be fair, I don’t think you’re the Demon. You’re just not the type.”

I look at his posture, searching for any hint of deception, but it’s still open and steady. “Yule, I want to make a deal with you. You know I’m the Juggler…” I take a breath. “…and you trust me. I mean, if you don’t think I’m the Demon, you probably do. So I hope you’ll tell me your role in this demon hunt. In return, I’ll tell you something you won’t otherwise know until it’s too late.”

Yulian’s eyes harden. Did the last part sound threatening? Did I sound desperate? But his tone, his flat hands stay the same, as he answers, “I’m a powerful townsfolk. I still think Sergio and I were targeted for exactly that reason. Speaking of Sergio — he works in nature conservation and he took me for a drive yesterday, after my shift. We spoke at length about the animal world and man’s place on this earth.”

So either he or Sergio is versed in Philosophy? That doesn’t give me much to work with. Especially since I don’t know what they’re doing with their philosophising.

“I want to keep the rest of my cards close to my chest. It isn’t good to be any more specific. But I hope I told you enough to help you.” His eyes flick to Laila’s still-empty seat with a note of curiosity. “What have you got for me, Jean?”

Thoughts swirl through my head, each less rational than the last.

But the one that wins me over is the knowledge that even if Yulian learns what I’m about to tell him, it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s clear to me who has to be executed today. If Yulian’s good, he benefits from my decision. If he’s an evildoer, there’s nothing he can do with this information.

So I steady my breathing and I tell him:

“Did you know Brye isn’t actually a Sage?”

“Sunshine, sunshine. You’re not even going to ask what Eli and I found?” Laila tuts as she settles her chin on her fist, elbow resting on the steering wheel. She drives idly with her other hand as we barrel down the road, the scenery a dizzying blur. It’s honestly less scary now that I’ve had a chance to get used to it. When I don’t say anything, she fake-pouts. “That hurts my feelings.”

“Eyes on the road, Laila,” I rebuff, displeased about being pulled out of my own thoughts. “I swear if it’s another cat picture —”

The car screeches to a stop — I can hear tire rubber digging into asphalt as I’m thrown forward. My forehead narrowly misses hitting the window. When I turn to glare at the woman responsible, she’s typing on her phone.

“I sent you a private BouTube link,” she sets the phone back on the dashboard as she resumes driving, with an air insinuating that I should be grateful. “We’re only five minutes from the gazebo, so watch it now. Tell me what you think.”

I tap on the blue words and frown when an advertisem*nt appears. Then another. But eventually, the video starts to play. It’s not in English and the footage is so blurry, I can only make out a stage flanked by a roaring audience. The boy performer plays a vertical flute as a casket of snakes writhe to his tune. Words flash across the screen: Юліан Агеєнко - 8 років, Студент.

“Thiriokinesis. Control over animals,” Laila sighs dramatically. “You know, Bluff’s Got Talent used to be good. This clip is from the olden days, when the competitors actually had rare and amazing abilities. But then they ran out of talented people. Nowadays when you turn on BGT, it’s a girl who can’t sing, who’s half-naked, who’s crying because her whole family got eaten by wolves when she was three. And that’s what inspires her to bite off all our eardrums today. Makes you wonder how much of the show is staged. Anywho, this charming little boy would be twenty-five years old today.”

I squint at his face, but the poor quality makes it impossible to make out any of features. But wait. The boy has flaming red hair.

“Jean. Does this look like Julian to you?”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

When Lyra’s ghost takes her seat next to me at the gazebo table, I can see she’s spaced out. Mar is a little better, wordlessly holding Lyra’s hand. Anita had been responsible for getting the two of them to the meeting, and right now she murmurs something into Lyra’s ear. But Lyra doesn’t hear, doesn’t speak. She stares intently at a patch of grass at the edge of the gazebo.

Sergio is escorting his friend Dave. Dave is looking much better: he stands at attention and seems to be listening as Brye discusses something with Delaney. I overhear the word “volunteer” — apparently, voluntary executees can come to grips with their death much faster than those who were killed unwillingly. I just can’t understand for the life of me why Brye would fall into the former category.

Lyra still has most of the baby fat in her cheeks.

It’s a throwaway detail that strikes me. I don’t know why, but I do notice it, and I wonder if Lyra’s even an adult. I’d believe it if she were twenty or fifteen. And the thought makes me sick. I don’t want to say she’s too young to die like this, because that’s like saying Brye, Mar and Dave are old enough.

Breathe in.

Do — I know what I have to do. I have to stand up and point my finger and nominate the obvious choice. At least, that had been obvious until Laila showed me that video. It keeps tugging at the edge of my mind, knocking with one hand on my shoulder, and insensibly I’m troubled by it. Whether or not Yulian can control animals changes nothing about my conclusion. What matters is what he did today.

But if that’s the case, why do I keep feeling like I’m missing something?

Means — I have the definite means. As far as anyone (except Brye) knows, I’m a Juggler and my one chance at magic has already been spent. The Witch would probably curse someone who’s been nominating every day like Kasumi, or someone powerful like Laila. So I’m not in danger.

Words — I have the words on the tip of my tongue. I just have to hope that they will be enough to persuade everyone to vote with me.

“Let us begin,” I push my presenceless voice on through ghost and human, through the silent tension that permeates this discussion. “I’d like to start us off: I nominate Elliot Blackmoor.”

Yulian doesn’t look at me. His lips are twisted into a solemn line, wholly focused on the discussion at hand. Brye beams with silent pride — or glee. Maybe he manipulated me during our conversation. Maybe he planted these thoughts in my head.

Laila is thunderstruck.

“Okay,” Elliot snaps. They don’t show any signs of panic just yet. “Okay. Fine. Would you be so kind as to enlighten us on why you’re nominating me?”

I glance down at my notes. The Demon is among the six people who abstained from voting on the first day. Mar: dead. Dave: dead. Sergio: alive, but he didn’t vote on the second day. That leaves Yulian and Delaney as people who voted with the Demon on both days… and Brye. Brye abstained on the first day, so it’s possible he was the trigger.

“Because it makes the most sense.” I’m thinking of how to say it without leaving Laila exposed, when Elliot interrupts me.

“Well, to me, it makes the most sense to ignore you right now. All I’ve done so far is share my knowledge of the dead.”

Their defensiveness makes me frown, but when I think about it from their perspective, I’m basically condemning them to death. They have every right to be defensive. I begin, “My top candidates for the Demon are Yulian and Delaney —”

“You didn’t nominate either of them, genius.”

“Please stop interrupting me,” I say, even though I’m going through the possibilities one last time. “May I please confirm that nobody had their identity seized last night?”

Silence. Dave gives a firm shake of his head. As a ghost, I guess that’s the best he can do, but I’ve honestly no idea what he’s trying to communicate. If his was seized, he would point at himself. Right?

“I think the demon was Yulian. I’m sorry. I really wanted to trust you,” I hurriedly add, as Yulian’s sharp-eyed stare pierces me. “But I think it was you up until we executed Dave. At that point, Brye was already onto you, and you had to preserve the Demon at all costs. That’s when you took advantage of Dave’s Defective magic, and had Elliot host the Demon instead.” I choose my words carefully to avoid mentioning that the Twin claim is false, or that I’m basing these deductions on Laila’s plant.

“Hold on,” Laila interjects, voice trembling. “But there’s a chance that the Demon didn’t capitalise on Dave’s magic, right? Julian could be the original host and still be the host now.”

“There is, but how likely is that? I’m no Cerenovus, but if I were him, I would assume Brye wouldn’t relent today. He’d keep on pushing for Sergio or Yulian to be executed. Not transferring the Demon to another host would be reckless, and we all know how Demon-servants protect their masters to the last breath,” I reason. “Furthermore, even if Elliot hasn’t been made the new host of the Demon, they’re still likely to be a servant since they accused Brye.”

“But what if it wasn’t Julian at all?” she hammers, eyes narrowed. “It could still be Delaney. Or Brye himself. I don’t know what he told you to make you trust him so blindly, but you don’t know Brye the same way I know Eli. Eli’s an idiot. I’m more likely to kill someone than Eli, why don’t you execute me instead if you’re so paranoid?”

“Laila,” they sigh. “But she’s right, it could be Delaney. I’m next to him, so it makes sense that I’m eroded by him, and Brye and I would both be town loyalists then.”

Brye shakes his head. “Three Defects, remember? Your theory falls apart by the simple fact that we aren’t facing the No Dashii. Elliot, you’re a traitor in my view. I don’t see how you could have genuinely gotten that read on me when the Demon is a Fang Gu.”

Dave shakes his head again and Mar points to get our attention. We exchange glances with each other, at a loss as to what he’s trying to convey.

“‘Not the Fang Gu’?” Sergio wonders.

“‘Don’t execute Elliot’?” Anita suggests.

At her words, Dave tries to speak, but only a low-pitched gurgling sound comes out. He reaches for Anita’s pen and it flies away from him. He tries again, using magic to levitate the pen a safe distance away from himself. Anita immediately pushes a notebook in front of him, and just before he writes, he turns toward Elliot with an ‘okay’ sign.

“Sure, go ahead,” Elliot mumbles, sounding just as clueless as the rest of us.

With supreme effort, the pen begins to move. It’s as unsteady as someone writing with their non-dominant hand. Each drop of the pen makes him sigh and clench his nails tighter into his fist. Levitation magic is supposedly taught to kindergarten-age children, and mastered within a year or two. But as a Defect, Dave must be used to doing everything manually. Like me.

He writes out “3D”, and when we’re still stumped, he points at himself, me and Elliot in turn. Suddenly, Sergio leans forward with a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. “I think I understand. D is for Defect, innit?”

With Dave’s nod, everything clicks into place at last.

Elliot is the third Defect.

Jean's Notes:

Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer)
Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes)
• d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
• d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
• d1+d2) Delaney, Julian
Elliot - Oracle (n2 1)
Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0 n2 0)
Julian - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?)
Sergio - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher (?)
Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
Anita -
Dave [died d2] - Barber
Kasumi - Savant
• d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot
• d1b) There is a Pit-Hag (?)
• d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician)
• d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
Lyra [died n3] - Artist
Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 10: will you sit back down?

Chapter Text

“What the hell?” Elliot exclaims huffily and turns to Dave. “I’m not a Defect. What are you trying to do?”

“Hang on. Elliot told you they were a Defect, right?” Sergio clarifies, to which Dave nods.

“I never said anything like that,” Elliot protests, eyes wide. “I don’t know what he’s getting at or what he’ll bloody accomplish by lying like this. I can read the stars, and I’ve been open about that since the beginning. I’ve never even tried to bluff or flip back and forth, unlike a certain person at this table.”

Sergio’s eyebrows shoot up as he tries to resolve this. “Dave, is there any chance you’re mistaken? Maybe they used vague wording and you misunderstood?”

Dave shakes his head without hesitation. Guess not, then.

Elliot looks around them, and scoffs. “I’m not a Defect. Maybe everyone thinks I’m going Mad, but the Cerenovus has never hexed a single hair on my head. Swear on my life. If I ever try to claim Defect after this, I’ll walk into the f*cking barrier myself.”

“Dave has no reason to lie about what you told him, but you have every reason to,” Delaney points out. “Just admit the truth. It’s the noble thing to do.”

Elliot whirls on him, teeth bared, indignation flashing in their eyes. “You’re just saying that so you can make me the scapegoat to be executed today. In my view, you’re the Demon. Since there’s no third Defect, No Dashii is our likeliest foe. So you eroded me and Brye, with Sergio and Julian being your two servants.”

“Stop being unreasonable. This is the second day in a row you’ve accused me without reason or rhyme, and ignored information that exonerates me,” snarls the professor. “Explain why Kasumi saw a vision proving I’m an honest Mathematician. Explain why my probes never picked up any No Dashii erosion if you’re supposedly not a Defect. Explain why Brye ruled me out in his diagnosis. And if I were the No Dashii, and eroded you and Bryan, Julian and Sergio would have to be my servants, no? But yesterday, I wholeheartedly supported voting out the Twins, and even voted for Sergio’s execution.”

Elliot hesitates. So Wilson presses his advantage, “You can’t. This accusation doesn’t pass the sniff test. We’re looking at a Fang Gu, not a No Dashii. And you are a selfish Defect in denial.”

Murmuring voices flare up. Elliot is shaking in their seat now, and they give Laila a look. Meanwhile, I frown. I can’t say it aloud, but Delaney being the Demon does make some degree of sense. Only Laila and I knew which of Kasumi’s visions were true, which knocks out his first argument. And as for the second, his logic is backwards: it’s not his lack of probe signals that prove there’s a No Dashii (and therefore only two Defects), it’s the presence of two Defects that proves his signals are wrong and he’s lying. Wait. Unless…

“Hear me out,” I suggest, getting to my feet. “I have an answer to this puzzle. Elliot sits next to two townsfolk, Wilson and Laila, right? So what if Elliot’s the No Dashii and eroding them both?”

“Jean, stop!” Laila explodes, grabbing my arm. “You think Elliot knows how to care for Demon’s bane? You think they know how to fake signals for Wilson’s probes? They don’t! They’re a f*cking idiot, they can’t do anything you just described! Will you sit the f*ck back down?”

I look her in the eye. Pupils wide, frantic, desperate. Her fingers are squeezing me so hard they’re cutting off circulation. And I can’t help the twinge of guilt in my stomach as I try to pull her away. “I’m sorry, Laila. Really. I know they’re your best friend, but…” I trail off, unsure of how to proceed. Laila being eroded fits perfectly with Elliot being the No Dashii, but I don’t want to tell the town her identity before she’s ready.

“Go on, Jean.” I turn towards the voice, cool and low. It’s Yulian. I wasn’t expecting this. “Don’t stop just because you’re hurting her. Remember, we can all have feelings when it’s over.”

I breathe out slow. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dave signing with his hands, and Sergio watching intently. “Hold on. Is Dave trying to say something?”

Sergio interprets for all of us. “He’s saying that during his conversation with Elliot, the two of them bonded over the Defect experience. That was before our current demon hunt. He’s not sure what to think now after Elliot denied it so passionately.” I watch Dave, who nods to corroborate this. “It was Dave’s idea. If ghosts couldn’t communicate verbally, couldn’t text and couldn’t use pen and paper, sign language was the obvious workaround. We spent the morning practising the alphabet to each other.”

Mar and Lyra both begin gesturing that they want to join the club too, but I can’t help glancing at Brye. Why wasn’t he affected? Is it really because he’s on the demonic side?

Sergio folds his hands together as he concludes, “Dave is absolutely certain that Elliot is a Defect.”

“I trust Dave,” I interject. “Again, I don’t see why Dave would lie. So Elliot is objectively the best execution today. If Brye’s sagely diagnosis was correct, Sergio or Yulian would obviously use Dave’s residual magic to transfer the Demonhood to one of their servants, and Elliot is most likely to be a servant to either of them. Who’s likelier than somebody who discredited the man accusing their Demon? From this perspective, killing Elliot means killing either our new Demon, or a servant. Either way, it’s beneficial.” While I’m reasoning this out, I completely avoid looking Laila in the eye. “I don’t think Elliot eroded Brye, because he’s four clock-steps away. But who’s likely eroded at the moment is Laila, and what Laila’s told me aligns with her being eroded by Elliot. As for Brye… who knows? Maybe he’s gone Mad. But I know we shouldn’t press him too hard on why his diagnosis didn’t include Elliot.”

Brye raises a quizzical eyebrow, and I inwardly curse. He still thinks I’m the Mad one. But by the grace of the Storyteller, he doesn’t say anything. The others take his silence as assent.

“You’re not considering one scenario. The scenario where Brye is the Fang Gu, and I’m falsely accused just because I caught him!” Elliot sputters, chest heaving. Even Laila flinches from the ferocity of their gaze as they point towards Brye. “Just look at him! He’s able to speak and write as though he never died at all!”

They’re right. This is the one hiccup in my theory. If Brye is a loyalist, why can he speak? And if he’s indeed the first body-snatcher, he could have transplanted his essence into anybody who had voted yesterday. I would have accused Elliot for nothing, and we’d be back at square one.

That’s when a sketchbook flies across the gazebo table and into Anita’s arms.

She catches it gingerly with both hands, unsure of what to do with it. She stares at the sketchbook as though looking too hard would cause it to burn up. “This… should be Lyra’s, right?” The blue ghost nods. “Shall I open it?” She nods again. “Should I show everyone?” Another nod.

A blush descends upon Anita’s face as she turns the pages, then gasps. She holds up the incriminating drawing, showing it to all of us.

My breath catches in my throat. It’s a breathtaking watercolour painting, featuring two pairs of stylised figures who are reaching towards each other. Each pair is encircled by bright red thread, the only burst of colour in a mass of grey, a swirling void of a background. The first pair are both men, one fair-haired and gentle, the other brunet and austere, their fingers almost touching. The second pair is frail, innocent Anita, linking hands with the boy with the angelic smile and the college hoodie.

Mar beams with quiet pride.

“I knew she drew this yesterday, but I never imagined — she made a magical painting. Yesterday, she must have put herself into a trancelike state, calling on the Storyteller herself to…” Anita breaks off, speculating. “That’s a Seamstress’ thread, isn’t it? Did you ask her whether both pairs were on the same side? Julian with Sergio, and Brye with me?”

Lyra shakes her head, but nonetheless sits up a little straighter. She holds up one finger and mouths the word ‘yes’. It takes us a while, but eventually Brye guesses it, “She asked if two Seamstresses wound their threads around these pairs, only one Seamstress would find their souls aligned. And the Storyteller answered yes.”

I exhale, looking down at my notes. Next to me, Laila hisses curse after curse.

“Incredible artwork, Lyra. And an even better question,” Delaney smiles. It’s a real smile, in a way I didn’t know he could smile at someone. “I’ll ignore the possibility that Sergio and Julian are a matching loyal pair. In between the Twin claim and Brye’s diagnosis, I simply don’t believe they’re both honest townspeople.” I bite my lower lip, trying to catch Yulian’s eye, then Brye’s. But neither contradicts him.

“I don’t think Brye can be evil with Anita either. I suppose he could have snatched Anita’s body, but she said she was a townsfolk yesterday,” I add, choosing my words carefully. “So in other words, there’s at least one loyalist among Brye and Anita, and at least one red-tokener among Sergio and Julian.” Probably. I know the Sage diagnosis is fake, but Brye’s right. It’s definitely unusual that they prepared a Twin bluff in advance. But could I derive an advantage if I treated the Twin bluff as though it was real?

Laila plants both her arms on the table, hyperventilating. Elliot puts an arm around her shoulder, but their face is grim.

“I think Lyra’s question seals it. Sergio and Yulian are the mismatched pair, being good and evil Twins. If Brye is the body-snatcher like Elliot said, he could only have possessed Anita. It’s not impossible, but how likely is Lyra drawing both Fang Gus by coincidence?” I ask rhetorically. “Whereas, if we execute Elliot, we’re putting an end to multiple compelling scenarios. Them serving Yulian, them serving Sergio, and them being the No Dashii from the start.”

Here’s my reasoning: Brye being a Fang Gu is much less likely now that Lyra’s Art is taken into account. Maybe I was indeed influenced by our little chat, because my current biggest suspect is Yulian. The records from Laila’s plant match, and Demons have a certain glamour, don’t they? They can make themselves appear attractive, and Yulian had flipped my opinion of him in one short conversation. The fact that he was willing to go behind Sergio’s back and drop the charade of the Twin bluff could only signal one thing: he is ready to be executed now. Because the Demon has safely been moved to another host.

And that new host was most likely Elliot.

Anita’s face is unreadable. “Eli — you can nominate me. I won’t be angry.” She, Elliot, and Laila all exchange looks with each other. For a long moment, it seems as though there’s nobody in the gazebo except them three. Eventually, Elliot breaks away and turns to face the rest of us.

“Don’t say such stupid things,” they chuckle mirthlessly as their voice rises to a showman-like shout. “Let’s just get this over with!” Anita prepares to make her usual announcement, but she’s interrupted by a firm shake of Elliot’s head: “Don’t. I’ll do it. Four votes to execute me, and we start from Delaney.”

The vote goes over quickly. Everybody votes except for Anita and Laila, presumably out of respect for their friend. As soon as the last vote is tallied, Laila goes rigid. Her eyes flicker rapidly at something that isn’t there, and she takes shaky breath after shaky breath. Anita seems to mentally shut down as well. I try to put a comforting hand on Laila’s back, as she had always done for me in the past.

In the distance I see the familiar white van. The guards are coming for Elliot.

A quick glance around the table tells me everyone is convinced of Elliot’s guilt. Then again, the votes already reflected that. Dave has waved Lyra and Mar over, and he’s teaching them how to sign the alphabet. Their backs are turned to Elliot. Kasumi rests her head in her hands, eyes closed, deep in silent thought. Delaney turns toward Yulian, murmuring something I can’t make out.

Elliot is still wearing that humourless smile on their skin.

Anita’s hand trembles as she leans over the table and touches its centre. “Grim Creator, we have decided to execute Elliot Blackmoor.” I don’t catch the rest of the ceremonial words. I only see that the impossibly dazzling ropes have bound Elliot where they now stand. Their movement is slow, dizzying, like a golden snake.

The guard I recognise as Officer Kwon mounts the gazebo steps, a small grin breaking across his face. “No wonder you finished up early. Blackmoor’s always been a dangerous little psycho. I’m only surprised it took you three days.” He ignores the ferocity of Elliot’s death-glare, and begins unbinding them with his partner. “So. Who’s coming with us this time?”

I wonder if volunteering Laila would give her closure with her best friend, or if it would just break her further. But before I can speak up, I hear Elliot’s cold voice. “Nobody.”

And with those words, I’m on fire. Darkness descends and my vision tapers to a point. It’s too much to breathe, too much to see what’s in front of me, too much to plant both hands on the ground and get back up from the floor that crashes in. I can scarcely hear myself scream over the roaring in my ears. Every inch of my body is ablaze with terrible pain, and the sensation clings to my skin like an infestation, digging itself deeper and deeper into the marrow of my bones. The blaze burns higher and higher, engulfing me in excruciating pain and heat.

When I come to, I’m on my knees, lying crumpled on the gazebo floor. As soon as my vision is clear, I force myself to stand. The others are similarly writhing in pain, but I see that Anita, swaying, has also managed to get to her feet. She beckons me to follow her and we sprint for her car, just in time to see Elliot driving away, leaving an incapacitated guard lying on the road.

Anita jumps into the driver’s seat, and I the seat beside her, as she starts revving up the car. “Seatbelt,” she orders, no-nonsense. “Call Eli and put it on speaker. Please.”

We swerve around the body and give chase, and as my clumsy hands fumble with the phone, I remember thinking that we’re going much, much faster than anything Laila has ever subjected me to. Did the three of them meet in Crazy Drivers Anonymous? — This isn’t the time for such thoughts. I hit the ‘call’ button and wait, just as the car takes a hard left and my forehead smashes into the side window. “You think we can talk them down?”

Anita’s eyes never leave the road, but I can see her fingers clench around the wheel. “We have to try.”

I call Elliot over and over, but they don’t pick up. By now Anita is gradually closing the distance between us and the van. “Well, we’ve tried,” I report back. “I think this calls for a Plan B.”

Anita doesn’t answer. Instead, she gasps as the van ahead makes a sharp turn, veering up a steep slope. As we follow, she mumbles to herself, “We’re approaching Ravenswood Peak — people only come here to hike. What is Eli doing?”

I also shake my head, seeing that Elliot hasn’t answered my sixth or seventh call. The car suddenly lurches and, finding one wheel dangling off the narrow cliffside road, my heart leaps into my throat. It lasts a mere second, and Anita brings the car safely back onto solid ground right after, but I decide I don’t want to look out the window anymore. She tells me to find the phone in her backpack, gives me the passcode, and orders me to try calling Elliot with it instead. A few rings later, they pick up, and I smash my finger onto the ‘speaker’ symbol.

“Elliot, what’s gotten into you?” I demand, my words coming out in a mangled rush. “Where the hell are you going? What are you planning to do?”

There’s a stream of vicious curse words in reply. The van shows no sign of slowing down, despite the narrowing road. “Jean,” sneers the voice on the other end. “You’re just mad I didn’t take it lying down like Dave. So save the lecture.”

“I’m sorry,” I say instinctively, even bowing my head, before I come to my senses and mentally smack myself upside the head. “Well, death is an inevitable part of the demon hunt. I can’t imagine how it feels to be sentenced to death, but —”

“Read the room, dumbass,” they snarl. “I ignored all your calls but accepted Anita’s. Clearly I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Hello, Eli?” I hold the phone closer to her, making sure not to block her view. The last thing any of us needs is to go careening off the road. “We’re in the car behind you. I promise we just want to talk. Please, Eli.”

A guttural sigh comes over the phone. “What did I say about calling me that?” When she doesn’t answer, Elliot pushes forward. “Turn back. Leave me alone. I’m sick and tired of people like you.”

I see Anita’s eyebrows knit together through the car’s front mirror. I’ve half a mind of demanding exactly what they meant by “people like her”, but I know nothing good can come out of it.

Similarly, Anita sighs. “Don’t mind them. They’re sometimes… a bit too spirited, as one might say,” she whispers, before raising her voice so Elliot can also hear, “Elliot, you’re angry with us, aren’t you? I’m terribly sorry and I promise — if you explained to me what I’ve done, I would stop immediately.”

“Don’t throw around that word, stoop ass bitch.” Yet, they sound only half-teasing. “Don’t apologise for what you can’t help. After all, we all know what you are.”

Anita’s jaw drops open.

They continue ranting, wilfully and aggressively oblivious. “You’re a coward. I saved your life back there. What did I get? Interference and empty promises. I hate saying this, but I really despise you right now. You’re so eager to catch the big bad Demon, you’ll scapegoat those in the same situation if it means you’ll get to return to your sterile lives. That includes you too, Jean.”

“Are you admitting to serving the Demon?” I’m surprised I even get a word in edgewise. Demon-defence is the only way I can make sense of this outburst. That, in addition to running away. Why else would Elliot sneer at us for wanting to catch a murdering demon?

“Sure. Since you’re hellbent on equating critical thought with Demon-service anyway.” Elliot is now talking so fast, and so thickly with venom, that I’m forced to concentrate hard on their words. “I’ve got news for you, Jean. You think the vote will save you when half the town can’t be reasoned with. You think your walls will save you when there’s a Demon on your doorstep. You think Laila will save you —”

“Eli, stop!” exclaims Anita, so fiercely that all three of us fall silent, and I’m left with the sensation of my heart hammering in my chest. She sighs a second time, momentarily composing herself, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you! You aren’t yourself anymore. You said we would defeat the Demon and continue our lives. You — me — and Laila.”

“Guess I lied, then.”

Anita falls silent. I lean forward to get a better view at the van ahead: we’re approaching a dead end. The only way Elliot could get away from us is taking a U-turn and descending the peak. Anita realises this at the exact same moment I do, and positions our car horizontally to block the road, trapping them in.

The sound of our engine eventually grinds to a stop. Anita climbs out of the car and I follow, trailing her movements as she slowly walks over to the van. She taps the window once, twice, and Elliot gives in with a sigh, rolling the window down.

“Eli, will you promise not to hurt us?” she asks plainly. She squats down so she’s eye level with them.

They flinch back, but a few seconds later, they nod. They rest both hands flat on the steering wheel where Anita and I can see them, which makes me relax somewhat.

Anita continues, “Will you get out of the car?”

Elliot’s posture immediately turns defensive, cold. “And why would I do that?”

“Because the sun’s about to set and we need to get you to the wards before then.” I don’t mean to snap, but I really can’t help it. The entire ordeal is so… juvenile. If you’re executed, you’re put to the wards, simple as that. It often feels like everyone is ganging up against you, but the format gives us the best odds at catching the Demon, while at the same time allowing as many survivors as possible. You just have to play the cards you’re dealt, and, if you’re ultimately selected for execution, you face it with dignity.

“Will you please leave me alone?”

I lean in closer, practically shouting the words in their face, “Listen to me. You’re on the execution block and we need to kill you today!”

I’m forced to jump back when the car window rolls back up. It stops halfway. “That’s why you’ll always be a coward, Jean. You can’t conceive of any other way things could be,” they retort. Their fingers start drumming on the wheel in a frenzied dance. “I know I have to die, I’m not a dumbass. But this ain’t my first rodeo. I know what they’ll do once they come for me and I won’t let them take me. I would have taken care of everything —”

“Stop talking.” It’s evident that they can’t be talked down at this point. But I’m not sure what we can do either. We can’t use force, because Anita’s magic alone probably won’t be a match for Elliot’s, given how easily they incapacitated a table full of people earlier.

Anita cuts in, pleading. “Elliot, please. Come with us. I don’t know what you witnessed yesterday at Dave’s execution, but I’ll be right with you, okay? I’ll be right by your side. We shouldn’t be selfish —”

“Selfish.” Elliot mimics her tone incredulously. They repeat the word once again and laugh. “The system wants our lives, Nita. And you draw the line at being selfish?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she ventures, as though through a field of broken glass. “But I would personally choose to be the bigger person.”

Elliot bites their lip, blue eyes slowly flicking from side to side. Their answer comes in the form of a loud engine rumble. Slowly, the white van makes a U-turn. Its front is now facing us. Then it backs up until it reaches the end of the road, brushing up against the cliffside to its back. Clearly they want to head down, but Anita’s car and us two are still blocking the way. So to get down the hill, they’ll need to…

Run us over.

“What are you doing?” Anita shrieks. There’s nothing we could use to defend ourselves. I take a few steps back, thinking of crouching behind the car for safety. Maybe I could have reached it. But I’m frozen.

Elliot just takes one long look at her and says, “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, didn’t I?”

The engine flares up into a frenzy. Elliot has a look of determination and they clench their jaw. Without so much as another glance in our direction, they accelerate to top speed and veer past us, charging straight off the cliffside.

What happens afterwards is generally a blur. Anita seems to mentally shut down for the most part, but she manages to call the authorities. I take over the phone call, explaining our location and what’s happened to Elliot. We’re told to stay put. So she sits in her car and plays with her pendant, while I pace back and forth outside.

My mind replays the same thoughts over and over, though they’re strung together with different expletives each time. I still can’t figure out what was going through Elliot’s head. I guess the panic of facing execution caused them to lash out at everybody? That’s a reasonable conclusion. I tell myself not to think about it any further; I can’t afford to get frazzled right now. It’s like Yulian said: we’ll have time to feel when this is all over. So I lean against the car and stare up at the golden sky.

An indeterminable amount of time passes before an identical white van comes up to us. The guard from earlier, Kwon, steps out, followed by Laila. She collapses into my arms, sobbing. I try to hug her, try to murmur reassuring words into her ear, just as how she’d done for me when we both still lived at the circus. I try my best, even though my best probably isn’t enough. Laila’s just lost a best friend. What can you even say to reverse that kind of hurt?

Anita staggers out of the car, too, and Laila goes to hug her next. While they’re occupied, I walk over to the nearest guard, a heavyset, moustached man called Greer by the nametag on his uniform. “Excuse me,” I stammer. “I’m wondering if we’ll need to find a replacement candidate? I’m sorry I didn’t stop Elliot —”

He gives me a once-over, eyes lingering on the mask, before grunting, “Corpses can still be executed.” I picture a mangled, bleeding Zombuul being catapulted into a barrier. The thought is actually kind of darkly funny, but I manage to keep my face straight. I can’t be heard laughing at an execution. Greer continues, “You’re lucky this discussion was short. If the sun had already set now, we would’ve had trouble.”

I teeter over the edge, trying to catch a glimpse of the wreck. I can see a destroyed white van, several stories down. I can see two medical staff rolling out a stretcher, covered in opaque plastic. Wincing, I decide to head back to the girls.

“Anita, just a word,” I murmur and she nods, patting Laila’s shoulder one last time before following me a short distance away from her. She faces me, eyes wide like usual, but now there’s something hardened, something broken, in their depths. “Anita, is it okay if we keep the… nature of death a secret from Laila for now?”

She raises an eyebrow, and I hurriedly continue. “I’m not saying we should lie to her or anything like that. But… I’d rather we avoided mentioning why Elliot died. Just say we’re sad about it and their last moments were confusing.”

Anita’s expression doesn’t change. I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place, but out of the blue, she clasps my hand. Her touch is like cold lightning. Her other hand fiddles with her pendant, now glowing a bright scarlet colour. “Oh, no… I was thinking the same thing, actually.”

“You were?”

She makes a small, noncommittal noise. “If it makes things easier on Laila, I would definitely be game. Elliot might appreciate us keeping this secret for them... actually, on second thought, I’m not so sure.I’m… actually not that close to Elliot.”

“Really? I assumed the three of you were thick as thieves.”

Anita casts a look at Laila, who’s now sitting at the edge of the road, her legs dangling off the cliffside. “Well, Laila introduced Elliot and I. She’s incredible like that. Always seeing the best in people, always keeping our spirits high in spite of the situation… I want to be there for her just as she had been there for me.”

I nod as I follow along. “But what about yourself?” Just because she says she’s not that close to them doesn’t mean she’s not hurt — by the betrayal, or by the manic things Elliot had said. What kind of person talks to a friend like that? But wanting to express it all in a more reserved manner, I add, “You should take some time to look after yourself. You won’t get to rest properly once the discussion resumes.”

She laughs, momentarily, before it’s subdued by how her eyes turn dull. “Oh, I have all the time in the world. I just don’t know how long that is.”

Jean's Notes:

Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer)
Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes)
• d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
• d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
• d1+d2) Delaney, Julian
Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1)
Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0 n2 0)
Julian - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?)
Sergio - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher (?)
Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
Anita -
Dave [died d2] - Barber
Kasumi - Savant
• d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot
• d1b) There is a Pit-Hag (?)
• d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician)
• d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
• d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 11: perk up (day four)

Chapter Text

The television is blaring. Judging by the scene, Laila has been up all night watching Secondary School Musical, while curled up on the sofa with a blanket and her stuffed dinosaur. I try to tiptoe past her to get to the kitchen, but she stirs as soon as I pass her.

“Morning, Laila.” I try for my most upbeat voice. “Shall I make you a smoothie bowl?”

“No.”

I notice the phone on her armrest and press its button, showing that it’s down to 13 percent battery. Has she been using it all night? “Shall I bring you the phone battery machine?”

“Cut it out!” she hisses sharply, swatting my hand away. “What’s gotten into you? And don’t say ‘Fang Gu spirit’, that joke is never funny —”

The frustration in her gaze makes me falter, and I scramble for something to say. “I wanted to cheer you up”? Disingenuous-sounding and makes light of the situation. “I don’t really know how to support someone through the death of a loved one, and I’m terrified of mucking it up since you distanced yourself after Tiya’s death, but please, I’m already doing the best I can”? Too long, and it shifts the focus to me. “You mean the world to me, and I wanted to be there for you in your time of need”? Too melodramatic.

But I really need to say something before my silence condemns me. And my tongue lunges forward, moving of its own accord, “I want to help you get through what you’re currently going through.”

She rolls her eyes so vehemently that I shrink back, just in case she slaps me or something. “You discovered motivational quotes. Oh, superb.” she deadpans. “Just be happy! Believe in yourself! Perk up! My day just can’t get any better. You might as well discover WAP while you’re at it.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s so instinctive now. If she pressed me, I couldn’t say what I’m apologising for, and yet I apologise anyway because the irritation in her tone has the potential to turn into something more intense. All it takes is a spark to get a fire going.

“Go f*ck yourself,” she scoffs, before returning to staring at the television, and I know I’m forgiven once more.

Wait. Did somebody close to Laila die in the night? I’m tempted to ask, but I decide against it. I can check for myself, and that way, I won’t upset Laila any further. I snatch up my own phone and read the Group Chat by myself. Anita and Dave have been discussing publicly available information since early this morning. So it’s not Anita. Scrolling further down the chat, a few others have chimed in to announce they weren’t the target either. I count on my fingers. Me, Laila, Anita, Delaney Wilson, Yulian, Kasumi… that leaves Sergio as the demon’s victim. We’re down to the final six.

Final six. The thought sends a chill coursing through my body. It’s only been four days and already half of us are dead. How many more lives will be lost just to kill this one Demon?

A preppy song comes on the television, and I sigh. Laila has played and replayed this song so many times that even I’ve learnt the words. We’re all in this together, blah blah blah, we’re all stars and we see that. I start towards the remote to turn the noise down, then pull away. I really don’t want to be a thorn in her side while she’s down.

But that’s what you did last time, chides the ringmaster’s voice in my head. When Tiya died, you left her all alone under the guise of “giving her space”. You were never there for her. No wonder she withdrew from you. No wonder she left our little kingdom.

I have to force myself to brush the thought away. For starters, Mercier has never said anything like that.

“Laila, can I…” I venture. “Can I do anything for you?”

She makes a noncommittal grunt. “Yeah. You can bring them back from the dead.”

I can’t Profess to doing anything like that, so I just stand there, baffled, as a stream of ice-cold water runs through my head.

I need to get out of the house.

So like a coward, I turn tail and head out the front door. The oversized clothes and the mask go on. I make sure to keep Laila’s situation simmering in my head. It’s what I deserve, after all.

I get on the bike in the garage (the same one I broke, apparently it only took a couple of spells to fix) with just the vague intention of doing something for her. The view of the roadside trees, covered with flowers of every description at this time of the year, flies by as I ride off. Eventually, I reach the sprawling town square, surrounded by white brick townhouses and shops. The scene is absolutely beautiful. And I hate myself for thinking so.

You’re gleefully freeloading on Laila, and you can’t even be there for her when her best friend dies. How can you be so arrogant as to stand around admiring architecture when Laila needs someone?

The only answer I have is: I’m not the “someone” Laila needs. Maybe the one who can truly comfort her is Anita.

I head towards a hiring poster on the wall of a nearby bakery, even though Laila had said I shouldn’t worry about that until after the demon hunt. “People don’t work while they’re in a demon hunt, stupid. If you’ve got a job, you get paid leave, plus a stipend and other reimbursem*nts. What, you think people will have the energy to catch a demon after a nine-to-five? The Demon would just win every hunt.”

But it’s not about finances for me. It’s about proving that I’m not here to soak up her money and hike up her bills. I’ve already done all the housework that I can, but it simply isn’t on the same scale as what Laila has done for me.

I wouldn’t even be able to navigate the outside world without her. Nothing I can say could repay that.

We are looking for part-time and full-time applicants for the positions of packer and cashier. No prior experience required. Come inside for a walk-in interview!

I try to imagine how I’d fit into that sort of place. Peeking through the window, rows of breads and cakes are tidily arranged on the shelves, and the bakery itself connects to a large garden which serves as an outdoor cafe. A few businesspeople are sitting there, pouring over work. It looks pristine. Like it’s a movie setting for when the two main characters of a romantic comedy meet for the first time. It’s so beautiful it looks disingenu —

“Jean!”

I whip around to see a flush-faced ghost next to me. Mar walks up to my side, and waves with a wide smile on their face. “You’re back!” I greet, stumbling over my words a little. I wasn’t expecting to talk to anybody before the discussion today. So when Mar stays silent for just a second too long, I feel compelled to fill the silence. “Isn’t this… a great bakery?”

Then I recall that ghosts can’t eat, and I mentally smack myself upside the head.

Mar flinches — no, they’re just pointing at a display of pastries, get a grip on yourself, Jean — but still, the falter in their tone is unmistakable.

“It is! Imagine a date here. Basking in the sunshine and eating these,” they gesture at the cat-shaped bread loaves. “I like cute things.” The way they say this, it’s almost as though Mar is embarrassed, but there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. “I want to get one of those for Laila. Oh, and one for Professor Wilson, too. He swung by every day to share his data, and gave me meditation exercises so I could re-emerge faster.”

“How... nice.”

The reflection of the sunlight on the bakery window shifts. The weight of maintaining eye contact becomes too much, so I tear my gaze away. Mar follows my gaze down and picks up their necklace, offering to let me inspect it further. “Oh, you’re looking at this? Isn’t it pretty? Lyra handmade it for me. That was two years ago, when I finally figured out who I’m supposed to be.”

“It seems you’ve known Lyra for quite some time.” I purse my lips, surprised at what I just said. I can’t help it. Every time I think of Mar, Lyra comes to mind as well.

“I’ve known her since we were kids. She trusted me, she told me all of her secrets and dreams, and…” with a small, sudden shriek, Mar raises their forearms to cover their face. “And I screwed her over! Just a week ago, I suggested we go out for drinks. She didn’t want to go, she’d wanted to watch Betflix, but I insisted, so she came and sat with me at Elliot’s cafe. I didn’t think much of it at the time. The next day, the police came knocking at our door. They said that the Demon had been tracked to that cafe. Shortly after, we received our summons in the mail. We’d both become demon candidates over one stupid drink. I traded her life for a black forest latte.”

“Mar, I’m so sorry.” It rings hollow, just like all the other instances I’ve said it, but the reality is that I don’t know what else to say.

“That’s not even the most stupid part. Did you know that Lyra came of age just three days before that happened? Had she still been seventeen, we might have been able to pull her out of the hunt.” Technically, teenagers over the age of fourteen and up can be tried as adults, since demonic corruption is such a serious charge. But in practice, they’re often given exemptions from the brutality of the demon hunt.

“Mar, you didn’t know.” That’s my pathetic attempt at talking them down, and it only makes their nostrils flare. People are starting to stare at us and it makes me want to fold inward.

“If I didn’t know, I shouldn’t have done such stupid things!”

We face each other: Mar panting heavily, me nervous and with no idea how to calm the situation. How was I supposed to talk to a person who had gotten their beloved roommate killed, and now had to face said roommate every single day?

That’s when I finally see things clearly. Mar is feeling just as stir-crazy as I am, and they’ve also left home, hoping to escape the sensation of being trapped inside their own head. So for the moment being, I shove my own feelings aside. If we can distract ourselves, even just for an hour or two before the discussion starts, it would do us both good.

“Let’s head inside,” I suggest, bursting Mar out of their bubble. “You could tell me more about Lyra, and we could see how those cat-shaped bread loaves are made.”

French vanilla syrup doesn’t taste like anything, I think to myself, after adding a fifth pump of the stuff to my hot chocolate and deciding that I still can’t detect the difference. The bakery owner had recognised us as demon candidates and offered us free stroopwafels (“For your hard work!”), which I felt bad about accepting, so I put a generous amount of change into the tip jar.

I manage to calm Mar down somewhat, emphasis on somewhat. We talk about bread loaves. We talk about stroopwafels. We talk about Lyra, and by this time hours have passed before Mar ends a particular story with, "She doesn’t blame me for any of this because she’s so kind.”

“So you’re blaming yourself in her stead.” Mar pauses at my bluntness, and I know that I can’t possibly take those words back. So I push forward, “I don’t want to make assumptions about your mental state or the extent of what you’re going through. But what I do know is that Lyra means a lot to you. Maybe you even feel like you don’t deserve to be happy after what happened between the two of you.”

“No sh*t, Shabaloth,” they snap. “I dragged her into a demon hunt, where typically just two survive. I killed her, Jean. After the second discussion, I was angry and restless. Lyra put me to bed and talked to me for hours, even while she was painting. Come morning she was gone, and her last interaction with anybody was me screaming at her. Why would I deserve anything past that point? What do you know?”

I force myself to look into their eyes, instead of at the mug of hot chocolate that I normally look at. “I know that if Lyra could speak, she would ask you to forgive yourself.”

Mar sighs, cupping their own cheek. With their free hand, they tug at one of the four beads on their necklace. “Ugh, I hate feelings,” they finally declare, seeming to have shaken off their earlier stupor. “Lyra would forgive the Demon if it apologised to her. And I’m not going to forgive myself on the spot, because that’s flat out ridiculous. But I probably needed someone to tell me that. So… thank you, Jean.”

“Happy to help.” I lean back in my seat, but all I can do from that position is frown up at the ceiling. Why had I figured out what to say to Mar? Why couldn’t I do that for Laila?

Easy. Because Mar’s problems hinge on fact; it’s an indisputable, undeniable fact that Mar isn’t responsible for Lyra’s death. In Laila’s case, there’s no misconception. Elliot is dead, plain and simple. And Laila is sad because Elliot is dead. What can I even say to make her feel better?

While I’m lost in my own thoughts, Mar brings out an L-shaped computer, and uses it to view an incomprehensible chunk of text on Bicrosoft Word (entitled “Grimoire JSON Storage”). They enter this text into what appears to be an online tool, and in seconds, they’ve produced an image consisting of twelve tokens arranged in a circle. These tokens are each labelled with a demon candidate’s name, and each bear the name of a profession: “Artist” for Lyra, “Mathematician” for Wilson, and so on.

“What is this?” I marvel, right before realising they haven’t invited me to look at their computer. “I- I mean, if it’s okay for me to ask, of course.”

“Clocktower.live, it’s a virtual townsquare that you can use to track what’s going on in a demon hunt, and solve for who the Demon is,” Mar explains, to my utter bewilderment. “I use it to quickly test out configurations. Back in my grandfather’s day, before all of this newfangled technology, he and his friends had to walk fifteen miles to get their physical Grimoires. And they never complained!”

Their gruff old man impression catches me off guard. In some other lifetime I would have laughed, but I catch the detail, “So your grandfather was in a demon hunt too.”

“When he found out I was a candidate, he said that survival was in our family’s blood. And that once this Demon is dead, we’ll travel to his old hometown and see the remnants of his hunt there.” Mar smiles thinly. “I’ll miss him.”

“You seem at peace with this,” I note. At least compared to the way they talked about Lyra.

“Pain is the price we pay for getting to know someone,” Mar murmurs, almost a whisper. “And we’ll pay it over and over again because that’s the nature of human beings — I don’t struggle with pain over Lyra’s passing, I struggle with responsibility. My grandfather will grieve, and he will feel a lot of pain, but that’s just part and parcel of the human experience. One day, we’ll meet again in the world to come.” These words don’t sound like their own, and I wonder if they’re repeating something that someone else told them. They finish this thought with a vibrant smile that reminds me of the sun coming out from the clouds. I smile a little, too; it’s contagious. But then I think of Laila again and I sigh.

“I wish you could tell Laila all this,” I confess, and quickly explain the situation to her. Of course, I leave out the details of Elliot’s death. “Your words would make her feel so much better. Would you mind stopping by our house before the discussion —”

They begin to laugh, loud and sharp. Instinctively, I jerk my hand holding the hot chocolate away from them, spilling some of the liquid onto my gloves. But I won’t take them off in front of Mar, so I pretend I wasn’t scalded.

Mar hands me a napkin as they finally address me, “I shouldn’t have laughed. I’m sorry. What I meant was, Laila doesn’t need teachings just to feel better.”

“She doesn’t?”

“She needs you, silly!” They giggle as if it’s obvious. “There are no magic words that will make her grief evaporate instantly. Emotions don’t work that way. Just spend time with her, let her know you’re there for her, and listen to what she has to say. I’m sure Laila appreciates what you’re doing for her.”

My eyes drift to the window of the bakery building, the same one we’d been looking through earlier. The sky is a beautiful cornflower blue. The colour keeps me rooted to the ground. But Mar’s words are making my head feel like it can float.

“Give it a try, alright? Tell Laila you’ll be there for her, and let me know how it goes.” I nod, feeling flush with a sensation that I don’t have the words to describe. “While you’re here, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Look at this Grimoire while I explain, alright?”

Mar prompts me to examine the image on their computer, and I raise an eyebrow. Brye and Anita’s tokens mark them both as bodysnatchers. They’ve put me as the Juggler, though. “You want to talk to me about Anita being the Fang Gu?”

“I wanted to ask you to personally nominate Anita.” Mar’s warm brown eyes sharpen into something that’s filled with determination. “I started by working backwards from the people I trust, like Lyra, Dave, and Professor Wilson.”

I trust Lyra and Dave, in the same cautious way that everybody trusts in a demon hunt. But I’m still reserving judgement on Wilson, because otherwise I can’t make sense of Kasumi’s vision. (Mar deals with this by writing Kasumi off as the Mutant, which is… questionable.) I don’t think Kasumi is lying, because I don’t think she could have made up the true vision about me being next to the Witch-cursed person. And by reversing her other vision for the day, Wilson would have to be demon-aligned. But I’m not exactly sure what his role in this hunt is yet.

“You don’t trust Brye?” I ask. “Not even after Lyra compared his soul to Anita’s?”

“Not one bit,” they fire back, raising one eyebrow. “And just so you know, it’s not Lyra’s fault. She realised after the second discussion that she didn’t have much time left, and rushed to finish the painting. We didn’t suspect Anita at the time, so Lyra chose her at random.”

I decide not to comment on their defence of Lyra. “Alright, but that still doesn’t explain why you distrust Brye.”

“It’s easier if I start from Elliot,” Mar gestures to the ‘Klutz’ and ‘Fang Gu’ markers next to their name. “See, one thing has been bothering me. Elliot claimed to be a reader of the stars, right up until their execution. So why did they tell Dave they were a Defect? Even genuine Defects don’t usually admit it. Besides, Dave has no reason to lie. So what I’m thinking is that Elliot got screwed over by the Fang Gu’s covenant.” My eyes widen as they continue. “Said covenant would have been an accident. Brye didn’t mean to perform it so early, but he didn’t know his victim was a Defect. And by the time he found out, he had already transferred his soul to Elliot.”

I frown, thinking of how secretive Elliot had been when I first spoke to them. “So Brye targeted Elliot at random?”

“Could be,” Mar steels their jaw. “But what I think is that Brye heard your performance, and wanted to dispatch the Snake Charmer.”

My hands fly to cover my mouth. I didn’t mean for this to happen.

Mar continues, “After becoming the Demon’s new host, Elliot could have turned themselves over to the authorities. But it’s not in their nature to go down without a fight.” I shudder as I’m reminded of the van on the cliffside. “So for the sake of survival, they turned their back on the town. They pretended to sense the evil in Brye’s soul, so nobody would think they were working together. At the same time, Brye accused Julian and Sergio, to trick the town into unleashing their blood covenant. And after Dave’s death, Elliot used his residual magic…”

“To turn Anita into the Fang Gu, and themselves into the Witch,” I realise. This theory is making more sense than I initially thought. There’s just some details that need to be ironed out. “Like you said, Elliot acts to preserve themselves first and foremost. So the first opportunity they got, they used it to make somebody else the target of the demon hunt.”

“Exactly. And yesterday, Elliot lashed out at everyone with their Witchcraft in a last-ditch attempt to escape execution,” Mar added. “It all fits together. Doesn’t it?”

I lean closer to the image as I puzzle this out. Using what the Storyteller had spoken via Lyra’s art, Anita and Brye would be the matching pair, and both plotting against the town. Yulian and Sergio aren’t truly twins, but it’s not impossible for one of them to be a Demon-servant. Considering Sergio is dead, Yulian is the likelier option. But still, the idea of dismissing Kasumi’s contradictory information and writing her off as the Mutant seems... problematic.

Before I can figure out how to convey any of this to Mar, though, a bossy voice rings out from behind.

“Wrong. Blackmoor did not vote in the second discussion, yet Krickett’s flowers wilted.” Just as I was thinking about her. Kasumi Asai is standing next to me with a blank look on her face, as she leans one hand against our table.

Mar sighs deeply when they see who’s arrived. “Fine,” is what they say, but they’re clearly annoyed at being corrected like this. “Sergio never said he was a Philosopher of what, right? It’s possible he loved flowers as well, so much that all the city’s flower magic had been redirected to him.”

But Kasumi is unfazed and continues addressing them in that warm, condescending tone. “Wrong again. Wilson’s probes would have detected the magical interference.” And once again, she’s right. “You haven’t thought this out at all, have you, Shirazi?”

“Let’s see you come up with a configuration,” they snap back, and rise from their seat. “In case you haven’t noticed, you barged your way into a private conversation. I never wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Kasumi answers, that sweet tone never once changing. “That’s perfect, actually. I came here to talk to your friend, not you. This way, neither of us has to suffer the other’s presence, and we both get what we want.”

I eye both of them warily, feeling my teeth clench inside my mouth. “Kasumi, look, I’m sorry, but Mar and I were having a conversation. If you had wanted to talk to me, you should have sent me a message.”

Kasumi’s eyes glint. “Which I did.”

Completely confused, I pull my phone out of my pocket, trying to find the messages that Kasumi sent me. I angle the phone so that she and Mar can both see:

“I only ignored them because the phone said they came from a spam number,” I try to defend myself. “Ignore and move on. That’s what Laila taught me.”

Kasumi groans loudly, making me wonder if I should apologise. “Laila Krickett set that display name, you blithering moron!” She snatches up my phone, scrolling through the list of people who have exchanged messages with me. “Why else would Blackmoor be called Emolliot 🕸🕷? And who’s the unfortunate fellow you’ve been calling Dumbie Mcdumbass with a phD 😴?”

“I- I think that’s Delaney,” I stammer weakly, and catch Mar’s offended expression out of the corner of my eye. This is definitely not what I expected when I asked them to come into the bakery with me. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your messages, Kasumi. But we can talk tomorrow, alright? I don’t want to ditch Mar and I don’t think there’s anything so important that you need to tell me right now.”

Her eyes glint dangerously, and her lips twitch into an unapologetic smile. “But you want to talk to me.”

As I watch on, Kasumi’s gaze is still pointing straight ahead, directly at Mar, seemingly expecting them to say something. With the hand that’s rested on our table, her index finger discreetly traces a single letter on its surface — ‘D’.

It can’t be. Jean, you have to play it cool, your life depends on this! I don’t know if Mar has noticed. I don’t know if they understand what’s going on. But Kasumi, satisfied with our shared silence, lowers her voice to a whisper that I can just barely hear.

“What if I told you I knew your secret?”

Jean's Notes:

Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer)
Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes)
• d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
• d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
• d1+d2) Delaney, Julian
Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1)
Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0 n2 0)
Julian - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?)
Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher (?)
Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
Anita -
Dave [died d2] - Barber
Kasumi - Savant
• d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot
• d1b) There is a Pit-Hag (?)
• d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician)
• d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
• d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 12: no man is an island

Chapter Text

Half an hour later, I’m riding the number nineteen bus, with a second cup of hot chocolate in my hand, and Kasumi by my side. There is no way of putting this mildly: she is terrifying. Usually, her stone-cold eyes would be scrutinising everyone as if she’s searching for her next meal, but somehow I prefer even that to the prospect of being ignored like this. Right now, she’s staring straight ahead, her hands clutching her phone, her gaze nasty, sharp, and bitter, as though she’s envisioning how to rip the seat in front of her to shreds. Twice, I try to break the tension by asking what she’s thinking about, and twice I receive no reply. Anger flares up in my throat. Why did she pull me away from Mar if she’s not even intending to talk to me?

At one point, I think about whether to just storm off the bus, but I reason that leaving right now would only guarantee I’d never be able to talk to her. Whereas, if I stick it out until the end, there’s a chance that her tough shell might eventually break. So I spend the trip messaging apologies to Mar… and putting their lessons into action.

A couple minutes later, Kasumi abruptly stands up, so I put down my phone and follow her off the bus. Laila’s too busy to respond to me anyway, so it’s no bother. After the bus drives away, I turn to her expectantly, only to be told, “Not yet. We need to find somewhere that we won’t be overheard.”

She walks me to the Poppy Grower’s Botanical Garden, a large, stately park that is predictably packed with people. The sight makes Kasumi frown, but what had she expected? Isn’t heading to a scenic, public place the exact opposite of what we should be doing? Not only will we be overheard from every angle, we’re also drawing attention, because why wouldn’t we be? We’re an overdressed freak and a girl who somehow manages to put even more effort into her appearance than Laila.

Kasumi takes to the entrance of a hedge maze that is beautiful, and honestly, a little intimidating too. The hedges are well-maintained and emerald green, and they’re about five metres tall. She tells me that there’s a flowerbed of poppies and a monument at the centre of the maze, which is our destination. Just as I’m about to protest that there’s no way we’d be able to navigate there, she enters the maze purposefully, and I’m forced to run to keep up with her.

As we traverse the winding hedges, I can’t help but notice the number of bronze statuettes that we pass by. Kasumi is walking too fast for me to take a closer look at anything, but they appear to be ordinary townspeople. Pious men concentrated in prayer, villagers celebrating a harvest, children laughing. All this culminates as we burst into the maze’s centre, and take in the sight of a three-metre-tall statue, ringed by red and yellow flowers.

This statue depicts three bronze figures, but I’m more interested in the inscription on the statue’s pedestal. The moment I lean in closer, the pungent smell of wilted flowers pricks at my nose. But I ignore that to inspect the engravings:

IN MEMORY OF THE GALLANT HEROES WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR THE PROTECTION OF INNOCENTS DURING DEMON INVASIONS, 17XX – 20XX

THE INVASION OF MERTON RIDGE, 20XX

Skylar Clarke

Caitlin Foster

Sonali Khan

Vachan Mulani

Isaías Chaves Serrano

Victor Shaw

Leila Qambrani

Leonid Walker

Natasha Woods

THE INVASION OF BELLMARE, 20XX

Hunter Bountley

Niamh Kelly

“Here’s where we’ll be once our own hunt is concluded,” Kasumi tells me, temporarily shocking me out of my reading. She’s wrinkling her nose since she’s directly next to the age-eaten bouquets at the foot of the statue. When I’m confused, she points at an empty section of the pedestal. “They’ll engrave our names here. For the first month, the townspeople will come to pay their respects and bring us fresh bouquets. After that, the visits will become infrequent and the flowers will wither. In three or four months, the monument will be deserted again.”

A thought occurs to me. “Do non-loyalists make it onto the plaque too? Say, if they served the demon in some way…”

“No.” Is her incredulous answer. “Why would we commemorate a traitor?”

I fall silent, nodding numbly, while Kasumi finishes paying her respects to the statue. I’ve never seen this side of her before. And I realise that Laila would be furious if she ever found out what I’ve been up to.

But I don’t linger on the thought. Instead, I take deep breaths, feeling my own nerves swirl like cigarette smoke in my throat. Now that we’re finally alone, I plainly ask for the answers that she owes me. “How did you know?”

She gives the faintest shrug, but I can hear the satisfaction in her words. “How did I know you’d come with me, or how did I know you were a Defect?”

Oh, Shabaloth. She truly knew. I had been clinging to the vain hope that she was mistaken, and instead thought that my secret was something else, but it seems that Kasumi has dissected me and ripped out all my secrets. The only thing I can do at this point is play it cool. “Wait, I’m confused,” I interject. “Why would you think I’m a Defect?”

Kasumi does not falter in the slightest. With absolute confidence, she informs me, “I will answer your question. But first, I ask just one little favour from you.”

My hands clench into fists.

“I’d like to hear your thoughts on Virostko’s death.” Kasumi seats herself on a patch of grass, scrutinising me with those predatory, foreboding eyes. She gestures for me to sit with her, but I don’t budge. So instead, she just gives me a twisted smile. “Figuring out why somebody was targeted is just as important as knowing who was targeted. For instance, Shirazi was killed because of their powerful Dreams, and their implicit position of trust within our panel. And Khan was killed because Shirazi was backing her, and their influence spread to her to some extent.”

Virostko, Virostko… who’s Virostko again? Elliot Virostko? Wait, no. Sergio is “Virostko”. The fact that I need a moment to figure out who she’s talking about tells me that I won’t be able to say anything useful about the guy. “You want to hear my guess as to why Sergio was killed?” This elicits a nod from her. I try thinking about it, I genuinely do. But the more I think about him, the more his memory escapes me. Sergio was… Yulian’s pretend brother, right? But that’s not a reason to murder someone in the night. The best I can come up with is, “Maybe it’s because he’s the Philosopher.” A Philosopher of what, though, I have no clue. On second thought, I’m not sure that he even knows Philosophy.

She tilts her head, seeming deep in thought. “Well, think of it this way. Say you’re the Demon. Who would you have killed out of the final seven?”

I mull over this for a while, because nearly everybody’s an option. Laila could catch me out with her Demon’s bane, Kasumi was keeping her recent visions close to her chest, Sergio could be using his Philosophy for purposes unknown, and Anita and Yulian were both wild cards that I couldn’t ignore. But Kasumi is probably looking for a straight answer. “I suppose Anita,” I answer eventually. “Something about her feels off to me. As though she’s hiding the most powerful magic.”

Kasumi just nods, holds both hands in front of her, and begins swiping them in mid-air. Like she’s brushing the dust off the surface of a closet that isn’t there. I’ve never seen her do this before. “That’s exactly what I thought. Toulemonde, listen.” She stares down at her imaginary closet with a frown. “Sergio Virostko is the worst possible murder target that anybody could have chosen. Ageyenko wouldn’t kill Virostko, because killing his Twin brother opens himself up to execution. Wilson wouldn’t either, because if he is the Eroder, he’d already have Virostko under his thrall. Neither would Paterno.”

“Why would Anita need Sergio alive?” I’m trying to draw up memories involving the both of them, and come up blank.

“Paterno didn’t vote yesterday,” she supplies blithely. “The only other person who didn’t was Krickett. So if Paterno was indeed the Demon…”

“She would’ve needed to attack Laila last night,” I realise. “Because Laila’s records would incriminate her outright. But that didn’t happen.”

A thoughtful frown plays at Kasumi’s lips here. “You know, Toulemonde, I didn’t think I would survive last night. In my view, the one to die would be me, Krickett, or Paterno. So imagine my shock when Virostko was the one to turn up dead.”

“So you can’t think of who would want V- Sergio dead?” Her way of addressing people is actually kind of confusing.

“No,” she busies herself with her imaginary-dusting again. “I think he’s the body-snatcher.”

It’s not that I haven’t thought about the possibility myself. But right now, I simply don’t know enough about Sergio to have an opinion on the matter. And that’s when I realise that we’re going off track. “Kasumi, you still owe me an answer. How did you know, no, why do you think I’m a Defect?” I demand, deepening my voice to sound authoritative.

But I know it’s futile, honestly. Why would someone like her take orders from the likes of me? She’s completely self-assured and she holds all the cards in this conversation. That much has been clearly demonstrated time and time again.

Kasumi says, “Give me two minutes.”

Heaving a sigh, I watch as she continues making those dusting motions. That’s when I finally notice that her thumb and index fingers are curled. She isn’t dusting, but rather, she’s moving something around.

“I’m visualising a Grimoire,” she explains, apparently catching my gaze. “I used to do anzan, er, mental abacus. I figured if I could do one, I could do the other.”

“Wait,” I pause. “You taught yourself how to do this in less than two weeks?”

“Goodness, no. I work as a demon hunt consultant.” She keeps moving her imaginary tokens around. “Some countries don’t use the trial system. Instead, they outsource the hunting to a panel of trained consultants, and the consultants decide who is executed every day based on all the information available. I haven’t needed a Grim in years, and I haven't seen my Grim in years, either.”

I’m left stunned. “That’s still impressive. And you manage completely fine without one?” Since Laila won’t let me borrow her Grimoire, I draw out tokens with a sketchbook.

Kasumi chuckles again. I take in how she’s seated on grass in the middle of a garden, and how openly she’s adjusting the tokens in her imaginary Grimoire… this is the most authentic version of her I’ve ever seen. “I manage just fine. Throw me any type of logic puzzle, and I’ll find a way to solve it. Just don’t force me to decipher what Krickett and Blackmoor are saying. Every other word from them is a curse, or some figure of speech that I don’t use the internet often enough to understand. Do you know how relieved I was when I found out that both the teenage candidates know how to speak English properly?”

Her words don’t sit completely well with me, but I guess it would be confusing if somebody spoke to you in excessive slang. Especially if your life depends on cooperating with or arguing against those persons. I don’t want to think about how intimidating Kasumi would be in her native language, so I just ask, “Are you done rearranging your Grimoire? Can you tell me why you thought I was a Defect now?”

“Well, it started with Brye. Brye told me you’re actually a tailor. But that’s not strictly true, is it?”

If she’s as close to Brye as I think, she likely knows all this already. So I stand my ground, stare her in the eye, and answer, “It’s true. I’m a tailor, and I sewed outfits back in the circus. I know Mar and Laila are cut from the same cloth.”

She tuts. “That’s nearly useless. Why not take a peek into Virostko’s true nature? Or confirm whether Ageyenko can be trusted or not?”

“I didn’t want to further the wrong narrative in case I was poisoned.” I can feel my cheeks flush, I know this is a terrible lie, but my mind can’t come up with anything better. “I told everybody I was the Juggler because —”

“— the Cerenovus hexed you. I know, I know.” She swallows, her hand seeming to hover over an imaginary token. “Now riddle me this. Yesterday, after your conversation with Brye, he asked to meet up with me. He told me everything you said to him, and I thought it made sense until today. See, one of my visions is that you were betrayed by a person you trusted. That person abused your confidence and yesterday, they leaked your true identity behind your back.”

I had no expectation of Brye keeping my secret, so this doesn’t faze me. “This vision is the true one,” I conclude. “I asked Brye not to tell anyone and he agreed. Yet, he leaked it to you.”

Kasumi glares at me with full force now. It’s the very same glare that she used to pressure Mar, and I quietly swear that I won’t let her get to my head. “Then tell me what you make of the second vision. If I were supernaturally Empathetic, I would have learnt last night that either you or Paterno are of the Demon’s alignment.”

I remember Mar’s words, and their request that I nominate Anita today. Could Anita have been snatched and brainwashed by Sergio? That would make her the Demon-aligned one out of the two of us. But if Kasumi thinks that this second statement is true already, she could call for Anita’s execution outright. She wouldn’t need me to expose my identity.

Noticing my silence, Kasumi pulls out her phone. She shows me two Grimoire images, one after another. “Here. I’ve done the work for you already. If you and Paterno are both loyal, there needs to be a servant and a Defect-turned-host between Krickett and Blackmoor, and Delaney Wilson needs to be the other servant. Which goes against my vision saying that Brye’s guesses were correct. If you and Paterno are both red, there’s no explanation for why Virostko was inexplicably targeted. Moreover, both scenarios leave us one Defect short, and neither supplies us with a Demon’s team which makes sense.”

I feel the muscles in my jaw clench together. She’s showing me the pictures too quickly for me to calculate who else could possibly be a Defect. But what’s more pressing is Yulian’s token — Kasumi has listed him as a Clockmaker, and marked him with a ‘2’. To symbolise two clock-steps, I suppose. That puts even more of a constraint on who the Demon could be. But then, why is there a strange feeling pulling at my stomach?

“There is no way for you and Paterno to, realistically, share a common goal. Which renders the first vision false. Brye never leaked your true identity behind your back, because you simply had not told him your true identity.” Kasumi’s eyes are glittering dangerously, and I can feel my heart beating a mile a minute. This is the same look she gave Mar. The victorious look of having someone cornered and completely at her mercy.

If she had exposed me during the discussion, instead of accusing me in private right now, she would have convinced everyone to execute me in five minutes flat.

“You have deceived us since the beginning of this demon hunt. You are neither of the professions you claimed to be. Not a Juggler, not a Seamstress, only a lying Defect,” she concludes, deathly calm. Bitterly, selfishly, I wish that she were spitting or snarling those words instead. “Do you concede, Jean Toulemonde?”

“No!” I blurt out, before my brain has had the opportunity to catch up with the situation. “No, I don’t concede the point because…” That’s when I’m forced to fall silent. I was hoping to come up with an argument on the fly, but I genuinely don’t see what I can use to argue the point. I can’t bring up Yulian’s Bluff’s Got Talent audition, because if Kasumi is evil, I would just be giving her valuable information.

She deliberately lets a few, silent moments pass. Finally, her voice returns to its signature, butter-smooth quality. “Take out your phone,” she commands. “I’ll send you the images. Tell me if you can come up with any configuration that entails you being an honest townsfolk.”

Suspected Spam Number ❌️ : [◉¯] Photo

Suspected Spam Number ❌️ : [◉¯] Photo

Suspected Spam Number ❌️ : All visions so far:

- 1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot

- 1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag

- 2a) All of Brye’s guesses were correct (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician)

- 2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of a Defect today

- 3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant

- 3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once

- 4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back

- 4b) As of the fourth night, there is one Demon-aligned among Jean and Anita

I return to the image where Anita and I are both blue-tokeners, frowning. My mind substitutes Yulian’s Clockmaker token for a Defect one. Dave is the second Defect, and the last would be between Elliot and Laila. Without the ‘two clock-steps’ restriction, Delaney Wilson isn’t necessarily a servant anymore. But… it still makes no sense for Wilson to be a Defect, nor for Laila to be servant or Defect. I run through variations on these two possibilities again and again, taking maybe twenty minutes in total. At the end, and despite thoroughly exhausting myself, I come up with nothing workable.

Maybe I should simply stop fighting.

Because truly, it is exhausting to fight. Part of me wants to scream that I can’t do this, I knew all along that something like this would happen, and now that she’s ripped my secrets out of me, clinging to the bloodied mess won’t stop me from bleeding out. But then another part of myself tugs me on the shoulder and reminds me that I’ve made it this far without getting in the way of an execution. And now that Kasumi is in on the secret whether I like it or not, it’s hard to keep caring about the facade.

Kasumi is typing on her phone. I can hear the clack of her well-manicured fingernails with each letter. I honestly can’t blame her for losing interest in waiting around. A few shaky breaths in, I force myself forward. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I am a lying Defect.”

This is it, then.

The secret is out.

There’s no staying on the brink, no pausing or looking back. I don’t know what’s going to happen after this point. Let the Storyteller do what she will. If I die because of this, then so be it.

Kasumi frowns over her phone. I brace myself for her fury, for her to punch me, for her to reveal that Brye has been listening in on this conversation via telephone this whole time. But all she says is, “That makes so much sense.”

“What does?”

She looks up from her phone, and gives a one-shouldered shrug. “When Shirazi activated the curse, most people at the table were confused. You, on the other hand, looked panicked. I could tell just from the upper half of your face.”

I quietly tense up at these words. I don’t like it when people are able to read me.

But I still feel as though something is wrong. “Why did you want to speak to me in private?” Why didn’t she press me the way she pressed Mar, as a public spectacle for the entire group to see? Why was she affording me the dignity of conceding in private? I add, in a quieter voice, “Don’t you hate me?”

Here, Kasumi shoots me a look that I couldn’t decipher for the death of me. “Toulemonde,” she begins, sharply at first, then she clasps her hands in her lap. Looking down at them, she whispers, “From a strict utilitarian perspective, maybe I ought to hate you. But I couldn’t tell the entire discussion that you’re Mad as a hatter, could I?”

“And why wouldn’t you?” I press, unbelieving. “You grilled Mar until they revealed their ability to you.”

She heaves a sigh. “That’s — different. Revealing that you’re Mad to the rest of the group condemns you to die. This may be a surprise, owing to the company that you keep, but I prefer it when innocents don’t die.”

My jaw still feels tight for some reason. I look down at the list of visions again, and something suddenly clicks in me. “Yulian is the Clockmaker, right?” Kasumi’s nod prompts me to continue. “Brye is the Juggler, and Lyra is the Artist. Sergio, if he genuinely Philosophises, has the potential to learn information more than once; if he doesn’t, he was never a townsfolk in the first place. That makes —”

“Exactly three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once,” Kasumi finishes. “Per the vision I saw yesterday.”

“So that means the Fang Gu hasn’t formed a covenant. Of course, the Demon could also be a non-Fang Gu, or Yulian is lying about his abilities.” I don’t bring up the possibility of Lyra lying, because in my opinion, it’s far too slim to be worth thinking about. Once again, the BouTube video tugs at the back of my head, but I tell myself that doesn’t matter either. People change professions and interests all the time. Right?

Kasumi fidgets with her free hand in mid-air. “Though, the Fang Gu could still have formed it last night, after I received my vision. Which would fit with my earlier theory of Virostko being the body-snatcher.”

The pieces are slowly falling into place now. They instil in me a wild sort of energy that courses through my veins. “Earlier, Mar talked to me about Anita being brainwashed by Brye. I think they’ve gotten it wrong. It’s not Brye who attacked her, but Sergio. — Do you have a computer I can borrow, Kasumi? Can you show me how to make the Grimoire images?”

She looks back at me, eyes wide, when she finally laughs and stands up from where she’s been sitting. “I’ll do even better. Let me buy you a real one. Trust me when I say that the real deal is worth its weight in gold.”

Kasumi beckons me to follow her, and I cast one last, lingering look at the statue. I make out a Soldier, a Slayer and an Exorcist, all valiantly warding off the demon before them. Suddenly, I’m struck by the gravity of the sheer number of names, by how there’s row after row of them, engraved in lettering so small that I need to squint in order to see them. I had no idea this place existed, so I had an excuse, but… was Kasumi right about how few people came to show their respects?

At the statue’s feet, on top of the pedestal, lie several bouquets. These sprout red and golden and purple blossoms. Those are all fresh, which means that the heroes haven’t completely been forgotten. I look up at the face of the statue, and the soldier in bronze seems to smile at me.

Filled with newfound determination, I rip my eyes away and follow her, out of the hedge maze and back towards the town square.

“Here.”

Kasumi and I are taking a cab to the gazebo. The brand new Grimoire is on my lap, and the texture is so smooth that I can barely believe it’s real. We pour over possible configurations of its tokens, or rather, I pour over them, since Kasumi just follows along with her imaginary Grimoire. It takes me a few tries, but I come up with a workable configuration. As a starting point, I’ve put Sergio as the original Fang Gu that invaded this town, and Anita as his protégé. Subsequently, I put Wilson as one Demon-servant, and Elliot as the other. The rest of the tokens fall into place soon after that.

“This fits everything we’ve discussed,” I murmur. “Lyra’s Art fits. Mar’s Dreams fit. We even have the correct number of Defects.”

Kasumi doesn’t answer yet. Most likely, she’s deep in thought.

“Everything seems to be pointing at Anita now. But Kasumi,” I pause, waiting until she looks at me before I continue. “Will I need to tell everyone…?”

She bites her lower lip, before finally answering, “No. You can leave that to me. I’ll figure out a way to convince everyone without revealing your identity, I promise.” She mimes moving tokens around in her invisible Grimoire again, and I can’t help but snort. She almost smiles back, the closest I’ve seen her come to any type of smile, whether skin or flesh.

All I can think of is that this is going too well to be true.

We pass more of the trip in silence. My prickly thoughts resurface once more, I ask for the second time, “Do you hate me?”

“Hate you?” Kasumi is peering out of the window, watching trees in the distance blur to dust. “For being Mad? Now that I’m thinking of it, you never told me you were Mad. I guessed you were a Mutant based on that ridiculous mask you wear.”

Stung, I shrink back, and grip the edges of the Grimoire with both hands. “Makes sense.”

Kasumi sighs, and the following words come out with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Nobody should be blamed for what they do in the pursuit of survival. You did what you had to in order to save your own life. But just so we’re clear, this isn’t meant to be a condonement of your actions. After all, you did cause us a lot of unnecessary grief and confusion.”

I hang my head, unsure of what to think. I honestly don’t see a way to accomplish the former without infringing on the latter.

“And just so you know, you drove Brye crazy with your antics. Every day without fail, he texts me, ‘Give me all of the most likely configurations where so-and-so is the Fang Gu, or the No Dashii, or whatever other creature’. He’s all but given up on configuring by himself.” Kasumi chuckles, even though I don’t. “Now that I think of it, your true identity not being leaked doesn’t necessarily mean you are a Defect. You could secretly be a Demon-servant. Or, you could be the murderer itself.”

Snapped to attention, I stare at her in silent horror.

She continues without a care, her long dark hair being tangled by the wind outside. “But I think I trust you. When you confessed, there was something in your demeanour that made you seem genuine. Don’t make me regret this decision, Toulemonde.”

“I won’t.” I mean those words with every fibre of my body.

Kasumi turns back to me. Her eyes are tense, as though there’s something on her mind, but she can’t bring herself to say it. Finally, she blurts out, “This demon hunt messes with your head. Lately, I haven’t known who to trust anymore.”

“You don’t seem like the type to trust easily, if at all,” I tell her. And to be completely honest, neither am I.

She laughs shakily. “I don’t like basing decisions off of who I trust. One part of me still keeps telling me that I’m stupid for choosing to trust you. After all, the first step in betrayal is trusting someone.”

“But look at Mar and Lyra.” They come to my mind immediately. I rush to elaborate, “I mean, just because you don’t like trusting others doesn’t mean you should ignore the value of trust. Mar and Lyra have clearly known each other all their lives, and they intend to support each other throughout the demon hunt.”

Kasumi blows out a slow breath. “You’re right. I dismissed them as stupid, but I should have tried harder at ‘reading the vibes’.”

I think back to the strange interaction we had before the first discussion. Seeing as Laila isn’t here, I seize my chance, though I make sure not to sound too interested, “Kasumi… do you have history with them?”

She makes a show of mulling it over; crossing her arms and frowning. “None that I can recall. Besides, as candidates, we oughtn’t talk about the past. We should be judged on our actions during the hunt, and nothing more. Anything else would be unfairly prejudicial.” She makes a small nonplussed noise. “Lest we repeat Daralevu.”

I’ve never heard of the last word in that sentence, but I tell myself it’s something I can ask Boogle about. I stay focused on the line of questioning that I do absolutely have to ask now, “What about Laila? Do you have history with Laila?”

This causes both her hands to clench, and unveiled displeasure flashes across her eyes. “I don’t wish to talk about Laila.”

“Is that a ‘you don’t know why everybody hates you and warns me about you’? Or do you know, but you just don’t want to talk about it?” Kasumi is pricking one of her long, manicured nails into the flesh of her thumb — I recognise it as an old nervous tic of mine. So I soften my tone as much as I can when I add, “Kasumi. I really want to trust you. But Laila keeps warning me against it, and she’s usually right about this kind of thing. If it turns out that you kicked Laila’s dog when she was four or something… just let me know, alright? I just want to be able to judge for myself.”

She rolls her eyes, huffing, “Don’t bother. I know you’re Laila’s pet, so nothing I can say will sway you, and I don’t care about swaying you either because I don’t care what you think.”

So there’s no bad blood involved, then. Kasumi just doesn’t think before she does or says anything (decisions related to the demon hunt notwithstanding). It’s a cycle of her doing whatever the flip she feels like, thereby angering people like Laila and Mar, and them returning fire spurs Kasumi into doing whatever the flip she likes again. Which… actually explains a lot about why so many people are annoyed by her.

I think I’ve finally made sense of her slamming that hamburger onto Mar’s plate now.

And since I value my own neck, I only bring it up subtly: “You might want to apologise to Mar.”

“To Mar?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow. “What do they have to do with anything?”

“On the first day,” I elaborate, trying to mimic the smoothness in her tone. Kasumi’s voice has a lilting, butter-like quality that makes her pleasant to listen to, despite the harshness of the words actually being said. “I watched you argue with Mar over not executing.”

“Oh, please,” scoffs Kasumi. “Shirazi is an idiot who can't build a single coherent argument, much less a working configuration.”

My gaze momentarily flicks over to the cab driver, before returning to Kasumi’s irreverent expression. I ask, in the evennest voice I can muster, “Does that mean you can belittle them?” She doesn’t answer immediately, instead staring me down right back. “The first thing Mar told me after you left was that they don’t eat meat and dairy. I don’t know if they’re religious or if it’s for dietary reasons so I actually don’t know if your actions were offensive or plain rude —”

She cuts in. “Don’t ramble. You’re weakening your own argument. Say it straight and own up to it!”

Point taken. I raise both my hands, “You said it yourself. Judge others for what they do during the demon hunt. Not for who they are as people.”

Kasumi opens her mouth, seemingly about to say something. But instead, she closes it, shakes her head, and grumbles, “So we should all be friends with each other, and everything will be sunshine and lollipops. Realistic.”

I sigh, knowing full well that Kasumi sees me as having the intellect of a five-year-old. And I won’t bother trying to change her mind on me either. So I simply tell her, “It’s just like Laila said. No man is an island.” I sense the cab slowing to a stop, pulling up at the familiar clearing with the lavender-coloured flowers and the pearly-white gazebo. My gaze flicks to the structure as I add, “Catching the Demon is a group effort. If you’re hoping to accomplish that, you need to let other people work with you.”

We don’t exchange any more words after that. Kasumi pays the cab driver while I check the time: we have just two minutes to spare before the discussion starts. We both get off (I hug my new Grimoire to my chest), and after the cab pulls away, I hear a horrible sound that I’ve never heard before. A quick glance at Kasumi’s bewildered expression confirms that she has heard it too. We don’t even get the chance to communicate further before more of the deafening sound assaults both of us.

I gasp and scream in agony as a haunting, demonic shriek invades my ears, ripping them in two. This is what pandemonium sounds like. I realise that the sound is coming from the gazebo itself, and every step which takes me closer to the source of torment, multiplies the pure, indescribable pain tenfold. By the time we reach the pavilion itself, the sound has become a slow death by a thousand cuts. Mercilessly it assaults our eardrums from all directions, piercing and stabbing relentlessly, and all we can offer are a few whimpering pleas in return. Oh, Laila is playing the fiddle.

Yulian is seated next to her, a second fiddle on his shoulder, and Anita watches them both from behind. “Hi, Jean!” she exclaims, waving at me with her entire arm. Her eyes crinkle, which sends a pang of guilt through me. I’ve come to this discussion to send her to die, essentially. “And hello to you too, Kasumi. Come join us! We’ve got about ten more minutes before the others arrive as well.”

Laila turns to face us, her gaze darting warily from Kasumi’s face to mine. Then, her eyes narrow at Kasumi. But then Yulian speaks up, his voice much less brusque than I’m used to. “I’m teaching her how to play Happy Birthday. Today would’ve been Sergio’s birthday.”

I purse my lips, feeling uncomfortable. But Kasumi, sharp as ever, points out, “You said it’s Sergio’s birthday.” Yulian nods, unflinching. “As opposed to your shared, common birthday. So you two aren’t Twin brothers after all.”

“Yep,” he shrugs easily. “Sergio’s dead. At this point, there’s no use pretending.”

Kasumi walks over to the other end of the gazebo table and takes her usual seat. The mask of the cutting, arrogant girl is firmly back on again. She stares at him for a couple of seconds, before commenting in a dangerously sweet tone, “Surely there is a more productive use of your time in the middle of a demon hunt.”

“And besides, where’s everyone else?” I check the time again. Kasumi and I arrived right on time, and yet we’re the only ones here.

“Jean, sunshine.” I’m hearing Laila speak for the first time since this morning. She doesn’t sound as tired, which is as good a sign as any. But it lacks her trademark, slightly condescending, slightly affectionate edge. “You can’t ignore the group chat just because there’s too many messages.”

My cheeks flush with heat as I fish out my phone. I skim through most of the messages quickly until I finally discover why we’re the only ones here:

“Oh,” is the only word I can muster up. Anita smiles sadly, and I dip my head at the sight of her. What else can I say, really?

She quickly reins in her expression, shaking her head. “It’s to be expected. Today is the last day.” Anita means that today is the last day that the candidates can spend time with their loved ones. When only five candidates live, the situation is said to be severe and the rest of the town is evacuated. I suppose I just never really thought about it since neither Laila nor I have family living in Ravenswood Bluff.

Over the next fifteen minutes, the rest of the candidates gradually file in, mumbling various apologies. Anita and I stay crowded around the two fiddlers, both using the music to distract us from our thoughts. Yulian’s playing is phenomenal, and he serenades us with dynamic orchestral piece after dynamic orchestral piece. Meanwhile, Laila can barely keep her bow straight. With zero regard for our mental wellbeing, she subjects us to a fresh round of deafening banshee shrieks whenever she picks up her fiddle.

At some point, I ask Anita why she isn’t playing as well. Apparently, there’s only two fiddles to go around. But she doesn’t seem to mind, and so I fall into the comforting pattern with her. Marvelling each time Yulian plays a particularly sweet piece. Laughing whenever Laila screams at her fiddle, then howling with laughter as she runs out of curse words to use, and has to create new ones on the fly.

After she’s done ruthlessly dissecting the fiddle’s many casual liaisons outside the confines of holy matrimony, I find myself in a state of near relaxation. Sergio’s ghost manages up a smile as we serenade him (and by “we”, I mean just Yulian. Laila gives up trying to play), and Delaney Wilson brings us some of the best homemade cupcakes I’ve ever tasted. I realise when I’m halfway through my first cake that they were probably intended as a birthday gift to Sergio.

I finish the treat while making sure not to look Sergio in the eyes.

As Wilson chit-chats with Yulian, Laila clasps my hand out of the blue. “Thank you,” she whispers, though her gaze is fixed on something above my shoulder. I turn around to see a ghost striding toward us in ripples of blue, their face utterly blank. They’re dressed in all black, with silver accessories gleaming here and there. Their hand clasps around my shoulder like a manacle. “Jean,” they murmur softly.

I let Elliot pull me to the corner, but I don’t let down my guard. I scan their face, tight lips and wild blue eyes, and it’s frankly unreadable. Their arms, their bare shoulders, are free of bruises or abrasions. There’s no sign that they’ve ever been in a car crash. Though, I suppose it’s the same for all of the ghosts. Quite calmly, and in a conversational tone, I throw out, “You’re already back and talking?”

“Yeah, listen.” They don’t nod immediately. They squint at me, leaning with one foot against the gazebo railing now. “I’m sorry for driving off a cliff in your field of vision and absolutely nothing else.”

I sigh, not even bothering to hide it from the utterly non-apologetic person in front of me. “Okay, well, you might as well not have said anything.”

They mockingly pat me on the head and leave me to my thoughts, rejoining the crowd of humans and ghosts. All the earlier warmth has drained from my body now, leaving me unsettled. I shake my head, telling myself not to let Elliot get to my head.

Finally, the last person arrives, and the chatter draws to a stop as we all take our seats. Somebody has ordered takeout, and there’s Wilson’s cupcakes too, of course. As I dig into my dinner, I notice the heat of Mar’s envious gaze on me, and it makes me put my spork back down.

The first to address us today is not Anita, but Kasumi. She stands to get our attention, “Thank you everyone for finally arriving here. I understand that nobody wants to waste their precious time, so let’s make today’s a short discussion. I know exactly who the Demon is, and for the love of Steve and Ben and all else that is holy and sacred, please. I beg of you, listen to me just this once.” She pauses, surveying the table.

I try to give her my most encouraging look, but she doesn’t spare me a second glance. Something is wrong. No, scratch that.

Kasumi all but refuses to look at me when she adds, “Don’t take this personally, but I’ve met kindergarten children less gullible than you, Jean ‘No Man Is An Island’ Toulemonde. I’m not the Savant; I’m the Snake Charmer.”

My breath stutters. My throat elicits a squawking sound that doesn’t even sound like it came from me. I blink once, twice… this isn’t possible. If she truly controls animals, then what about the conversation we just shared? What about her sincerity? Surely she has to be —

“You’re a Madwoman,” Laila announces, with a dark snarl. “Either you’re raging Mad, or you think all of us were born yesterday. You’re saying what you did to test your visions two days ago was a complete sham. You not only tried to gamble Anita’s life, and now you’re telling me you gambled it over nothing?”

Kasumi waits for her to finish. I watch, unbelieving, as her black eyes turn dull and she pierces Laila with that trademark death glare. Preparing to go in for the kill. “Yes, I gambled it over nothing, and there’s a perfectly good reason why I did so at the time. But unlike you, Laila Krickett, I don’t vilify those I’m too narrow-minded to understand, and I never even need to distort the facts. I say it straight and I own up to it.”

Laila clearly wants to press the point, but I see that curiosity is holding her back. I search Kasumi’s face, looking for any sign of her earlier self, the version that had given me comforting words in the garden, but that version of her is gone. It might not even have ever existed.

“Let me rephrase. I am the Snake Charmer as of last night.” She plants both hands on the gazebo table, and leans forward ever so slightly, as she divulges in a traitorous whisper: “I used to be the Fang Gu.”

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d1+d2) Delaney, Julian
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1 0 n2 0)
• Julian - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher (?)
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier (?)
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 13: pack of lies

Chapter Text

“I’m okay, Jean. Why don’t you go ahead with training? I just need to take one more afternoon off.”

It’s been a nasty habit of mine ever since I can remember. When I want to believe somebody, I take them at their word. When I don’t, I make up all manners of excuses to distrust them.

I hadn’t been there for Laila when her aunt passed away in the lion incident, because I had wanted to believe that she would be alright. I had taken Brye at his word when he backed down from being the Juggler, because I was so relieved that he wouldn’t cause me any more trouble. And most recently, I had believed Kasumi’s promise to protect me because…

Well, it’s not like it’s news to anyone. Jean Toulemonde is a moron, whoop-de-freakin-doo.

“Did she just admit to being the Demon?” Dave asks, in an incredulous voice. A lump forms in my throat when I realise that he’s not addressing the table in general, but staring straight at Delaney, wordlessly asking his brother to look back at him. “Meaning every death so far has been her fault. Until last night, when she got…”

“Hypnotised, yes,” Kasumi says tonelessly. “I was getting ready to head outside and kill Paterno, but when I pulled my boots off the shoe rack, a ghostly snake slithered out. It bit me, and I collapsed on the floor. I woke up around noon, only to read the group chat and discover that Virostko was dead. I didn’t attack Virostko, so I was quite confused. I then tried to take my Demon form and found that I couldn’t.”

“So only most of the deaths are your fault,” deadpans Wilson, his face grim. “I don’t see how that makes any difference, because as far as I’m concerned, you’re only confessing because you were bitten by that snake. If not, you would continue to be a damned liar; continue to claw and destroy your way through our town. You killed five people, Asai. Five people with dreams and aspirations, five wonderful individuals with plans for the future. Now we have five families irrevocably torn apart. Stand.” I look left and right, catching Laila’s stunned expression, and Mar’s obvious disgust. “Did you not hear me? I said stand!”

An uneasy silence ripples across the table. Kasumi obeys him, despite the confusion on her face, and her hand trembles slightly as she rests it on the back of her chair.

Wilson wrinkles his nose. “Get on your knees and apologise to every person you’ve had a hand in killing. One by one.”

“What?” I murmur. The kneeling part is so unnecessary — wait, why do I even care if he’s hard on our former Demon? The table’s reactions are divided: there’s people like me, who are looking around, wondering if Wilson is actually serious. Then we have people like Lyra, who, judging by her vicious glare, only resents the fact that ghosts can’t eat popcorn.

It lasts just a second, but there is the slightest shift in Kasumi’s expression, before she bows down and starts apologising to the first victim. The change of expression alone tells me a story of a thousand words. She isn’t sorry. But she recognises that Wilson won’t let the matter drop, and refusing would only add to the table’s already-sizeable hatred of her. She has to do as she’s ordered. If only because she’s finally understood that honey gets more flies than vinegar.

I tune out most of the ordeal, partly because I think nothing informative can come out of it, and partly because Anita has been steadily finishing the grilled pork skewers while everyone else is screaming. (I may not trust her, but she clearly has her priorities straight.)

Anita and I are getting into a Canadian standoff over the last kebab — Yulian swoops in and takes it while we’re distracted — when a cold scoff catches my attention. Apparently even Dave has his limits. I turn my attention back to the discussion, just in time to hear Kasumi finish and announce that she’ll never forget what she had done for as long as she lived.

Lyra Khan makes known exactly what she thinks of this by throwing up a rude hand gesture, and signing, “I hope you live forever.”

Mar turns to Laila and I, their entire body shaking. “Goodness. Goodness, goodness, goodness,” they warble out unsteadily, hands wringing fistfuls of their hair, a manic gleam in their eye. “It was her all along, it was that evil bitch. I died so I could nominate her, and she still got off. She killed Lyra and she still gets to sit next to her. It’s sick.”

“She’ll get what she deserves,” Laila insists, but there’s a certain heavy edge to her tone. “I’ll dance on the casket for you. I’ll bribe the Undertaker to leave her casket to me, and I’ll hire a ballet troupe to dance on it every day. I’ll get Paulie Tishan to make it a town-wide tradition,” she says, naming our town’s Mayor. “I mean, to be bluntly, completely honest, are any of us surprised —”

Mar manages a faint smile at her words. “But I thought Jean didn’t know?”

I didn’t know what? Laila takes my right hand and squeezes it firmly. The action sends dizzying signals up my spine, and I suddenly find it hard to concentrate. “Of course I remember Daralevu. We’re still within the limits, so it’s fine.”

I know I should be asking Boogle about this Dara-whatever. But with Laila clenching my dominant hand, I’m only halfway through entering the password into my phone (guess who made me get one in the first place?) when Anita starts talking, and I’m forced to put down my phone so that I don’t miss anything important.

“We have less than two hours before the sun sets,” she reminds us, tapping her glass with a spoon for attention. “We need to get back on topic.”

Brye’s eyes harden. Something blue ripples across his ghostly face. “I appreciate you, Anita. It’s just — I can’t deal with this. Ever since the hunt started, it’s just been one stab in the back after another.” His hands clench on the table. “Kasumi, I thought I could trust you. I told you everything I learnt, stupidly hoping that you could live on for the both of us. And you murdered me first!”

“Oh, stop trying to ingratiate yourself with us,” she shoots back, rising to her feet. “This mess only happened because you planted this disgusting Demon in my head!”

“Kasu, what the hell are you talking about?” Brye sputters. “You know damn well I’ve never done anything like that. Before we met Laila and Jean, we only went to the gazebo together!”

“Ugh, focus up, you whiny bitches.” Elliot rolls their eyes. “Kasumi. Which of the Twins is the Evil one?”

I would have spoken up, but Yulian beats me to it. “Neither. We’re the matching pair that Lyra sketched in her Art.”

Anita’s brow creases. “Yes, you told us earlier, but I still can’t wrap my head around why! Why would you cause us so much chaos if you’re both loyal to the town?”

“Sergio needed to survive so he could use his ability,” Yulian answers, easily, though his eyes are still cold. “If we hadn’t lied, he or I would have died on the second day. All while Brye looks on and laughs with his newly-brainwashed vessel. I knew something like this was gonna happen. I knew Brye couldn’t be trusted the moment I laid eyes on him. He’s shifty as f*ck. Nobody smiles that much unless they’re trying to deceive you.”

Brye looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. “Now listen here, buddy —”

While they launch into the second squabbling match of the afternoon, I frown as I try to jog my memory from a few days ago. Is my brain failing me again, or had Yulian said that he and Sergio needed to survive to use their abilities? It’s true that a magic clock would break after the first use, but Yulian wouldn’t go back on his word unless…

Unless he is the Snake Charmer. Meaning, if (and that’s a pretty big if) Kasumi is telling the truth, he’s the Demon we have to kill. I take in how confidently he stares down Brye, and the scornful way he lifts his chin. He seems defensive, but not at all nervous or worried, so he doesn’t look like a demon to me. Or maybe he’s been practising what to say all morning.

“See? Someone finally gets it,” Elliot mutters viciously, and I catch Lyra shooting them a wary look. “I’ve been telling the rest of you nutters since the second day that Brye’s evil, Brye’s evil. And instead of listening, you voted for my execution. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Every word, every expression from Elliot is messing with my head. With the way my hackles are rising, they might as well be leaning over the table and grabbing me by the throat. I try my best to push such childish feelings down. I can’t let them get to me. Even if they are totally unhinged and might snap with little to no provocation.

Though, in my defence, the rest of the table doesn’t seem to have warmed up to their presence either. I notice a particularly sizable gap between Elliot’s chair and Wilson’s.

While we were all distracted, Kasumi had taken the opportunity to sit back down and regain her composure. She crosses her arms, glaring at Elliot, “Blackmoor, it doesn’t count if you were one of the minions. The other was Krickett, by the way. She came up with all the Savant visions that I presented to you, so feel free to discard those.”

Laila just rolls her eyes, and honestly, I’m with her. It makes no sense for Elliot and Brye to accuse each other. But Brye’s eyes flash. “Kasumi, you need to stop. I don’t want to hear another word from you for as long as I live.” He turns to the rest of us, gesturing madly with his hands, “It makes no sense for me to body-snatch so early into the hunt. The first day was going swimmingly for me. Nobody was suspecting me, even in spite of Jean’s bluffing on that day. So why would I be taking the escape hatch on the second day, instead of saving it for later in the hunt? It doesn’t even make any sense! That’s why I’m not the Fang Gu!”

“But, it made perfect sense to snatch me at the first available opportunity,” Kasumi counters. “Who else were you going to turn, realistically? Your options consisted of me, a practising demon hunt consultant —”

“Don’t bring up things outside the scope of the hunt,” Brye warns.

This is the part where I get confused. If Kasumi has experience with demon hunts, then that’s extremely relevant to our current case, isn’t it? But somehow, the other candidates’ gazes have grown incredibly hostile. I can only thank Steve that those gazes aren’t directed at me.

“People make decisions based on what they know, and if you don’t know anything about how demons choose their victims, shut your mouth and listen to the experts,” Kasumi hisses. Her voice is low and deadly. “I will reiterate. Your options were me, a consultant who’s extensively practised demonic management. Dave Wilson, the Barber, who’s more valuable dead than as a vessel.”

I grit my teeth, knowing exactly what comes next.

“And Jean Toulemonde,” she finishes. “A totally useless and ineffectual moron.”

Half the table turns to me, and I just clench my jaw and put on my most convincing no-clue-what-she’s-on-about face. “I’m not a Defect. I am just as clueless as the rest of you.” I hope the desperation doesn’t show in my voice. I don’t mean those words, but I have to scream them out, or else I’ll get ripped apart. “This afternoon, I was just talking to Mar, and minding my own business. Kasumi dragged me away from them, bought me a Grimoire, and gave me the silent treatment for half the trip. And now she’s making stuff up about me, I think she’s gone completely Mad.”

“Or she’s lying for the sake of lying,” Mar hammers, jumping to their feet. “Kasumi, we know you have nothing better to do in your spare time than kill people and generally be an annoying bitch. But open up your eyes and look at how charitable he’s being. Jean is not a Defect! He’s nothing like that sort.”

Kasumi throws me a sideways glance, accompanied by a dumbfounded expression. I try my best to look unfazed. Still, one question lingers in my mind. If she’s truly not the Savant, how did she know my identity?

“Jean said his Juggle got a three, when it should have been a two,” she gestures at Laila. “Krickett was my Witch, remember? I took him out to the Botanical Garden, confronted him with this, and asked him if he was a Defect. He said yes.”

In an instant, Laila’s eyes turn into stone and she jumps to her feet. A cacophony of different voices swirls around the table, but I can just make out her words, “I’m speechless. I really, really am. Outright making sh*t up about people is low, even for you, Asai. What you’ve just done is shift the burden of proof. How is Jean supposed to prove that he didn’t confess to you?”

The look in Kasumi’s eyes becomes murderous. Meanwhile, Dave rests his chin on his hand. “I don’t think there’s any chance that Kasumi is telling us the truth. Her account simply doesn’t match anybody else’s. She called Jean the Mutant, he denied it. She called Laila and Elliot the servants, they denied it. And she called Brye the Fang Gu, which he also denied.”

“That is exactly what Mutants, servants, and Fang Gus would say!” she shrieks back.

Laila scoffs loudly at this. “Just listen to yourself. You have it out for Jean, just as you had it out for Mar earlier, and you’re using any manner of methods, and any manner of incoherent logic, just to get your way and put him on the chopping block. What’s an innocent man supposed to say, according to your logic? ‘Gee willikers, I was the Fang Gu all along’?”

“Your sunshine is a lying Defect,” Kasumi spits. “None of your word-twisting and calling me a liar can change the fact that he admitted it.”

Suddenly, a calm and convincing voice retorts, “‘Jean is a lying Defect’, says Kasumi, the one who is currently both lying and claiming to be a Defect. Look at the pot calling the kettle black.”

Brye is standing up for me. That is a string of words I never thought I’d have the chance to say. I’m holding onto my water glass for comfort, allowing these two to defend me even as I feel like a monster.

He continues, “Besides, Snake Charmers don’t visit their marks in person. Kasumi described as much, with the snake slithering out of her boot and no person in sight. It’s impossible for her to know the identity of her hypnotist. This is a blatant ploy by a town traitor to control our votes for the day. Now that we know Kasumi definitely isn’t truthful, can we move on to discussing whether she’s a servant or the Demon?”

Multiple people start to shout and talk over each other all at once. But what I hear most clearly is a deep male voice, raised above the din. Wilson sounds like he’s bracing for disaster, like he’s decided that this is worth the risk of being killed by a Witch, and he wants to get it over with before he can change his mind. “I nominate Asai!”

In a split second, Kasumi follows suit, screaming, “I nominate Paterno!”

They both whirl around to face each other, panting heavily. Now that the moment has passed, it seems almost comical in retrospect. My jaw unstiffens. I had expected Kasumi, if not Wilson, to be lifted off their feet and suffocated by a cruel enchantment. At least, they were the ones I would have targeted if I were the Witch.

“Anita?” Mar sputters, looking as though someone had punched them. “You think the Snake Charmer is Anita?”

“It’s not Anita,” Laila insists. “To say nothing of magical snakes, stoop ass Anita couldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, the fly would probably kill her first. And it doesn’t matter who the Snake Charmer is, remember? Kasumi’s snake story is full of holes, because it’s just a pack of lies. The time we spend entertaining her fables is time not spent on discussing who the Demon could actually be.”

“Laila, let me speak for myself, please,” Anita petitions quietly. “Well, I’m not the Snake Charmer, I ring the bells of the Clocktower. I’d never wanted to draw the attention of the Demon’s team. I’d rather build configurations in the quiet of my own room, and listen instead of participate in these lively debates, because frankly, I don’t have a strong idea who the reds can be. I know I’ve kept my cards close to my chest during the whole hunt, which makes me look suspicious, and I don’t know how to prove that I didn’t hypnotise Kasumi.” She twists the pendant around her neck as if it were her only anchor to the world. The table grows silent as she finishes, “Which is to say… I have no objections. We have a town in need of saving, and putting me to the wards might be the only way to silence these accusations for once and for all.”

This makes Elliot livid, and I flinch in preparation for the inevitable outburst. “Anita, you’re being f*cking naive again. You think this ends if you’re executed today? No, she’ll come after all our throats,” they snap, shocking her into silence. “Let me just raise two points. Firstly, we’re down to the final six, with two executions remaining. Meaning, every execution from this point on is precious, and we can’t just throw one away on a person that we know is innocent. Secondly, there is zero indication that Kasumi’s telling the truth. As Dave said, her story isn’t corroborated by anyone.”

Dave interjects, “Well, it could still be true —”

“Laila’s records don’t match what Kasumi claimed,” Elliot counters sharply. “Do you think Jean and Laila and Brye and Anita and I are all lying?”

They’re right, unfortunately. Even from my perspective, the chances of all these people being liars are not particularly high. Especially when Laila is thrown into the mix.

Anita is tense. If I had to guess, she’s still wary of Elliot after yesterday’s fiasco. “I know when a situation doesn’t look good for me,” she says, slowly. “I know a lot of people regard me with suspicion, even if they don’t say so directly to my face. And the final execution is more precious than today’s. If everybody believes that I’m the Demon, it’s better to kill me today.” She pauses, shaking, and looks down at her lap. “Elliot, you’re a goner. I can’t be saved, either. But Laila — Laila might still walk out of this alive.”

Is Anita seriously volunteering to be executed? My head is starting to hurt. The obvious solution is to take out my Grimoire and start putting the tokens together, but I don’t think I can look at it without feeling completely overwhelmed. Instead, my hands start messing with my bangs. I try to reason this out: I had, once upon a time, believed that Anita was the Fang Gu, but that was before Kasumi dropped her bombshell with the snakes. Now that I’m eighty percent certain I can discard Yulian’s clock information, there are multiple valid configurations, with or without Anita as the Demon.

“Well, look at it this way,” Mar suggests, then turns to the whole table. “Who currently wants Anita executed?”

Kasumi raises her hand instantly, followed seconds later by Yulian. “Not because I agree with her,” he clarifies immediately. “I’m suspicious of Anita for completely unrelated reasons.”

Wilson heaves a loud sigh. He holds a glass of water up to his lips like he’s about to drink it, but he never tips it into his mouth. I can hardly blame him. All of us are tired. “When I made my nomination, I thought Kasumi was definitely on the Demon’s side, and Anita was an innocent scapegoat. But Elliot defending Anita changed my mind,” he sets out. “I believe Kasumi has gone Mad. At the beginning, she passionately begged us to follow her lead, to listen to her just this once. What perturbs me is that she may have a perfectly reasonable argument for killing Anita, but she’s barred from saying it.”

I can’t say he’s wrong. Brye nods subtly, and I know his heart has softened.

“You think Kasumi is a loyalist?” Laila shrieks. “Sure, you can say she’s brainwashed, and forced to masquerade around as an animal trainer. But Kasumi went about it in the most convoluted way possible. If I were her, I would have just said, ‘I’ve checked out Laila and Jean and Delaney and Julian. The Demon can only be Anita; let’s execute her now.’ Fish. Barrel. Instead, she pranced around, spouting bullsh*t and yelling at Brye, and claiming that Jean was a Defect. You tell me which is the behaviour of a well-intentioned loyalist wanting to dodge the Cerenovus, and which is someone trying their damndest to waste discussion time.”

“Maybe she thought the straightforward argument was too mathematically unlikely to be believed.” Wilson shrugs his shoulders. “Does it matter how she’s lying, as long as we know the reason behind her lies?”

Laila is unable to answer. The rest of the candidates look similarly dumbfounded, though Lyra mouths “we’re f*cked” and gives a thumbs-up.

“If I may,” Dave interjects. “I agree with Laila. I don’t think Kasumi’s Madness makes sense in this situation. Think about her current plan, and compare it with what Laila proposed.”

“In what aspect?” I ask.

Dave gestures to the six living candidates in turn. “Well, who is Kasumi trying to convince? For one: Jean will not vote for Anita. It doesn’t matter how good Kasumi’s argument is. Jean is simply not a Defect, so from his perspective, any proposal that hinges on him being the Mutant cannot be true. I don’t think Laila can ever be persuaded to vote for Anita. And Anita herself has said that she’s willing to die, but now that her accuser is looking less and less credible, she has no reason to tip the balance.” He glances around the table again. “We ghosts have no reason to give her our last chance. She has no allies among the dead. She had Brye, once upon a time, but she attacked and offended him just as she did Jean.”

Brye crosses his arms. I see his calm expression shift for just one second, before he affixes it back into place. “So you’re saying Kasumi hasn’t gone Mad. She made this controversial, unbelievable argument and wanted us to take it at face value. That Anita is the Snake Charmer, that I’m the Demon, and so forth.”

“Yes,” Dave affirms. “Whether we believe her or not is another matter.”

Laila’s nails prick into my skin, and I nod at her. The answer to that question is a firm, resounding no. But how can we demonstrate this to the rest of the table?

I sneak another look at Yulian, who’s quietly eating his food. His alert eyes tell me that he’s following the discussion, but he doesn’t intend to add anything. So he’s going to stay quiet about the fact that he’s a Snake Charmer? But to be fair to him, he’s not obligated to throw himself headfirst into trouble, and take up the brunt of Kasumi’s attack. And he has even less reason to if he knows Kasumi isn’t telling the truth.

But I still prod him, “What do you think, Yulian?”

“Me?” he asks, sounding quite surprised. “I think Kasumi can use whatever argument she wants.”

“But she needs to use an argument with a reasonable chance of persuading the table,” contends Dave. “Why would she call herself a Defect if it wasn’t true? Why else would she drag her own credibility through the mud?”

I think I have a plan.

“Let’s take a quick break from this, okay? We should go around the table once, to refresh our memory,” I suggest lightly. I add the second part because I’m trying my best not to tip my hand. “Let’s all say what we’ve been up to, and what information we’ve managed to gather.”

Here, I pause. The thing is, I wanted to end with Yulian, so I could question him a bit about his magical Clockwork, but it would be strange to suggest this and not start with myself, right? Besides, common wisdom dictates we should circle clockwise, and that would mean putting myself near the end, thus opening myself up to scrutiny.

“Why don’t we start from… Professor Wilson?” I try to sound like choosing him wasn’t a deliberate decision.

He nods without a hint of suspicion, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m a Mathematician. My activity probes have yet to pick up on any disruptions. In full disclosure: yes, I’m aware that it could be a human error, but I’ve triple-checked that the background tension levels are reasonable, and I’ve recalibrated my drones over and over to minimise that possibility.”

I squeeze Laila’s hand even harder, hoping against hope that Elliot will speak up first, so that we can circle from them to Laila, then to me, and all the way around the table to Yulian.

“I’m the Oracle.” Yes! Thank you, Storyteller. “The first night was too clouded over for me to see anything, but on the other two nights, I saw exactly one liar among the dead.” Brye coughs at this, but Elliot just gives them an unimpressed look.

We turn to Laila next. “I suppose there’s no point in hiding.” Her shoulders slump. “I’m the Flowergirl. My flowering records aren’t consistent with Kasumi being our Demon. But for now, they point to Delaney Wilson and Julian.”

“Tailor,” I mumble, when it’s my turn. “I want to observe my pair for a bit longer, so I won’t say yet.”

Mar gives me a weird look. Right, I didn’t tell them when we were talking earlier. But they’re up next, and they, Lyra, Kasumi and Dave all repeat what I already know. Anita takes a deep breath, and asks for permission to only reveal part of her information, because if Jean did it first, then maybe it’s okay? When Elliot nods and urges her to keep going, she reveals, “I’m the Town Crier.” A shallow, shaky breath is drawn. “The second night, I discovered a Demon-servant among Lyra, Mar, Professor Wilson and Kasumi.”

“So Kasumi is the servant,” Brye concludes. He’s playing with the string of his hoodie, and I’m suddenly drawn towards the lettering on the shamrock green fabric. City College For Bens. Damn, I keep forgetting that he’s just a teenager.

Mar frowns, their brow creasing. “Hold on. If Anita’s to be believed, doesn’t that mean that we shouldn’t execute Kasumi? She’s only a Demon-servant at worst.”

“Let’s just keep moving.” Brye closes his eyes, gently massaging the space between them. “I’m the dead Juggler. I don’t have anything.”

“You don’t have anything?” Yulian parrots, absolutely incredulous. He jumps up, teeth bared like a wild animal. The look in his eyes is murder. “Holy f*ck, you made up that diagnosis about us! And you nearly got us killed. If you were still alive right now, I would beat your ass into next week —”

He curses quietly under his breath, but the damage has already been done. My stomach turns to ice, but it’s only partly due to the easy viciousness seeping from his words. The whole table has gone rigid. Even Sergio’s ghost, previously frozen in an unresponsive stupor, is looking similarly disgusted. You can’t beat someone up because you don’t agree with their points in a discussion. You just can’t.

“I’m sorry,” Yulian mutters. He sinks back into his seat, a flush engulfing his face. “I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t.”

A shadow falls over Brye’s face. “Yeah. You sure weren’t.”

Kasumi tries to steer the conversation back on track, bringing up the fact that Brye had told her of his plans on the hunt’s second day. Wilson is quick to point out that Kasumi’s credibility has hit rock bottom, and he won’t simply take her word for it. So I vouch for Brye instead, and he nods appreciatively. Wilson accepts this and backs down somewhat.

Sergio’s ghost ripples. I recognise it as something of a nervous gesture. It takes both Dave and Anita talking to him soothingly, and peppering him with the same question again and again, until he’s finally able to lift his hands and sign. “Philosopher,” Dave interprets, to which Sergio nods. “He has information, but it’s not the right time.”

All eyes now turn to Yulian, who shifts in his seat. “Clockmaker,” he mutters. “The Demon and its servant are separated by two strides of the Clock. Anita, Laila and I all have info that contradicts Kasumi’s story. Along with Jean and the rest, we can’t all be lying.”

Even if his true identity is under wraps for now, he’s correct about one thing. Kasumi’s theory requires half the candidates to be liars, and that absolutely cannot be true. But just as I’m about to grill him, Elliot silences me with a raised hand.

“Hold on,” they say, in that light yet sinister voice. “Julian, you’re calling yourself a… Clockmaker?”

I know what is going to happen, because that’s what I’d been planning on doing myself. But that doesn’t prepare me for how well Yulian holds his ground, and how he barely flinches before answering, “Yes.”

“So you are the Clockmaker,” Elliot presses without seeming to press, and crosses their arms across their chest. “Meaning, you relinquish any right to be taken seriously if you go back on your word. You are the Clockmaker, and if you claim to have any other abilities in the future, we should assume you’re lying and execute you. Am I correct?”

Yulian’s teeth clench, but there’s no one to stop this line of questioning.

Mar had their friends to back them up. Yulian is alone.

“No. It’s not correct. I’m the Snake Charmer,” he admits, after a hefty silence. “I only kept quiet earlier because it was looking like you’d execute Anita in my place.”

Dave jumps in, asking, “Have you ever set a snake on Kasumi?”

“No!” shouts Yulian. “This kind of bull is exactly why I didn’t want to speak up!”

I’m not really shocked, because frankly, I’ve known for a few days that this conversation would come sooner or later. Immediately, Brye starts shouting at him, saying that he can’t possibly be serious. But amidst the chaos of Dave and Anita frantically whispering, I see a little, self-satisfied smirk blooming across Elliot’s face.

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d1+d2) Delaney, Julian
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1, n3 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1-4 0)
• Julian - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2 Snake Charmer
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher (?)
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier
  - n2) Lyra, Mar, Delaney, Kasumi (yes)
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant Fang Gu → Snake Charmer
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 14: the road ends here

Chapter Text

Suddenly, there’s a loud thud, and a tissue box is thrown across the gazebo. Judging by the voice that shouts next, it’s… Kasumi? “No. No! You can’t be serious — oh God —”

“Yes, I’m serious. I’m the Snake Charmer, and I’m one more link in the logic chain that proves your whole story is a farce!” Yulian now turns to the rest of the table. His grey eyes are clouded with despair. “I wasn’t going to sit on this info forever, I swear. Please — yell at me later, but don’t vote me off just because people are making sh*t up about me! Just because I’m in that role doesn’t mean I Charmed her. And we know too many people have to be lying for her fables to be true.”

Laila’s eyes are cold, blazing steel. “You were going to let Anita die just so you wouldn’t have to admit to being the Snake Charmer.”

“Yes, and?” Yulian shoots back. “She’s second on my suspects list. I think Brye body-snatched her and she’s the new vessel.”

Anita herself glances at the setting sun, shakes her head, and mumbles something quietly to herself. “Everyone, I’m sorry, but we really have to hurry this up,” she ventures, before turning to a new page of her notebook. “For the first nomination, we have Delaney Wilson, nominated by Kasumi Asai?”

“Wrong way around, stupid!” Kasumi barks at her, and I’m stunned because this isn’t the Kasumi I know. Her eyes are wild and frantic, and a faint sheen of sweat covers her forehead. Moreover, she’s twitching — her fingers are shaking, she’s struggling to even hold herself upright in her chair. Yulian’s counterclaim was clearly the straw that broke the camel’s back.

But… I don’t necessarily know what to do with this information. For starters, I understand that Kasumi’s story is a lie (even if it contains a grain of truth about my true character), because Laila’s flowering records don’t align. But that also means she’s just a Demon-serving opportunist at worst, right? Causing chaos for chaos’ sake? So should I vote for Anita? Or is there a better option that’s still yet to be nominated?

Anita bites the inside of her mouth. Like she’s used to being screamed at and not giving a reaction. “It’s… too late in the evening for a drink, is it?”

A resounding “yes” choruses through the table. You’re not supposed to get Drunk in a demon hunt. Especially not when it’s nearing dusk.

“Right, of course,” she deflates slightly. “Um. Kasumi, your defence?”

Kasumi grits her teeth like a feral animal. “This is completely illogical. I can’t be the Demon if Krickett doesn’t serve me. Vote this down!” she shrieks, plainly. “We — we’re going for her today. We’re going for Anita Paterno.”

“There you have it, clear as day,” Wilson interjects, gesturing at her. “She’s Mad. If she were really our former Demon, she would have switched gears to accusing Julian.”

“I’m not Mad!” Kasumi shrieks back. “Discard all the visions that I gave you while I was pretending to be a Savant. Delete them off your phone, destroy all the copies, I don’t care. That’s how sincere I am! Like I said, Laila wrote them for me —”

A sigh from Laila lets me know that she’s too tired to refute the other woman’s bull.

“This is Kasumi we’re talking about,” Brye points out. There’s a strangely vacant look in his eyes, but he blinks it back and it’s gone. “The essence of Kasumi is drama queen, and I say that as someone who’s known her for years. Someone hexed by the Cerenovus wouldn’t be screaming and wasting our time; they’d go quietly along with the flow so as to not be noticed. So, pardon the directness, Mr Wilson, but I don’t think she’s truly Mad, and I don’t think we have reason to believe that she’s accusing Anita with good intentions.”

I swallow. Why is everybody making so much sense? And how do they come up with such convincing arguments? I feel like my own mind is plunging into a pool of ice water, groggy and unfocused, just admiring the pretty ripples on the surface as I drift lower and lower.

“Jean, if you aren’t the Mutant, I strongly suggest you vote. Whether or not she winds up actually being executed, you need to send a message that you’re not going to take this garbage lying down. Kasu will not clean up her act without the real, tangible threat of the chopping block,” Brye continues, looking directly at me. “When you think about it, Kasumi is not a bad Demon candidate. Earlier someone pointed out that Laila’s records put her in the clear, but they don’t. Not if Dave’s magic was used to make her the host instead. And if she’s not the Demon, she’s either a servant or a loose cannon who’s wasting our precious time. Think from the perspective of the Demon: Kasumi is never going to get killed at night, because she keeps attracting cheap heat; heat that’s getting directed away from the Demon. The only ones getting cut down at night are the righteous and the innocent. When it comes to the final showdown, do you want Kasumi at your back, or do you want someone like Laila? If you know Kasumi won’t vote out the right person when it really matters, you need to get her out now. You won’t get another chance to.”

His words infuse all my senses. I’m sinking, I’m truly sinking. My cranium rattles with a headache that’s too much to bear. It’s suddenly hard to breathe, and I find myself stumbling into a change of scenery. Warm, hefty, peaceful. Before my brain can register it, Laila is enveloping me in a hug, and pressing a glass of cold water into my hand. The contrast of sensations is making my head spin, and she runs the tips of her fingers through my hair, soothing like a wave of the sea.

“Jean,” she murmurs. “Sunshine. You have to focus up. Listen to your gut. What does your gut say?”

Her tone brings a manic laugh to the surface, and it draws from a pool in my stomach, sucking me dry until all that’s left is just a dark cavity. Oh, Laila. Always so soft on me, always defending me, even when I don’t deserve it. How many pretensions does she have about the kind of person I am?

Because right now, my gut is telling me that if we kill Kasumi today, the two days of ghost-silence will be just enough to get me through the rest of the hunt.

It makes me sick to think this way, but I make myself think of Yulian. How he’d refused to go down without a fight, how he’d made up a blood pact with Sergio and put Dave on the chopping block just to save his own neck. How he’d let Anita be accused of being the Snake Charmer. Then I think of Kasumi, how she betrayed me first, how she’d filled my head with buttery-sweet promises and then immediately revealed my identity to the table. This is the kind of behaviour that’s incentivised by the demon hunt.

This is the price of survival.

And Brye’s right. Since I have no idea who the Demon is at this point, it’s better to vote out the person who’s a known liability. (Thanks to Kasumi’s actions, we didn’t get to discuss who the Demon might actually be today.) I can’t predict the future, or what tomorrow’s discussion will bring. But I do have the ability to minimise the risk for Laila and I.

That’s why two minutes later, sipping the glass of ice-cold water for strength and averting my eyes like a coward, I have my hand raised for Kasumi’s execution. Anita raises her hand also, and a few moments later, Laila follows suit.

That’s why two minutes later, Kasumi has just enough votes to be put on the chopping block.

She doesn’t seem too surprised. She just holds her head and leans on the table for support. I keep drinking the iced water, swilling glass after glass in a futile attempt to calm the murderous pounding of my heart. Everyone else may not be able to see me for what I am, with the mask obscuring the flush of my face. But I can feel the heat reverberating off its sides, and I see myself for exactly what I am.

The vote on Anita doesn’t go as smoothly. Three hands go up into the air as soon as it begins, and I catch Anita’s mumbled ‘Oh no’, before she starts counting the votes in a low and shaky voice.

“Dave, no. Kasumi, yes…”

“Jean,” Yulian calls out, sharply. “Jean, raise your hand! She could be Demon with Laila and Kasumi —”

“...Jean, no.”

I shrink back, my heart still pounding. I know that if I had contested it right away, Anita might still track my vote. But I have no intention of voting for this nomination. The Anita-Laila-Kasumi team just isn’t possible. The Laila that I know would never submit to a murderous Demon.

“With three votes, Kasumi and I are tied on the execution block,” Anita breathes, reaching for her own necklace as if to thank it for protecting her. “In other words, both of us are safe from execution today.”

I exhale. The roiling clash of emotions is bubbling up within me again, and no matter how many deep breaths I take, I can’t seem to force it back down.

“We let it stand,” Wilson commands, with a quick sideways glance at the road which leads to our gazebo. The guards should already be here, but they aren’t. “By pure random chance, we’ll have a better chance at hitting the Demon tomorrow with five candidates remaining, compared to today where we have six. Slow and steady wins the race. We have to make sacrifices if we’re to save the rest of this town.”

I’m almost nodding along when Laila slams her water glass down on the table with the vigour of… well, her. “No,” she objects, coldly but firmly. With a brief nod to Elliot, she continues on, “If we execute today, we are guaranteed two executions. If we wait until tomorrow, and one of us walks into the trap set by the Witch…”

“We’ll be left with four candidates, and only one execution at our disposal,” Dave finishes, his deep-set expression grim. “Ah. I see what you mean.”

Laila nods, and I can’t help but feel… empty. It’s still her. It’s still Laila. But it doesn’t feel like Laila anymore. The demon hunt has no place for her sass and charm. She’s no longer the centrepoint of the table, bursting with her own personal shade of colour. Just a woman who, like the rest of us, needs to stay level-headed and be uncontroversial so she can focus on the problem at hand.

“Nita, I nominate Julian,” she announces, matter-of-factly. “One, he’s a good Demon candidate. My Demon’s bane shows that he’s been voting with the Demon at every turn. Two, since it’s no longer possible to get Kasumi today, getting him will absolve everyone who was hypnotised by him.”

Mar whispers to Lyra. Yulian himself is flabbergasted. “You’re sending me to die just because the Witch might still be around?” he sputters. “Well, we can test that right now! I nominate Dave!”

Silence. Complete, utter silence. I see Lyra turn to me, slightly expectant, and I curse softly. By the process of elimination, if the Witch is still alive, the cursed person must be one of Anita and I.

“No!” Laila roars, when it looks like Anita’s about to follow suit. “Holy f*ck, Anita, one in two odds! You can’t just —”

“Be quiet,” Delaney commands, his fingers curling on the table. “Julian, I have a question for you. What was your plan supposed to be? Suppose Anita and Jean each nominated a dead candidate, and one suddenly keeled over from the Witch’s curse. Where would we go from there? We would be left with five living candidates, and need to execute immediately, lest we lose one of our two executions.”

Yulian twists his hands together. His voice is fragile, just like it was when we had lunch in that pasta restaurant. It seems so long ago now. “I, um,” he manages. “I was hoping we would vote you out, actually.”

I can’t help but give a small groan. Yulian’s clearly nominated the wrong Wilson. But I guess I can’t blame him for reacting to Laila’s nomination so hastily. The professor sucks in his lips, saying nothing for now, but I can tell that his gaze has become much more harsh.

“W-we’re not going to execute Julian, are we?” Anita bursts out, looking left and right for confirmation. “I thought we weren’t going to execute with six candidates left. At least, that’s what Mr Wilson said —”

“Yeah, exactly,” Yulian gestures madly at Anita. “You want me alive, not dead. I played it safe yesterday, targeting someone I’ve already hypnotised before, but if you let me live, I’ll give you more information. I have just the person in mind for tonight —”

“Hold on,” Mar interrupts him, one hand raised. “Did you tell anybody what you currently know?”

“No,” is the cold answer, “and you won’t get anything out of me today.” He swallows, voice growing colder still. “So I guess if you execute me now, I’ll take that info to my grave.”

There’s an uproar of people yelling and screaming at Yulian, and I’m among them. The average duration of ghost-silence should be two days, even though there exist outliers like Brye and Elliot. With six candidates left now, there’s two more days of the hunt left at most. Yulian is essentially threatening to never reveal his information if we execute him now.

And I look at Brye and Dave, who are talking in hushed tones, but I can tell they’re both absolutely fuming. I pull out my phone again and stare at the earlier messages in the Group Chat. I’m reminded once again of how Yulian had forgoed spending time with his family on the last day, and instead went fiddling with the other two.

That’s the crux of his blackmail. Brye and Dave and the rest have families and friends in this town; people they’re willing to die in the hunt for, so long as the Demon doesn’t harm them. Yulian only has his own interests to look after.

Yulian’s deed would make their deaths meaningless.

“I’m going to call your bluff,” Wilson announces. His brother immediately tries to say that it’s not worth the risk, but he holds up a hand, silencing him. “I know you don’t mean it, Julian. And on the off chance that you do, I’ll be satisfied that we put to death a selfish little ingrate. You want to make ridiculous demands and hold our families’ livelihoods over our heads; be my guest. See what our town does to rats and fleas like you.”

Elliot has an unreadable expression. “Hey, Wilson. Just throwing this out: aren’t you changing your mind an awful lot today?”

“Sometimes, when I hear a good argument, I change my mind,” he answers, in a tone that insinuates he’s tempted to roll his eyes. “Laila pointed out something I hadn’t considered: the Witch’s curse. It is absolutely imperative that we execute him today, because if we wait another day, we’ll have to deal with the possibility that one of us could be cursed.”

Yulian trembles, burying his head in his hands. Anita tries to say that she’s not entirely convinced, that she doesn’t like the idea of killing somebody on such short notice, but Elliot slams their hand down on the table, telling her, “You’ve got to vote this up. Laila’s proven it’s either him or Wilson. You have to take the chance and execute now before it’s too late.”

Kasumi looks like she’s holding back, but finally she says, “I know Ageyenko can’t be telling the truth about his abilities, but we still don’t have a good enough reason to execute him. He’s innocent. We need to wait until tomorrow. Please.”

Suddenly, Sergio sits up straighter. Something has changed in his demeanour, and he starts gesturing for us to pay attention to him. Dave translates for us as he signs: “K-I-L-L.” Sergio nods. “You want us to execute Julian today.” A second, damning nod.

Yulian turns white as a sheet.

“Jean?” Wilson asks. “We need one more vote. Are you with us?”

I completely avoid looking at Yulian when I nod to show I’m on board. With a voice so cold that it chills me to the core, Laila surmises, “Then that’s just enough. The road ends here for you, Julian.”

I don’t remember the end of the discussion. I couldn’t remember it even if I tried. I just remember the white van pulling up to the curb, and mindlessly going along with the vote, because the logic was sound. Yulian’s a decent Fang Gu candidate, and I think I could even fashion up a way for him to be the No Dashii, with his corruption extending to both Wilson and Sergio. Plus, we did need to work around the possibility of the Witch today.

I vote for Yulian, even though it doesn’t sit well with me how hasty the whole thing is. In fact, the whole process, from nomination to discussion to voting, may not have taken more than five minutes. It’s terrifying how quickly your fate can be sealed in the demon hunt. I watch the votes as though I’m watching my own execution unfold, and I tell myself that I cannot look at Yulian. So I don’t know if he shudders or goes still with terror. I don’t know if he breaks down and cries. I just know Anita announces our choice to the Grim Creator at some point, and Yulian’s voice calls out, “Since I’m gonna die, I get to choose who comes along with me, right? I want Anita and Wilson.”

Nobody objects, but I distinctly hear Laila sigh a breath of relief. Anita gives her a terrified look before she stands up to join the others in the van. Laila smiles back, looking one point encouraging and nine points utterly drained.

As soon as the van pulls away, making for the barrier, Kasumi abruptly gets up and leaves without so much as a goodbye to anybody. I sigh, feeling the tense muscles in my throat relax just slightly, and I massage the sides of my neck in a fruitless attempt to feel better.

What had I wanted to do before this mess of a discussion started? Right. I lay my phone flat on the gazebo table before me, open Boogle, then hesitate. What was that word again? D-A…

“Daralevu?” Laila prompts, one arm wrapped around my shoulder as she leans in to look. “Hang on, let me think of how to explain it —”

“How come you don’t know what Daralevu is? Haven’t you watched the news for the past ten years?” pipes up Mar, but their face immediately scrunches up. “Sorry — sorry, Jean. That was way too harsh of me. Um, when we mention Daralevu, we generally mean that we won’t bring up somebody’s past in a demon hunt. Because you’re supposed to come into the hunt as a blank slate.”

“I see,” I nod. “Does Daralevu stand for anything, or is it the name of the Philosopher who popularised this?”

Mar bites their lip, and I can tell, just by the flicker in their eyes, that they’ve lost respect for me. It is probably a stupid question. But they patiently explain, “It came from the Daralevu Massacre. Daralevu was besieged by a demon. There was this one guy who figured out who the Demon was, but nobody believed him because he was an ex-con and deeply unpopular. The guy he accused, on the other hand, was perfectly respectable.” I wring my hands, trying not to look too obviously uncomfortable. “Before this whole mess started, I would’ve said it’s prejudicial to bring up someone’s background. Like, your personal views and your past have nothing to do with whether you’re hosting a Demon, right? Or so I thought. But look at yourself. You gave Kasumi a chance and treated her as a blank slate. And the first thing she did was insult you in front of the whole table.”

“Insult me?” She only did that once, right?

“Yeah. She called you a Mutant. I still can’t believe the nerve of her,” Mar supplies. “Jean, I really am sorry. We tried to warn you in vague terms, but maybe we should have given you all the information from the get-go. Daralevu only really stands when the whole hunt has the same level of background knowledge, doesn’t it?” They laugh to themselves, somewhat bitterly. “It’s my fault, really. I think too much about how things should be instead of how they actually are.”

“Just because we don’t discuss it out loud doesn’t mean we don’t remember,” Laila adds. She pauses for a second, her face unsure, before she shakes her head and continues anyway. “The Asai family profiteers from demon invasions. You know there are countries that have consultants do the demon-hunting instead of the candidates, right? Kasumi was their plant in the Consultancy, and they were charging exorbitant prices to random innocent townspeople, forcing them to pay up or be dragged into the hunt. A bunch of them were arrested a few years back, but Kasumi got off and moved here, away from the media circus. To a trial country, where you actually get input on whether you should be executed.”

My mouth drops open as Laila continues, ranting. “Yes, you heard me. They let that f*cking murderer keep her job, keep executing civilians for the Consultancy, while she never has to worry about being drafted herself. That’s why all of us hate her! She signs death warrants for people who live an ocean away from her, and then she gets off work and pays for those sparkly manicures with blood money. If she was only a bitch, we would all just ignore her.”

“Holy…” I don’t know what to say. My tongue feels like it’s dried up in my mouth. All this time, I had assumed that the beef between them was secondary school-level petty drama. How could Kasumi have pulled the wool over my eyes so thoroughly —

Over Mar’s shoulder, Lyra nods grimly. Mar takes a look at their roomate, then stretches lazily. “Jean, let me clue you in on something. We may be a small town, but we haven’t had a drama shortage in years. If anything, we have a popcorn shortage that can’t keep up with the amount of drama that we’re getting.” Laila faces them with an incredulous expression, before she breaks into boisterous laughter. It’s her real laugh this time. “Come on, Laila, you know I’m right. And Jean, you should have seen the collective freak out when Kasumi first moved here —”

“— there was one year where wild lions kept coming down from the woodlands, and people would just feed them with whatever they had on hand —”

“— Sergio just showed up out of nowhere one day. He said he needed a change of scenery for mental health reasons, but we all know he was hospitalised in his old town. I mean, he’s doing better now, but I do sometimes worry about him —”

I look away, but I only end up catching the eye of Brye, who takes this as an invitation to join us. “Hey,” he greets, his smile creasing the sides of his face. “Jean, I just wanted to say: thank you for voting today. I promise you that all of us in this little circle have your back.”

Mar looks startled. I guess today’s events have lessened their suspicion of Brye, but not removed it completely. Lyra waves to him, mustering up a smile despite the slightly vacant look on her face. Meanwhile, Laila stands up to give him a hug. “Bryan! You’re okay, right?”

“Why would I not be?” he answers, lightly, as they part. “You know I’m not easily rattled. I grew up in a household where every day, a chinela would be flying straight at somebody. And most of the time, that person would be me. Ouch.” Classic Brye. Diffusing the situation with a little humour and a self-effacing smile.

Laila snorts, but I see that Mar has some reservations. “Yeah, but he threatened you. And Julian’s not a common thug —”

“Well, he’s a ghost now, so does it matter what he did ten years ago? Remember Daralevu. Let’s not dwell on the past,” Brye dismisses it, with a pointed look in my direction. He wasn’t privy to our earlier conversation, after all.

Laila puts a hand on my shoulder, pulling me slightly back so she can murmur in my ear, “Julian actually beat his father to death when he was just fifteen. In fact, he only just got out of jail for it.”

I don’t react immediately. I don’t know what to say. I suppose I’m grateful that my friends are not keeping me in the dark anymore, but I feel like a pair of tinted glasses has been knocked off my nose. I close my eyes, feeling heaviness settle in my stomach. I know — we all know — that at least one person at the discussion table has no qualms about hosting a Demon, and that had fundamentally changed how I approached all of them. But still, I’d always been sure that not all of them were Demonic, and that I could judge for myself if I should trust them. And now, while I’m still reeling from her news, I don’t know if I’ll ever look at Yulian the same way again.

He wouldn’t have killed his father if there weren’t a good reason… right?

Suddenly, my phone makes a short buzz, so I retreat to the edge of the gazebo, leaving the other three (plus Lyra) to their small talk.

A shriek rises from inside me, half shock, half agony. I blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I thought he’d been planning to use his information as leverage? My hands shake as I type out a reply:

There’s a long pause before he sends me his answer.

Right. My heart batters my ribcage as I try to remember. Yulian had confided everything to Sergio, only for his friend to suddenly call for his execution. I realise that if I’m going to unravel the sheer madness of today’s events, I need to start by talking to Sergio. Get his perspective. His reasoning. And maybe even his information. I survey the gazebo, wondering if I can catch him for a few questions, but Sergio is nowhere to be seen.

Damnit. He probably already went home. Ghosts can’t text, so there’s no use sending him a text message either. I clench my fist and say to myself: I need to unravel this. Figure out everything that lapsed, from the Twin mess to today’s sudden betrayal. There’s just too much that I don’t understand. For now, I sigh for the millionth time, my mind cluttered with all sorts of thoughts. I haven’t known Yulian for very long, but he’s made me laugh. He’s made me feel like I can be vulnerable. He’s a killer. Maybe I never knew the real him. Or maybe it was possible to know someone without knowing their past. I wouldn’t know, and I’ve lost my chance to find out, because right now he’s being taken to the border in a white van with an empty coffin stuffed into the back. He’ll come back inside it.

These are the words that make me buckle. I lean against the railing for support, trying not to look too discomforted to the rest of the table. I feel like crying, but I can’t find the tears. In fact, the inside of me is so numb that I nearly can’t keep a grip on what’s in front of me. I tell myself: I can’t cry. Laila would pity me endlessly if she ever saw me cry, and making myself out to be weak and useless is the last thing I need right now.

I should be distracting him. He’s being carted off to his death, so certainly he’s in need of a distraction. But all I can do is apologise.

The reply is quick this time.

I force a ragged breath down my throat.

I rip my eyes away from the screen. The sun is just starting to set, so everything is painted in a luxurious shade of gold. He’ll be dead before it finishes setting. How will they execute him, will they wait until the last possible second to execute him, or will he be haphazardly shoved into the barrier upon arrival? My eyes are going blurry.

And even as I send this out, I can’t conceive of any other way that things could be. Elliot is probably having their last laugh from the grave right now, seeing their ideas take hold on me. They’ve finally wormed into my head. Everything feels like too much right now.

This would have been far easier if I had been sitting next to him, able to listen to his tone and the way he said the last bit. Over the phone, it’s kind of hard to tell. But then I remember that he’s honest to a fault, and he respects brutal honesty.

Heart pounding, I type out a question that I have for him, but frown and delete the words instead. What if I’m wrong about his nature? I soften the blow before sending him:

Yulian doesn’t respond immediately this time.

On the bright side, he hasn’t told me to, quote, ‘eff off’. I type out, fully sincere this time, that I won’t Boogle at the matter if he doesn’t want me to. I just want to hear it from him, not from the people talking about him behind his back. It’s what I owe him, after all.

Now that I think about it, I had noticed that every other candidate spoke to Yulian like he was a stranger, but I’d assumed it was due to his standoffish personality. Where did the socially awkward boy who’d changed his name and hair colour to better fit in end, and where did the battered teenager begin? What about the little boy who’d taken Bluff’s Got Talent by storm? What about the version of him now that “never cared for life much anyway”?

All this time, I’ve never truly known anything about Yulian. And by the time the sun sets today, I will never get the chance to again.

I’m too slow. And I’m slow in the first place because I’m useless. It takes me too long to type the question of what BRB stands for, and by the time I see Boogle’s answer, it’s already too late. My fingers turn to mush, and the goodbyes that I type out feel woefully inadequate, because there’s just too many things that I want to tell him. Thank you. I’m sorry. Stay strong. I wish things could be different.

There is no response on the other end.

I stand there, clothed in the radiance of the evening sky, as the last rays of sun are summarily swallowed up by the horizon. A single tear has wrenched its way out of my stinging eyes, and I hastily wipe the evidence off my mask. I feel as if I’ve forgotten how to speak. Then suddenly, two warm hands are placed on either side of my face, and I feel my head being jerked to the side.

“Hey, loser,” Laila drawls, sounding like she’s looking down on me, even though I’m nearly a foot taller than her. “You wanna drink hot chocolate and watch Secondary School Musical 3 with me tonight?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of those same songs?” I ask, mind elsewhere, as she grabs my arm and leads me back to the car. I wave to the candidates who are left only because Laila does.

“What else are we gonna do?” she huffs. “You wanna cry to me about Julian while I cry about Elliot at the same time?”

She’s seen through me. Nothing gets past Laila indeed.

“Well, we’ve got all night,” I point out dryly.

Laila only allows a sad, bitter little smile to settle over her face after we’ve both gotten into the car, and she’s driven a decent distance away from the gazebo. She adjusts something on the car’s radio, and seconds later, my own personal brand of mental torture comes over the speakers.

“Hell no,” I deadpan, reaching over to turn the volume down myself, but there’s no button I can press. “Turn it off. I need silence to think.”

“Everybody likes We’re All In This Together,” Laila answers nonchalantly, turning back to the road. But I can hear her sing along, “Together, we’re there for each other every time.”

I groan against the car window and grit out, “Together, together, come on, let’s do this right.”

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes, n4 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d3)Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Kasumi, Jean, Elliot
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1, n3 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1-4 0)
• Julian [died d4] - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2 Snake Charmer
  - n1) Laila
  - n2) Jean
  - n3) Lyra
  - n4) Laila
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher (?)
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier
  - n2) Lyra, Mar, Delaney, Kasumi (yes)
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant Outsider → Fang Gu → Snake Charmer
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 15: - interlude ii: the codex daemonum

Chapter Text

SECTION 2

• Legal Status of Demon Creation
• The Fang Gu
• The Vortox

LEGAL STATUS OF DEMON CREATION

According to article 1a of the Offences against Demon Security Act (1892), Demonic Corruption is the unlawful creation of a demon. Every demonic corruption perpetrated by wilful, deliberate, malicious, and premeditated conversion; or committed with the intention of invasion, subversion or murder; or forcibly and maliciously committed against another human being without their consent, is corruption in the first degree. Any other corruption is corruption in the second degree.
Any person who is guilty of corruption in the first degree shall be imprisoned for life.
Any person who is guilty of corruption in the second degree shall be imprisoned for a term of not less than twenty years.

Consent is not a defence to corruption. Rather, corruption without consent is an aggravating factor in sentencing. The court does not accept that people can give informed consent to conversion, regardless of the circ*mstances. (See R v. Ziegler and One Kazali, a controversial case where a couple tried to have their 8-month-old infant corrupted by a demon, in order to prolong his life after he was diagnosed with an incurable genetic disorder.) As a result, there is no legal distinction between conferring demonhood upon oneself, and conferring it upon another, willing human being.

According to article 1b, it is an offence to conspire, confederate, and agree to corrupt any human being.
Any person who is guilty of conspiracy to commit corruption shall be imprisoned for a term of no less than twenty years.

According to article 1c, it is an offence to facilitate the conversion of any person, or to encourage, persuade or propose to corrupt any person.
Any person who is guilty of being an accomplice to corruption shall be imprisoned for a term of no less than twenty years.

According to article 1d, it is an offence to fail to notify relevant authorities after learning of a corruption, or to hide evidence regarding a corruption, or to aid a corruptor before or after the crime in any other way.
Any person who is guilty of being an accessory to corruption shall be imprisoned for a term of no less than fifteen years.

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THE FANG GU

The Fang Gu, also known as the Body-snatcher, is a sedentary demon that is amenable to human companionship. They have been known to visit human settlements on occasion, drifting from one town to another in a puff of smoke.

Fang Gu culture is hierarchical, honour-based and coven-oriented. A coven refers to a formation of three demons or more, and Fang Gus are known to form covens of up to as many as a hundred members. Elder Fang Gus are respected and served by the younger members, but in return, they are expected to body-snatch and convert new members after they reach a certain age. Internal violence is common and most covens eventually break apart due to infighting over resources and food.

Fang Gu iconography often emphasises the demon’s dual nature: the romantic aspect, reflected in the folk legend of the Fang Gu and the Sweetheart, and the dangerous aspect, reflected in its ability to possess its victims and deprive them of their free will. The portrayal of Fang Gus in popular media is that of an insidious yet strangely seductive charlatan.

It is difficult to say how much agency a Fang Gu’s vessel has after they have been body-snatched. Body-snatched victims often report being in a haze-like state, with total obedience to the words of their corruptor, and no control over their own actions. However, as it is a crime to be willingly converted into a demon, this must be taken with a grain of salt.

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THE VORTOX

The Vortox, also known as the Illusionist, is a species of demon that often takes on a human form. Very few have reported seeing its true demon form, and of those, most described a rapidly-rotating storm system, accompanied by violent thunderstorms and squalls. One writer, however, reported seeing a pair of blinking eyes from the depths of the storm.

It is difficult to estimate the number of Vortoxes in the wild, as most human interaction with them is in the form of Vortox invasions. This is further confounded by the fact that Vortoxes are, and have often been, mistaken for tropical cyclones. It is unclear whether this is just one of the Illusionist’s many disguises, or simply a lack of research into the subject.

Vortoxes are stereotyped to be stubborn, and as wild and as chaotic as the storms that they resemble. Such a reputation is not entirely unwarranted. Vortoxes dislike being confined to one place for long periods of time, and when forced to do so, they will lash out by plaguing all townspeople in the vicinity with violent, destructive nightmares. The minds of these victims will become muddled, and they will lose their grip on reality altogether if the Vortox responsible is not driven out in time.

Vortoxes also display a ruthless bloodlust when it comes to demon invasions. Unlike most other demons, Vortoxes demand that at least one victim be sacrificed to it daily. Failure to do so will send the Vortox into a powerful rage that consumes every soul for several kilometres. This deadly combination makes the Vortox a formidable demon to face, but with the proper measures in place, it can be done.

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Chapter 16: focus (day five)

Chapter Text

It’s nearly midday when I wake up. Normally, the sun would have woken me by shining on my face, but I’ve apparently resisted and carried on doing my best log imitation in peace and quiet. I look around the dark room and plant both my hands on my face.

Yesterday’s events are still swirling around in my head, like crumbling leaves in the wind, but refusing to settle. Kasumi’s betrayal. Yulian getting executed. Staying up until four o’clock with Laila, watching every single movie in the Secondary School Musical franchise. Wonderful as it had been to forget about the Demon for one night… well, nice things don’t last, do they?

Time to face the music. Sighing, I reach over for my phone that’s been charging on my nightstand, and turn it on.

There’s five hundred messages from the candidate Group Chat alone (you’d think people did nothing but sit around on their phones all day). I tell myself that I’ll check those last. Yulian hasn’t sent me anything — no surprise, considering his ghost probably needs time to materialise. Mar tells me that Lyra is still unable to speak, but she’s doing much better today, and you’ll probably want to talk to her before the final discussion, right, Jean? I answer in the affirmative, and then I take a deep breath. I don’t want to find out who was killed by the Demon last night. But I need to know sooner or later.

So I open up the Group Chat, and make myself comfortable on the pillow as I scroll all the way down to today’s messages.

I blink at the phone screen, not fully comprehending what happened at first. But it’s true. If Laila, Kasumi, Wilson and Anita are all still alive, then naturally, I would have to be the Demon’s last victim. I even pinch my own cheek to check. Nope, I’m still flesh and bone.

I scroll through the rest of the messages quickly so I can get to the bottom. Brye and Wilson are theorising why I died; they don’t think I’m a body-snatcher, but they comment it’s weird how the Tailor who already used up his chance was dispatched, when nearly all the other remaining candidates have ongoing information to provide. Mar is a lot sadder at this development than I thought they would be, considering we haven’t known each other for that long. They’ve written some sweet and comforting messages for Laila. I guess I appreciate the gesture, even if it’s not needed.

I blink at the name labelled on the last person’s message for five whole seconds, before recognition dawns on me. Sergio is back! And surprisingly quickly, too, considering how Lyra is still materialising. But more importantly, I currently know nothing about what Sergio’s been doing, and now is my opportunity to correct that. I immediately send him a message, asking if he’s got any plans for the morning, and if we can meet up somewhere to talk.

He doesn’t respond immediately, so I decide to brush my teeth and grab breakfast while I wait. I’ve only just stepped foot outside when I hear familiar laughter coming from downstairs.

The sound immediately pulls me back into my own room, and I lean against the door, sighing. I know it’s Laila’s house, and I’m her guest here as well, so it’s not my place to veto any person that she might want to bring over. But could she really not have given me a heads-up? Especially when she’s invited over Elliot, of all people? Telling her that one of her best friends personally gives me the heebie-jeebies is not a conversation that I want to have. I don’t want to come off as trying to start elementary school-level drama between them.

I pull on my mask before I head into the bathroom, and when I come back out, the house is eerily silent. I peer over the railing, just in time to see Laila look up from her phone, and Elliot lazily waving to me. As if nothing is wrong. As if what happened two days ago was all in my imagination.

“Hey, Jean!” they call out in greeting, other arm hugging Laila’s orange stuffed dinosaur close to their chest. The dinosaur that I’d been playing with last night while we watched whatsherface desperately chase after whatshisface for two movies straight. “Congrats on not being dead. No, seriously. You saved me. If I had to sit through Buffy the Demon Slayer or Secondary School Miserable again, I’ll wring necks.”

True, there’s nothing inherently malicious about those words. Yet, a sense of panic rises in my chest, just from the way they’re smiling at me. With Elliot, I never know which face they’re going to pull out next. And that lack of knowledge greatly unsettles me.

“Cool,” I reply stiffly, marching back into my own room. At this time, Sergio has responded, offering to pick me up in half an hour. I think of Elliot’s face, of how they’re able to rattle me just by existing in the general vicinity around me.

My answer is a resounding yes.

Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed how I always do, but I trade the baggy parka for an oversized jacket with a hood that I can pull over myself when I pass by Elliot later in the living room. The last thing that I need today is them piercing me with that I-could-devour-you stare.

When Laila shouts that Sergio is at the door, I instinctively suck in a deep breath. I just have to pass Elliot once on the way out, and then I’ll be free. Just don’t stop, don’t look at them, and don’t get too close.

Except that when I pass them on the living room sofa, I overhear Laila talking about “getting a sibling for trike ass bitch”, and I pause.

“Wait,” I interject. “Does the ‘trike’ in TAB stand for ‘triceratops’?” I’ve known all along that the stuffed dino is called TAB, but I’ve only just now made this connection.

“You just realised?” Laila laughs as she strokes the toy’s long, slender neck.

“Yeah, well,” I swallow. “Your dino is a brachiosaurus.”

Elliot opens their mouth to say something — I don’t know what because I sprint for the door and deliberately block out the sound of their voice. Ugh. Why had I even said anything?

When I see Sergio on the doorstep, I wave to him at the same time as he offers me a handshake. Alright then. I make a point of politely looking him in the eyes when his ghostly fingers interlock with mine, and I try not to flinch when I realise he’s icy cold to the touch.

“It’s nice to meet you at last, Jean,” he begins, pleasantly. “My truck is parked just outside.”

The truck in question is functional and classic. I fall silent as I climb into the shotgun seat, because Yulian mentioned being taken for a drive, too. This must be where he had sat just a few days ago. Sergio doesn’t seem to notice my apprehension, because he just revs the engine and starts manoeuvring us out of Laila’s garage.

While he’s at this task, I observe him. The image of Sergio at the wheel inadvertently sticks in my mind, because nothing about the scene stands out. In fact, I’d struggle if Laila asked me to describe what I’m seeing. Sergio has a face that you would forget just five minutes after meeting him. Heck, I probably would have mixed him up if there had been more than one blond guy among the candidates. There’s no decorations on the dashboard, and he hasn’t personalised the inside of his truck in any way, shape, or form. It’s like he and his car both came straight from the Sergio® toy set assembly line, and this particular copy forgot to include a cool hat. Normally I would have a general clue about a person based on how they dress and how they arrange their environment, but I’m sitting in his vehicle and I have nothing.

Sergio bulldozes on through a red light, and I notice that the streets are completely empty. Ravenswood Bluff seems almost like a ghost town. Right. Most non-candidates would have been evacuated last night, in case our demon hunt winds up not succeeding. We’re a small town, so things are comparatively simple: people are split into three batches by geographic area. Each third is taken by train to one of three designated shield cities, and will wait out the rest of the demon hunt there. We’re lucky that we only needed a few mutual shielding treaties with our neighbouring towns to keep us all covered. In bigger cities, there’s sometimes huge disputes over who each shield city will accept, and the process needs to begin in advance of the demon hunt.

I can only imagine what the other candidates must have felt like, seeing their families off at the train station.

“So,” we both turn to each other at the same time, and laugh. “You go first,” he offers to me.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you because I know nothing about you,” I begin, doing my best Brye impression. If it worked on me, then it would work on Sergio, right? “So tell me about yourself.”

Here’s the thing. I want to talk to Sergio. Sergio also clearly wants to talk to me, given how he offered to drive me around in his truck, and let me choose the first topic.

But no amount of good intentions can save us from ourselves.

“My name is Sergio Andrew Virostko,” he says, with a tight, nervous smile. “I’m not a terribly interesting person.”

We both fall silent.

I stare at him blankly. He stares at me blankly.

“You’re a…” What was the word that my friends had used? “You’re a groundsweeper, right?”

“A gamekeeper,” he corrects.

“Oh, cool.”

We return to silence.

I internally facepalm. Self-introductions were not my brightest idea. Not all of us can lose a childhood friend to Zonic the Hedgehog 2 and a good-looking older brother.

“As for you, Jean, you’re a circus performer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s awesome.”

Sergio’s existential crisis settles in. I really can’t think of a better way to say it, because the only synonym I can think of is ‘midlife crisis’, and that phrase is even less kind to a newly-departed ghost.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I contemplate jumping from the moving vehicle.

“Sergio, what do you do in your free time?”

He yawns all of a sudden. “Sorry. I don’t feel awake the whole day until I’ve had caffeine. To answer your question, I like reading. How about you?” he asks. “What are your hobbies, Jean?”

“I like…” I begin, but I trail off. What do I like? Up until I was fired from Cirque du Roi, I’d been so busy with training each day that when I did get free time, I was content to just find a quiet place to sit, and stare at the sky or passers-by, making up stories in my head. Before even that, I’d been fine with following Laila around, and doing whatever she wanted us to do.

Sergio is looking straight ahead. “Tell me something that’s not practising tricks or sewing costumes. What do you like to do that’s outside the role of circus performer?”

“What kind of question is that?” I ask, a little indignantly.

“Just a regular question,” he asserts, even though his voice is anything but assertive. “Everybody has a life outside of their work, don’t they? I’m asking you what’s yours.”

I frown at him, my hand instinctively moving to cover my mask. He tilts his head at me, like he’s wondering if he misspoke.

“I like watching movies,” I answer, just to get him off my back.

To my tremendous relief, Sergio doesn’t press further. Rather, he just laughs quietly, “I’m jealous. If I had my way, I would watch a lot more of those, but…” He trails off, staring at the trees outside. “Too busy with Demon problems. No time.”

We’re each jolted from our thoughts as we hear a woman’s voice that I don’t recognise: “Honey, I told you to get the f*cking asparagus —”

I stare, bewildered, as Sergio wrenches out his phone with one hand, and swiftly accepts the call. “Sorry. That’s my ringtone,” he mumbles, before holding the phone up to his ear. “Delaney, I’m still out with Jean. Talk later.” And with that, he slots the phone back into the car holder, and continues driving.

Apparently it’s possible to change your ringtone. I try not to stare at his phone too openly, but it’s hard to resist the impulse. This is the first clue to his true character that I’m getting from him.

“That’s my fiancée,” he explains, blushing a little. “She passed a few years ago. That was the last voice message she ever sent me.”

It’s really a testament to our situation that I don’t even flinch at the mention of her death. I sigh, not because I pity Sergio, but because I’m resigned. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I see that you miss her a lot. But, if I may, I don’t think it’s healthy to constantly remind yourself of her.”

“I think Niamh would have wanted me to honour her memory. Besides, I would have thought of her plenty, ringtone or not. When you take someone’s presence for granted and then lose them, you see a piece of them everywhere. God knows I’m getting too stir-crazy for my own good.” He shakes his head, seeming to fight back yet another yawn. “And to be fair, I really did forget the f*cking asparagus.”

This response does not reassure me of Sergio’s sanity in the slightest.

“What about Yulian?” I ask, a little harshly. “Do you see Yulian everywhere, too?”

“I…” First he stiffens. Then, he takes one hand off the wheel, runs it through his hair, and sighs. “Yes. I see him sometimes. I see him in the trees in the woodlands, or the empty passenger seat, or in the — good God. Look, Jean, I’m sorry. Just give me a moment to get my thoughts straight.”

I look up at the rearview mirror. Sergio doesn’t look overwhelmed with guilt, or nerves. His mind is full of fog, if I’m reading him right.

“I’ll just be honest here, alright? I wanted to form a rapport with you before we started talking about Julian, and the absolute mess of a predicament that was last evening’s discussion,” he begins. His words are jumbled, as though he doesn’t believe in them himself. I see me reflected in him. And I purse my lips, thinking of Brye and Laila, and how much easier they have it, just by virtue of speaking so convincingly. Sergio continues, “It’s, well, I trust you. I hoped that you would trust me in turn. But even I know that would be difficult.”

“Why would it be difficult?” I press. It’s hard to explain exactly what goes on in my brain at this point. I’m aware in the moment that I’m being less than kind to Sergio, but I have the upper hand here. I can make him come clean to me, so of course I’m doing everything within my power to do exactly that.

He sighs again. “For one, you have no reason to trust me. I’ve been lying to you from as early as the second day. Truth be told? I’m surprised the table bought our ‘fraternal twins, raised in separate families’ spiel. We would have been busted if one person had stopped and remembered that I’m five years older than him. But I guess nobody knew Julian’s birthday.”

I say nothing. I just stare gloomily out the window.

“Sorry, I went off on a tangent there. As I was saying, you probably don’t know who to trust between myself and Brye, innit?”

“Yes, and so far, the evidence seems overwhelmingly in his favour,” I say, quite uncharitably. “Do you have anything to say about that?”

“That wasn’t all.” Sergio rests one elbow on the driver’s wheel. The road ahead is mostly straight, and I can tell we’re leaving the town square behind. To where, I don’t know, but it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “I made a grave mistake during the last discussion. I should never have called for Julian’s execution.”

“What do you mean? I thought you had information that condemned him. You are a Philosopher, aren’t you?”

His eyes catch the light, and I finally notice that there’s grey eye bags underneath them. “I am. On the third night, I decided to set a trap for the Demon. You see, as gamekeepers, we’re supposed to maintain habitats, and so we developed certain spells to communicate with migratory birds. I thought that maybe I could transpose that knowledge to the Demon… if they came for me.”

“So your plan was to speak to the Demon?” I don’t buy this. It all sounds incredibly pointless. “Really, Sergio? If I cried out for mercy but the Demon attacked me anyway, my first assumption would not be ‘language barrier’.”

“Can you let me finish explaining?” Sergio grumbles. “The communication works on a subconscious level; with birds, we try to derive where they’re headed, how long they will stay, and from there we suggest altercations to their course. Our technique makes sure that the birds themselves don’t know they’re being spoken to, because we don’t want to startle them. I was hoping the same would apply to the Demon.”

I nod slowly. “Sorry. That makes more sense than I thought.”

“I considered teaching everyone the technique, but I realised that if the true Demon knew of my plan, they would have sufficient notice to develop a counter-spell. So I had to do it in utmost secrecy. On the night the Demon came for me, I was in the living room, waiting for them. I’d set up a forcefield around myself — the Demon clawed through in less than a minute, of course, but I just needed that one minute to speak with them. I cast my spell, faced the Demon, and asked for their name.”

He continues, his voice growing quieter and quieter still, “I think the Demon realised what I was doing, because a mere second later, a wave of red flames erupted around me. Accompanying them were runes, floating in mid-air and written in an ancient language, but I was sure there were six of them. The explosion knocked me onto my back, the forcefield now destroyed, and the Demon descended on me. But the effort of this made their beastly mask slip. The Demon above me was flickering and glitching like an old movie tape, and for a brief moment, I could have sworn I was looking up at a human face. Pale skin, brown eyes, and a bird’s nest of dark hair.” Sergio draws in a single shaky breath, and covers the front of his neck. “I won’t make you listen to what happened next.”

“Sergio, I’m sorry.” I say, much gentler this time. “Thank you for what you did. We’ll do our best to catch the Demon.”

“Yes, well…” he trails off. His expression makes me feel hollow inside. “I still misled you yesterday. For the most part, I’d been adrift in a world of my own, but I had this strong conviction that the Demon could only be two people —”

“You mean Kasumi and Yulian?” I nod.

“Yes. I initially had doubts that it was just my imagination, but the six runes that I saw solidified my belief. Underworld runes bear some similarities to the English alphabet, and I thought, well, both their names have six letters.” He scratches the side of his neck. “Well see, being ‘neither here nor there’, as Wilson put it… it’s a strange sensation to describe. It almost feels as though you’re drowning, and it’s very hard to concentrate on what’s in front of you. People, sounds, sensations; all of those just wash right past you. I couldn’t recall what happened in yesterday’s discussion even if I tried. But I remember people repeating, over and over again, that the Demon couldn’t be Kasumi.”

“Yeah. About half the table would have to be lying in order for her to be the Demon. So in your mind, it was Yulian?”

Sergio nods. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, I was blinded with rage. All I could think of was the fact that I’d trusted Yulian, I’d even told him my role in this mess, and he was the evil we were hunting all this time. I asked everyone to execute Yulian, and I smiled as I saw him being taken into the van. But he was executed, and the nightmare still hasn’t ended.

“Last night, I finally got into contact with an expert in demonology. They confirmed what I saw to be Underworld runes, but they informed me that the number of runes — didn’t necessarily mean they had that many letters in their name.”

Sergio sighs over and over again. I try to nod encouragingly, but I don’t think he sees it.

“You know how Julian’s name is spelt with a Y, right? The demonologist told me that ‘Y-U’ is spelt with just one rune, so his name is actually only five runes long,” he divulges, in a hoarse whisper. “‘Kasumi’ is six, though. And the only other name that’s spelt using six runes is ‘Delaney’. ‘E-Y’ at the end shortens into just one rune. Which meant… Julian died for nothing. I sent Julian to die over nothing.”

His whole body shakes like a leaf. I stare back at him in silent horror, imagining the pain and the terror that Yulian must have felt when he was sent to be executed. And it had been preventable. God, poor Yulian. But then the rational part of my brain kicks in, telling me that I can have feelings when this all is over.

I need to be rational. I can’t just look at who the Demon can be. I need to also look at who Sergio has taken out of consideration. Firstly, Laila: no objections there. Secondly, myself: also no objections. Thirdly, Anita.

Here’s where the trouble starts.

The fact that Anita isn’t in the running perplexes me. It’s thrown a wrench into an information set that would otherwise be perfectly sound. Is the Demon really between Kasumi and Wilson? I’d thought it would have to be between Anita and Wilson, by sheer process of eliminating the other three living candidates. Or had we made a mistake during the discussion yesterday by labelling Kasumi unlikely to be the Demon?

I know Kasumi has lied to all our faces five times over and is generally acting in ways that a Mad person would, so again, I know I sound like an idiot for saying this, but her words are echoing through my head again. We had discussed Sergio being the body-snatcher and passing the torch to Anita, and one of the first thoughts running through my head is that this lines up perfectly with the torch-passing scenario. But I beat that thought down. Sergio can’t be the initial body-snatcher, because that wouldn’t match the records from Laila’s Demon’s bane.

But if that’s the case, then why do I feel so uncertain about this?

Do I genuinely suspect Anita, or am I just regurgitating the thoughts that Mar and Kasumi planted in my head? Am I acting based on the evidence against her, or am I just thinking that a pair of enemies are banding together to go after Anita, therefore they must be right?

“Are you sure the Demon can’t be Anita?” I ask quietly. “I’m thinking that Laila has been thoroughly ruled out as the host by multiple sources, so you won’t hear me contest your verdict on Laila. But so far, the consensus seems to be that Anita is somewhat suspicious —”

“What sort of answer are you hoping to get from me?” is the bemused reply. “Yes, I’m sure that it can’t be Anita, because that is what my own information yielded from my own ability tells me. I don’t think my magic was disrupted, considering my neighbours are Brye and Julian.”

“You’re thinking of the insidious No Dashii,” I answer. “If we fashioned a configuration where Brye had been serving the Vigormortis —” I cut off, feeling stupid. That’s not possible either. A Vigormortis would have removed one Defect, and Dave can’t be lying about his role.

A few moments pass in silence. Sergio patiently waits for me to finish the thought, and I shake my head no. A thoughtful look suddenly crosses his face, and he calls out, “Hey, Jean.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve talked plenty during this trip already. I want to hear your train of thought,” he begins, slowly. “Who do you think the Demon is?”

I blanch immediately. “No, ask me anything but that,” I sputter. “I don’t know who the Demon is, and I am too dumb to know.”

Sergio hums quietly. “Let’s do this the other way around. There’s four other candidates. Why don’t you try ranking them in order of how much you trust them? Starting from the most trusted and ending with the least.”

“I trust Laila the most.” I don’t even have to think about it before saying that. But seeing Sergio’s quizzical stare, I further elaborate. “Look, I’m not saying this just out of bias on my part. I genuinely, truly cannot conceive of any scenario in which she would willingly let a Demon be hosted in her body. Moreover, she’s thoroughly exonerated — your spell on the night you died clears her. My… my own magic clears her. She’s in the clear.” And there’s also the matter of Yulian’s hypnosis. But I don’t think I can trust Sergio with that information yet.

“Alright. And second most trusted?”

This is the point where I fall silent again. To me, all three of the remaining candidates seem to be equally good options for execution, but we’ll only get two opportunities to execute them. And that’s even assuming that we manage to keep Laila and my necks off the chopping block in the first place.

The headache is rising in me again. All three of them are viable. Anita has been flying under the radar this entire time since she’s been staying quiet, but it’s possible that she’d been body-snatched without any of us noticing. Or, it could be Wilson, with his corrosive claws sunk deeply into his neighbours, Elliot and Yulian. After all, he’s the one implicated by Laila’s plant records. And who knows what is going on in that crazy head of Kasumi’s? From where I stand, it truly could be anyone.

Sergio sees the expression on my face, and he shakes his head, sighing to himself. “Jean, take this from me. You could not even answer the question of what you believe is happening. I didn’t challenge you, I didn’t debate you on your answer, I just asked you, ‘what do you believe’? What you answered was worse than saying, ‘I believe all the Demon’s lies, and turn my back on whatever plans and theories my allies have come up with.’ Your answer was, ‘I believe nothing’.” His words are harsh, and spoken in an even harsher tone. I can’t help but flinch at them.

“Jean, somebody is going to be executed tonight. Well, not if the Witch manages to bamboozle us, but it’s a possibility that you need to preempt as well. You should already have an idea of who you want to nominate, and whether your mind will change based on who ends up on the receiving end of the Witch’s curse. If you don’t decide this ahead of time, you’re only going to be blindly following those who already have their minds made up.” I can only sit there, back pressed against the shotgun seat, as he continues to criticise me. “You need to know what you believe. Certain people have already made their minds up — I won’t name names, but you know who I’m talking about — and by virtue of that, their minds are already closed off to yours. If you can’t even hold onto your own beliefs, you’re only letting other people take advantage.”

Actually, no. I don’t, in fact, know who he’s talking about. Does he mean Wilson? Wilson had been very willing to change his mind during the last discussion. Or does he mean Kasumi, with her endlessly hammering Anita? Kasumi isn’t using me anymore. Hell, I voted against her yesterday.

Sergio rests his cheek on his palm. “You know, Jean. I used to be just like you once upon a time.”

“Did I ever tell you that I really hate being psychoanalysed?” I snap, uncontrollably, but then I just sigh.

What I hate isn’t being psychoanalysed.

I hate being vulnerable. I hate the fact that he’s gleaned all of my self-loathing thoughts from my brain, and is now throwing them right in my face.

What Sergio’s saying is nothing new. I know I’m a mess. I’m too stupid to figure out who the Demon can be and too cowardly to step up and take charge. I long to be a somebody, but all I’m equipped to be is Mr Nobody.

Are you going to do anything about it?

I wring my hands together. I think I might have tried to take charge, if not for the fact that there are four other people’s lives riding on my actions. And given the ease with which Kasumi made me spill all of my secrets to her… yeah, no. How am I supposed to decide on who I can and can’t trust when I know for a fact that I can’t trust myself?

Kasumi had called me a totally useless and ineffectual moron. I had dismissed this as mean-spirited name-calling at first, but the more I think about it, the more I realise that she’s right.

“As we speak right now, Delaney is making plans for who to nominate, and who to accuse instead if each person dies to the curse,” Sergio informs me, deathly calm. “Then, he’s going to talk to Laila and see if they can reach common ground. Kasumi is similarly buckling down and making plans. Brye has been sending out configurations like crazy since last night. What are you doing today, Jean?”

“I’m going to figure out where I stand,” I answer in a small whisper. “The people you mentioned are… just built different.”

“Well, I’ve named half the discussion panel,” he counters. “Jean, trust me. Self-belief isn’t something that you’re either born with or you’re not. In substance, you are not different from any other demon candidate, or any other person for that matter.”

Sergio’s words wash over me, making me feel like an impostor. Would he still be saying that to me if he knew what I was? If he knew what was behind the mask?

“When we head back, where do you want me to drop you off?” he asks, conversationally. “I imagine you have other candidates that you still need to talk to.”

I swallow. I’m not ungrateful for the pep talk. He’s certainly given me a lot to think about. But right now, I think the best way to describe him is ‘intense’.

“What about you?” I deflect the question back at him. “Sergio, what will you be doing this afternoon?”

His eyebrows crinkled up into a slightly impish smile. “Me? Maybe I’ll continue on, driving around aimlessly. I think I’ve made my humble contribution to tonight’s discussion already.”

I ask Sergio to drop me off at the town square, the stupidity of which is utterly lost on me until I see that not a single store is open. There go my plans of taking a bus to meet someone. By the time I think of running after Sergio’s truck and waving my arms for attention, he’s already driven off. Classic Jean, screwing up something so simple.

I sigh, standing in the middle of the desolate town square, and decide that Sergio Virostko does freak me out after all. He had given me the answers I wanted, but our little chat had definitely not turned out the way I imagined. Who’d have known that Sergio’s quiet, unassuming appearance could be so deceiving?

Remembering that he’d mentioned Laila would be talking to Delaney, I pull out my phone, and send her a message. I turn on the Mobile Data, and find a random bench to sit on while I wait.

My fingers clench around the phone, as my heart hammers wildly in my chest. Wilson thinks I’m the No Dashii? For Storyteller’s sake, I won’t be able to refute him at the discussion tonight if Laila doesn’t change his mind —

I take a deep breath.

I flip back to the Group Chat, and expand the list of members. I stare at it with a frown on my face. It’s true that I should cover as much ground as possible, and try to talk to everyone, to get a better grasp on the situation… but I still genuinely feel so lost. I don’t know how the others do it.

Suddenly, a new message pops up on my screen.

I can’t believe my luck when I look up the address that Lyra sends me. It’s within ten minutes of the town square, so well within walking distance. I jump to my feet, and send a message back that I’ll be there in a few minutes. After a pause, I ask if Mar is with her as well.

I mentally go over the candidates in my head. There’s only two people that I actively want to avoid: Elliot, who was with Laila the last I saw them, and Kasumi, who doesn’t get along with Lyra anyway. So the more the merrier, right? Yet, I can’t help the trepidation that rises in my throat as I type out: Who’s the person you invited?

My eyes go as wide as saucers when I see the reply.

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes, n4 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d3)Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Kasumi, Jean, Elliot
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1, n3 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1-4 0)
• Julian [died d4] - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2 Snake Charmer
  - n1) Laila
  - n2) Jean
  - n3) Lyra
  - n4) Laila
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher
  - n3) Sage
  - n4) Kasumi or Delaney
  
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier
  - n2) Lyra, Mar, Delaney, Kasumi (yes)
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant Outsider → Fang Gu → Snake Charmer
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 17: nobody

Chapter Text

“He’s here!”

“God, finally! Hey, Jean!”

I swallow the bile in my throat and wave to the two ghosts in the living room as I take off my shoes. I do this because I notice a large pair of sneakers — Dave’s, most likely — by the door, and if he’s doing it, then I should follow. As soon as I’ve closed the front door behind me, a tangerine whizzes towards my face. I just manage to catch it before it hits me. I haven’t yet had breakfast so I can’t complain, and I start peeling the tangerine as I make my way over to the others.

“At long last, the man of the hour — you weren’t meant to eat that, by the way.” Lyra snickers as I’m about to lift my mask. I mumble a weak apology, but she just clicks her tongue. Next to her, Dave Wilson is busy picking up a second tangerine from the floor. “God, I can’t believe you,” she continues. “While all of us were freaking out over who had died last night, you were sleeping peacefully. I woke up this morning to Mar screaming at their phone. I tell you, they were completely distraught.”

Why would Mar be distraught? My brain tells me that something isn’t right, but I can’t put my finger on it so I mask my disorientation with questions. “What are the tangerines for?”

Lyra gestures me over to the chair opposite to the sofa where she and Dave are sitting, but I freeze in place. “We were just talking about you, and how you used to work for the circus. And then Dave said we should do something to relax while we waited, so I challenged him to a juggling match. I happened to have a sack of tangerines lying around.”

“I managed two,” Dave informs me, wryly. The tangerine in his hand is mushy. “I was prepared to blame my reflexes for not being what they used to be, but then Lyra here managed two also.”

“Jeez, Dave, you aren’t even that old,” Lyra shoots back, but something in her eyes gives me pause. It’s no secret that Demon candidates tend to be young. People are more willing to spare the lives of youngsters, and so both sides adjusted their tactics accordingly. But seeing Lyra like this, with her hair pulled back and dressed in a cartoon T-shirt, I can’t help feeling like I’ve somehow failed her.

“Well, tell that to Aurora,” Dave replies, naming his eldest daughter. Then, he turns to address me with a completely unwarranted smile. “Say, Jean, Lyra wanted me to ask on her behalf —”

“You aren’t supposed to tell him I asked,” grumbles Lyra. Judging by their easy banter and the way they look at each other, they’ve had a far easier time talking about the demon hunt than I had with Sergio.

“My mistake.” Dave raises up both his hands. The flesh is smiling. His warm words feel like a can of worms have burst open in my stomach. “Jean, I wanted to ask you, as a man who is under no outside influences whatsoever, if you could quickly show us what you can do. I reasoned that if Cirque du Roi took you on as a Juggler, you must know some brilliant tricks. And I thought, since I looked you up on BouTube —”

“What? Seriously?” Lyra looked me up on BouTube? Does nobody in this small town know how to mind their own business? snaps a voice in my head, and I try to keep my expression from freezing. I may be wearing a mask, but they could still see the panic in my eyes. I try to blink a normal amount of times, but I don’t know if I’m convincing.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t find anything,” Lyra admits, tugging at her dark bangs. “Maybe I spelt your name wrong. Can you check?” She pulls out her phone and, after a few taps, holds it out to me.

I lean forward, scanning the long list of items she had searched: jean toulemonde cirque du roi, cirque du roi juggling, cirque du roi juggler jean toulemonde, cirque du roi juggling act, cirque du roi live performance, cirque du roi weird masked guy… Is Lyra oblivious to why I wear the mask, or willfully oblivious? Does she know that I performed without it, meaning she searched for me in hopes of seeing my bare face?

“I need the bathroom,” I mutter, brushing past Lyra’s outstretched hand and ducking into the hallway. My phone is tucked into my pocket. But then I stop and turn around. “Sorry, is BouTube the one with the horizontal or vertical videos?”

Dave's lips twist together. An expression I can’t decipher. “It used to be the one with horizontals.”

“Door on your left, Jean!” Lyra calls, then her voice drops, so I can just barely hear her say, “See, Dave? This is why your kids think you’re old.”

I close the bathroom door behind me, and lean my full weight against it. Then I pull out my phone and unlock it.

Laila had helpfully sorted the phone squares into two groups. I press on the first group, labelled “Brain Damage DIY”. BikBok… Bwitter… Binstagram… nope, not here, it’s in the “OK In Moderation” category. Because that’s just Laila for you. Helping me down load things that will apparently cause me brain damage, just so I can give her hearts on the same services that will in turn give her brain damage.

Lyra had tried searching for me with my real name.

Back when I was choosing my stage name, I had never imagined that thirteen years later, the separation between man and performer would be my saving grace.

“It’s funny to me,” Mercier had laughed, one arm leaning against the backstage electrician cart. He wasn’t yet in his Ringmaster’s costume, but he was still every inch a king. “You were born with the face of a star. It was your face, your photo, that earned you a plane ticket to our little kingdom. So why do you insist on covering it up?”

Face of a star? I’m Cirque du Roi’s opening act. Face of a circus freak, more like. I wrung my hands together. At the age of nine, I didn’t know how to broach the topic, especially when Mercier had been so generous to me for years. It was only thanks to him that I had a dream at all. That I had a future. “No reason,” said little Jean.

He raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“I just like it.”

I was a terrible liar. But Mercier was one of those types of people who could understand even if you didn’t spell it out. He thought for a while, then clasped his hands together, “I know. You need a new name.”

I blinked. “This circus isn’t big enough for two Jeans?”

He just gave me a crooked smile. “Two? Sure. But four is a bit much, don’t you think?” I tried to remember if there was anybody else called John/Jean/Johnny in the circus, but came up blank. So I looked up at him, shaking my head. “John Mercier and Johnny Mercy are two different people, you know. They’re both Ringmasters. But Johnny Mercy stands on a stage and entertains crowds. John Mercier checks in with his performers backstage and buys candy-apples for those who make him proud.”

Or, if we were lazy and useless, he would frown at us in this stomach-churning way, and make us fill a bottle of water and lock ourselves in the punishment room. In there, we had to run through our programmes over and over, and were only allowed back out when we thought we were forgiven.

But today I had been working hard, so I didn’t think I was going to the punishment room.

“Do you want to give me a stage name too?” I realised, slowly. I’d never thought I needed one. Couldn’t I just be Jean?

“Clever boy.” His hands ran through my hair again, feathery-slow. “When you learn to separate the onstage persona from the boy offstage, you’ll perform better as both. That’s what we all want, isn’t it? To perform?”

I nodded, my body nodded, numbly, as we both turned toward each other. He rattled off a list of potential names, and I said no to each one. He didn’t seem angered by my rejections, so I kept saying no. I knew he meant well.

But he had called it a performance, and now I couldn’t get the word out of my head. He was right. And there was no point in hating that fact, because Mercier was one of those people who were usually right. He was right about the things I did to hide myself being exactly that: a performance. In front of unfamiliar people I read my lines, danced my part, and used costumes so that I would look less disgraceful. I was putting on the performance that I could possibly be one of them.

Having emptied his list, Mercier paused to think of more stage names. I didn’t like how all his suggestions were related to my face, but I knew he was just trying to make me memorable. He needed to package me somehow, because performances were meant to be temporary. Once he was done with me, he would make me an immortal part of the circus, in the most performative sense of that word. I looked into his face, into the face of someone who had gone above and beyond for a mere boy from abroad. I didn’t know it at the time, but I owed him my future prospects, the shelter over my head and the clothes on my back.

And yet I’d let myself get fired like some irresponsible teenager with a summer job he didn’t want in the first place.

I had asked Mercier if I could get a stage name that had nothing to do with my face. His eyebrows pressed together. “But what else would we call you?”

I shrank back a little. “Maybe my name?”

From the moment his face changed, I braced myself for his reaction. Yet to my surprise, he looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Let’s go for wordplay, then. ‘Mr Toulemonde’. How does that sound?” When I stared blankly at him, he elaborated, “‘Monsieur Tout-le-Monde’ is like ‘Mr Everyman’ or ‘Mr Average Joe’. The term is just a representation of an idea. So it doesn’t matter who Mr Toulemonde is, because in substance, Mr Toulemonde is nobody.”

My back is to the bathroom door, and I slide down so that I’m sitting against it, my knees drawn up against my chest. With clammy fingers, I manage to ask BouTube to find videos of Mr Nobody.

The pressure in the back of my mouth slowly rises as I scan the rows and rows of videos. They’re all… very strange. None of them have anything to do with the circus. I turn to Boogle instead, and am met with similar success, but then one result looks like it’s related, so I tear into it immediately.

It’s a petition. A giant picture of my bare face is plastered in the centre.

#NoMoreNobodies. Mutants don’t belong on the circus stage. We demand the Light Merchant immediately remove Mr Nobody from Cirque du Roi’s Lineup!

2 months ago | 6,782 signatures | confirmed victory!

Livid doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Furious doesn’t begin to describe it.

My mask just manages to muffle the strangled, indignant scream that explodes its way out of me. And immediately I’m shouting at myself to get a grip, Jean, you worthless goddamned moron! Dave and Lyra are close enough to hear you and you can’t let them think you’re a crazy person. But this is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever seen, and I really do want to watch something shatter as I hurl it onto the ground. How did something so stupid get off the ground in the first place? How could it get nearly seven thousand signatures? And by ‘victory’, they mean they forced the Ringmaster’s hand, don’t they? It’s all so, so ridiculous that I don’t even know how to respond. “The audiences want you off the stage. If you’re there, they won’t watch at all. I’m sorry, Mr Nobody, but the show must go on.” That was what Mercier had said when he pulled me into his office one final time. Everybody had light inside of them, and it just so happened that mine had dimmed. Somehow, the fact that he didn’t apologise to me, but to my stage persona, had made the termination easier to bear.

I dig my nails into the broad side of the phone as my trembling threatens to overwhelm me.

But I have to go on. The show must go on. I stand, on my two unsteady feet, and hesitate. After thinking a while, I reach back and flush the toilet. The others can’t know that anything is wrong. I let the sink run for a count of five before I wrench it back off. The first step is hardest. I nearly trip on my way to unlatch the door, and that’s when I turn back and decide to splash some water onto my face. Pull yourself together, you useless wreck. Stop acting like a freak and get back out there.

I comb my hair with my fingers, letting it fall over my ears so Lyra won’t see that their tips are red. Gulping down mouthfuls of air that feel searing, I push the bathroom door back open and I stride onstage.

Through the hall, back to the living room. Lyra and Dave are still seated on the sofa, a box of tangerines on the table in front of them, and they’re deep in conversation. Delaney’s name is being tossed around, but all the words are just buzzing to me. All incomprehensible, and God, I’m so out of it. I try to slot myself back into place with the others. I sink into a chair and sit opposite Lyra, mostly so I won’t have to stare at Dave’s face, and I start, “So… what were you just talking about?”

Lyra glances disappointedly at the tangerines, as though she’s intending to slip that look past me. Dave answers, tight-lipped, “We were just talking about our families. As it turned out, Lyra’s family and my folks were both on the train to Spider’s Hollow last night. We ran into each other at the station. I helped interpret for her, and we’re just continuing our conversation.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, you being there made it bearable,” Lyra interjected. “I don’t know why I expected a f*cking Ballmark movie ending. Nope, parents still think I'm a disgrace to the family. Even though I’ll literally be six feet under as soon as the Demon gets killed. I should have seen off my friends and just left.”

But this isn’t what my attention latches onto. I ask Dave, still carefully averting my gaze, “What’s going to happen to your children?”

He sighs softly. “They’ll be brought up by my parents. I… was never able to repay them while I was living. I never wanted to place a burden on them.”

“What do you mean?” Lyra asks, sharply. “How old are your parents, Dave? Are they retired?”

“My father is. My mother planned to work for another two years. I assessed my life insurance coverage just the other day. With that, and if they’re very, very frugal…” he sighs again. “As much as I hate that phrase, it’s out of my hands. I can’t control their financial decisions in the future.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Lyra follows up, “So your brother won’t take in your children? I got the impression that he’d be more suited to the task.”

“He never liked children. University professor really was the ideal job for him. So why would I shove four kids at him? Besides, I don’t want to accept anything from him,” answers Dave, stiffly. “We’ve managed just fine in the past, and I know that we’ll continue to manage just fine.”

I see right through Dave’s attempts to downplay his true thoughts: Delaney absolutely cannot be trusted to treat four potentially-Defective children well.

Lyra notices another detail. “No, wind back. I know Professor Wilson is unmarried, but he’s looking. So if he were to die before he found someone…” She doesn’t have to finish the thought. We’ve all caught her drift. If Delaney died, all his assets would pass to his parents. The longer he stays alive, the greater the risk that he’ll get married, and his inheritance would go to his spouse instead. And Delaney is a candidate in a demon hunt, where just a few carefully-thought out words can kill.

“Are you saying I would kill my own brother for money? I’ve already said I don’t want it,” Dave sneers, with grim emphasis. “I’m not cold-blooded. Delaney and I had our differences, but I certainly don’t want him dead!”

Lyra shakes her head. Her eyes still hold a hint of doubt. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re a Barber and he’s a Mathematician —”

“So what?” I interject, louder than I intended. “So what if Dave’s a Barber and his brother is a Mathematician?”

She blinks back at me, uncomfortable. “A Mathematician makes more money, right?”

I dig my fingers into my thigh and apologise. Now I’m seeing aggression where there is none. Absolutely great. My sanity is doing wonders for me today. She nods to forgive me, but I can tell that she won’t forget this outburst any time soon.

“We, um,” I try to break the ice. “We should be talking about the discussion, right?”

Lyra closes her eyes and hums. “Right. Mar and I have talked extensively about this. Well, mostly, Mar was talking at me, since I spent the last couple of days in a daze. The gist of it is: we trust Dave, Mar’s final Dream leaves us with no room for doubt. Brye is kind of complicated because he’s a good friend, and Mar thought he had body-snatched Anita, but then Kasumi came along and threw a wrench in everything. But what I wanted to say is, we trust you. Or at least, you’re likely not the Demon. You wouldn’t scrape the top three of who I want executed today.” Her eyes flit toward Dave, and he gives her just a shadow of a nod. “And every time I think, this next discussion can’t get any crazier, I’m instantly proven wrong.”

“Maybe tonight, we’ll find out that you were the Fang Gu all along.” At Dave’s words, I flinch, but then I realise he’s addressing Lyra. “You would have had us all fooled.” But then, his expression collapses. “Truth be told, I don’t know who we should execute tonight. I’m relieved nobody died last night, of course, but it leaves us with more questions than answers.”

“Speaking of which…” I turn to Lyra. “You have some kind of rapport with the Professor, right? I’m wondering if you could possibly vouch for me, because he thinks I’m the No Dashii, which — swear on my life, I’m not. Laila is desperately trying to change his mind right now —”

“But that doesn’t make any sense!” she retorts. “How can you be the No Dashii, Jean? Mar’s Dream visions weren’t even wrong.”

It takes me a few seconds to realise that she’s not calling me a liar. Lyra crosses her arms and continues, “If I were to guess, though, I’d say that he’s putting pressure on Laila, not you. Laila sits next to you and Elliot, so in any case, it makes more sense for her to be the Eroder than for you to be.”

Dave nods thoughtfully. “Exactly. She’s a much stronger No Dashii candidate than you are, Jean. You couldn’t have pitted Elliot and Brye against each other, without some form of help from Laila. You couldn’t reach far enough.”

“The Demon isn’t Laila,” I burst out. “M-my spell exonerates her.”

“You’re next to her, Jean,” Dave reminds me. “If she’s the No Dashii, we can’t absolve her with your information.”

“Sergio can vouch for her too.”

Dave nods back at me, trusting his friend, but Lyra remains skeptical. “He might say that, but honestly? I trust Sergio as far as I can throw him, and I’m a wimpy art student.”

“Yulian clears her,” I shoot back. I’m reasoning that if people are genuinely convinced that it’s Laila, I have to defend her. And Yulian had told me to use his information well. I doubt he would mind if Lyra and Dave found out. I hurriedly explain, “He told me what he knew, right after he was taken away to be executed. He sent it to me via text message.”

Lyra’s triumphant laughter cuts through the air, and startled, we both turn to look at her. Her eyes are gleaming. “I knew it!”

“Knew what?” Dave prompts.

“Knew I should have trusted your brother from the start.” She pumps her fist in the air, and straightens up a little. “Professor Wilson is so f*cking awesome. All of us were just going to let Julian blackmail us, right? Because we needed his information and we didn’t want to lose it. But not Professor Wilson. He just said, all cool and composed, ‘I’m going to call your bluff’, and he did. And it worked!” Lyra then turns to me. “Jean, for what it’s worth, I really hope you’ll follow Professor Wilson’s lead tonight. He’s never steered us wrong. Take this as advice from someone who wants the best for this town: I really hope that the two candidates that I trust can find trust in each other.”

Dave sends me a furtive sideways glance.

I shake my head and groan out, “I don’t know how to feel about Wilson.”

“Then listen to this,” Lyra says, getting right up into my face. “Professor Wilson is a good man. He’s got his head screwed on right, and he’s got both the drive to be decisive, and the courage to be kind. If you have to trust somebody in this demon hunt, I say you should trust him.”

Dave’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. Almost like he’s in a different universe from us two. “I think what Jean means is that —”

“He said he didn’t know how to feel about him. I know what he means.” Lyra drives her hand through the pink section of her hair, and lets out a frustrated sigh. “Listen to me, Jean. Before all this Demon stuff happened… I wanted to go to Donohoe and study fine art. I knew there was a Donohoe professor in our town, and I didn’t get my hopes up, since he wasn’t even in the Arts Faculty. But I cold-called him and asked if we could meet up once he returned to the Bluff in the summer. I just planned to ask if he had any general advice on admissions. I was still a few years away from uni at that point.”

Listening to Lyra talk about her dreams, about what could have been, makes my fingers clench around each other without my noticing. Dave has sucked in his lips, and his expression is unreadable.

“He didn’t even know me, and still, he cashed in every favour he had to help me. He put me in touch with a student tutor at Donohoe, who walked me through the admissions process and gave me advice on my portfolio. He even offered to write me a glowing recommendation letter when the time came.” Lyra stands up and starts pacing around the room, her movements restless. A frantic energy is rapidly rising in her. “Professor Wilson cares about people, Jean. He cares about the community. You should have seen his speeches about diversity in STEM. And it’s not just words — he actually goes and brings in donors for Donohoe scholarships, and he’s organised so many workshops. I can’t talk about his contributions to engineering because maths might as well be gibberish to me, but I’m sure they’re incredible, too. But point is, Professor Wilson is a townsfolk to the core. Him, helping the Demon or being one? It’s the antithesis of everything he stands for.”

“I just don’t know!” I half-shout, half-plead. Dave turns to me in mild shock. He must think I’ve finally gone insane. I groan, knowing I’m not helping my own case. “He can help you and still be a cold, uncaring person to somebody else. He’s awful to his brother. He voted for Yulian’s death just to get back at him, without really caring if he’s a good Demon candidate. I just don’t know if that means Wilson is demonic. And I don’t want to trust him blindly.”

Dave raises a hand to stop me. He speaks, in the appeasing, self-sacrificing way someone does when they don’t want to make a fuss, “I understand the rest of what you’re saying. I just wouldn’t say Delaney is awful to me.”

“He called you slow, an idiot, and a selfish Defect,” I divulge quietly. “He said he was embarrassed to stand next to you in public. He wasn’t even ashamed of his thoughts; he told me all of that even though I’d only known him for a day at that point. I know he’s family, Dave. Just don’t pretend he’s a Saint.”

“He probably didn’t mean it. He was just stressed out, you know, from working on those drones all day,” Lyra counters quickly. “And with Julian, he’s willing to do what needs to be done, unlike the rest of the town. You have to give him that at least.”

Yulian’s death didn’t need to happen. But I can’t say that out loud to her.

“Truth be told, I think it was a mistake to execute Julian last night. Kasumi would have been a better choice,” Dave scratches the back of his neck. “But then again, I can’t make heads or tails of last night’s lack of a death.”

Lyra turns to him with a frown. “There’s only two explanations for what happened.” Either the Demon was transfigured into a different species, and the ritual took them all night. Or the Demon did nothing so that we would think a ritual had taken place.

“I know that,” he answers. “The consensus is that the demon is a Fang Gu. But we’re missing two Defects for that to be the case. I’ve started wondering if a Pit-Hag transfigured the Demon into a Fang Gu, preparing to switch vessels for one last time —”

“But Professor Wilson’s drones didn’t detect anything,” Lyra points out. “Save for the very niche case of it being a Vigormortis, and Sergio’s poison skipping over Julian to reach him. But like I said, it’s niche.”

“Then who are the two remaining Defects?” challenges Dave.

Lyra falters, her hands splayed out at her two sides. She must have seen the look in my eye, because she rushes to clarify. “No, Jean; chill. None of us think it’s you because none of us are brain-dead. Just cause you don’t like mainstream fashion doesn’t make you a Mutant.”

“You mean the mask?” I ask. She can’t be serious, right?

“Yeah, duh!” she exclaims. “You can dress any way you want. But people like Kasumi are going to project their insecurities onto you, because they secretly hate themselves. I mean, look at her. Just going off of what she told Laila, she’s had a nose job, IU injections —”

“What?”

“Skin bleaching? You know, making your skin tone lighter? Because why be comfortable in your own skin when you can make yourself look like a glowing light bulb, and then judge everyone else for not having work done? Eh, it sounded better when Laila said it.” She clicks her tongue, sinking back into her original seat on the sofa. “But you know what I mean, right? sh*tty attitude, weird fixation with appearances — I bet she’s an ugly Mutant.”

I swallow hard. I know people are critical of appearances, but I’ve always regarded Kasumi as someone above this kind of criticism. Part of her intimidation factor came from looking so well put together. And she’s not even a Mutant in the first place! So if she’s not safe…

I grip the sides of my chair, realising that all three of us have fallen silent. Each of us for a different reason. And when I finally break the silence by asking if they want to talk about the Demon, it’s already a few minutes later.

Option one: the Demon is under heavy suspicion, and had themselves transfigured into a Fang Gu so that they could body-snatch to safety. In this case, Wilson is likely a red-tokener of some sort.

Option two: the Demon was already a Fang Gu, but turned into one of the other demon types, in order to mess with our info gathering. We can check this against Laila’s plant records and Wilson’s probes when we meet them for the discussion later today.

Option three: the Demon wanted us to believe that one of the above had happened, and was willing to give us an extra execution to sell the lie.

Even with all the possibilities laid out, I don’t feel any more confident. The whole afternoon, we had worked on configurations, theorising about who was loyal and who was likely to be serving who. Lyra objected vehemently to any scenario where Wilson was guilty. Dave, on the other hand, agreed that his older brother wasn’t the kind of person to host a Demon, but he helped me place the tokens in my Grimoire. And every time he spoke, I found myself flinching away.

At some point, Mar comes home and joins us, but four heads aren’t any better than three. The only things that all four of us can agree on are that it’s not me, and it’s not Laila. Julian’s testing means that Laila’s innocence is iron-clad, and according to others, I’m too shy to not have immediately traded away my Demonhood the moment Dave died. But any of Wilson, Kasumi and Anita could be our Demon.

We decide to head out to the gazebo early, so we’ll have time to spare for the actual discussion. Mar offers to drive and they chat animatedly with Lyra as they go to get the car, and as we’re driving through the beautiful white brick houses of this town.

This could be the last time I see them as a human.

But I’ve spent the whole afternoon ruminating over the possibility of my own death. I don’t want to dwell on anxiety right now. I’d rather be distracted on the journey. So I casually ask Mar, “Have you two figured things out?”

“You mean how Em was blaming themselves for my death?” Lyra clarifies, looking over at her roommate in the driver’s seat. “Yeah, I seconded what you said. They shouldn’t have worried their pretty little head about it.”

“Oh, so you know what I said?” I check the time on my phone. 4:55 PM.

I can see Mar’s flush in the rearview mirror. “Yeah. Just assume anything that you say to one of us will reach the other as well. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Cause you’re best friends,” I say dryly.

They nod. “Yes, exactly.”

Dave raises an eyebrow, chiming in, “And you became roommates because the two of you are such good friends, right?”

Lyra looks starstruck for a brief moment, but then she frantically shakes her head. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying that we…”

“What? No. What?” Mar exclaims.

“Are you calling me gay?” Lyra demands, craning her neck to glare at Dave, who’s resting in the car’s backseat with a faint smirk. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being gay, of course. I am just a person who happens to not be gay.”

Dave just nods with an unconvincing “Alright”, and around that same time, we pull up to the gazebo. He and I disembark first, and turn to each other.

“You guys call them the Ten-Year Marvel, right?” I ask, with a quick glance at the car window. Lyra is gesturing animatedly, probably saying something only Mar can hear, while Mar themselves just look flustered. “I think that duration may have been an underestimate.”

“They still have a little bit of time, those crazy kids.” Dave motions for me to walk with him toward the gazebo. Why is he so nice to me? I haven’t done anything to earn his friendship. “Maybe in some crazy parallel universe, we could have witnessed the birth of the Fifty-Year Marvel.”

I walk several paces behind him, avoiding his gaze. Fifty is a little extreme… or not. Speculating about what might have happened in a world without the Demon is not going to be productive.

I don’t know how to feel about Lyra. I don’t know how to feel about Dave either, for that matter. Maybe the way I feel is irrelevant.

Early as we are, we aren’t the first ones to arrive. We see Brye mid-rant, making exaggerated gestures at a laptop computer that’s on the table, open in front of himself, Laila and Anita. Laila has her arms crossed over her chest, and Anita looks like she’s trying to fade into the background. Off to one side, staring blankly into the distance, is Yulian’s ghost.

Laila and Anita both greet us. Brye doesn’t, too engrossed in whatever explanation he’s currently in the middle of. Dave walks up to join them, perfectly pleasant. I just wave and beeline towards Yulian instead.

“Hey,” I call out, leaning in slightly over his chair. His pallid face is slightly translucent; I can see the flowering trees in his eyes and the clouds in his skin. Recognition dawns on him, and he slowly signs something I don’t understand. Maybe I should have learnt the signs myself. It would come in handy if I were to die, anyway. But all I can do is call Dave over and ask him to translate.

“‘Sergio’...” he murmurs. “No, Julian, this is Jean. Sergio isn’t here yet.”

Yulian looks like he wants to sign more, but it’s hard to retain the group’s attention when everybody around you can speak and you’re the sole person without a voice. When he falters for a second, Brye fills the silent gap and resumes speaking, “I’ve already categorised all the possible transfigurations last night and who’s likely to be the Demon depending on the species of Demon. If they became No Dashii, the one person who is sure to benefit is Wilson. Nobody else can benefit without his help, because Professor Wilson received yet another night of no signals —”

“Laila,” I interrupt. “Last night, your Demon’s bane — did it wilt?”

“Yes, of course. All of us voted yesterday.”

“So it’s not a Vortox,” I conclude, but it’s Brye’s turn to interrupt me now.

“It’s not a Vortox if Laila is not lying. Don’t forget that conditional, Jean.” He adjusts the computer’s orientation so that it’s facing me as well. “Keep in mind, though, that if we have a Pit-Hag, then that’s four nights of no transformations that we have to account for.”

“One possibility that I discussed with Jean and the others, is that the Pit-Hag has been laying low and disguising their presence, by only making transformations that they know can hide,” Dave suggests. “Like transfiguring their teammates, or people into Defects. They’d be too ashamed to speak up.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Brye says absently. “My original point is, at this stage of the hunt, the Demon doesn’t really benefit from turning into a Vigormortis, and turning into a No Dashii is stupid for basically everyone aside from Wilson. So if we think that it was the Eroder from the start, we go for Wilson. Anything else — Anita.”

Anita looks as though she’s going to faint. Meanwhile, I’m thinking back to the configurations that we built at Mar’s house. Anita can’t be the Demon unless Laila is lying, and Laila can’t be lying. But it can’t be that simple, can it?

Could Anita be the Demon? Well, for one, she isn’t the Demon who first invaded the town. Laila’s plant was in full bloom on the second day, and Wilson’s probes confirm that the plant wasn’t malfunctioning. Maybe Brye or Sergio could have body-snatched Anita, or she was crowned the Demon in the aftermath of Dave’s death? But Laila’s records contradict that yet again. Is Sergio trustworthy after all? Because I’m really not seeing a source of contamination for Laila’s magic —

“Jean, do you have a second?” Laila asks, streamlining towards me. I notice Anita clinging onto her arm, trying to stop her, but a sharp warning from Laila silences her. “Hey. Jean. You and Anita should really go for a walk together. Right now.”

“Why her?” I ask, not questioning her judgement, just curious.

“Why me?” Anita squeals at the same time. She sounds so genuinely afraid of me that I almost defy Laila for her sake.

“Anita, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” I begin, with a half-glance at Laila. “We’ll still see each other at the discussion, so —”

“No. Jean. Listen to me. You need to talk to each other somewhere nobody will be able to overhear. The only way to do so is to get away from everybody else.” Laila’s dark eyes are glinting dangerously, and they send a shudder up my spine. “She thinks you’re a demon-servant, which you obviously aren’t. So talk to her, will you?”

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes, n4 yes, n5 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d3)Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Kasumi, Jean, Elliot
  - d4) Jean, Anita, Kasumi, Delaney, Julian
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1, n3 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1-5 0)
• Julian [died d4] - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2 Snake Charmer
  - n1) Laila
  - n2) Jean
  - n3) Lyra
  - n4) Laila
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher
  - n3) Sage
  - n4) Kasumi or Delaney
  
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier
  - n2) Lyra, Mar, Delaney, Kasumi (yes)
  - n4) Jean (yes) ?
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant Outsider → Fang Gu → Snake Charmer
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 18: borrowed time

Chapter Text

Anita lowers her head and immediately lets out a soft whimper. Her hand flies to the pendant on her necklace, covering it protectively. I feel almost bad for her when she turns to Laila, her eyes wide and pleading, “You shouldn’t have said anything. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have —”

Laila’s hand clamps around her shoulder. “Go. With. Him. We’re working on borrowed time here.”

Something in Anita’s expression changes, and she nods: once, twice, three times. “Um. Jean? I… I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?” I ask.

“She’s sorry for being about to accuse you of serving the Demon. And she’s accusing you because she gathered some information that seems to suggest that is the case. I told her to talk it out with you.” Laila flashes me a smile, the same one that she always does to cheer me up, but part of me shivers at the sight of it. “Isn’t that right, Nita?”

Anita doesn’t answer right away. Laila gives her shoulder another squeeze, and then she shoves the blonde towards me. I don’t think she intended to use as much force as she did, but the end result is that she sends Anita flailing, which only comes to a stop when she crashes into my chest. She jerks back as if electrocuted, mumbles another apology, and nods.

“Anita, it’s okay,” I swallow hard. “Just show me the evidence against me.” And please, I silently pray, don’t let the case be strong.

As we set off, I can’t help noticing Anita seems even more nervous than I am. She hugs herself, mumbling something quietly, but every time I ask her to repeat herself because I can’t hear her, she just shakes her head and says it’s nothing. Aren’t I the one being interrogated? Because she has nothing to worry about. There’s no valid configuration where she’s the Demon, so today’s discussion is going to be centred around Kasumi and Wilson… and possibly me.

We head to the woods that circle the edge of the gazebo, so that we’re still in sight of the other candidates, but out of earshot. The trees are a brilliant shade of violet at this time of the year, and the sun is just hot enough to warm us, but not enough for us to break a sweat just by standing in its light. But as I’m admiring the view, there’s a startled yelp from next to me. It’s like a scene from an old animated movie. A bird has landed on Anita’s arm, and two squirrels are sniffing her like she’s a sausage on two legs. Do squirrels even eat sausage? — anyway Anita is shrieking and failing to bat them away. I try to help her, but the woodland critters just keep coming and coming. They ignore me and zip straight toward her until she’s knocked off her feet by the sheer quantity. What’s going to happen if she gets pecked to death? I decide that I don’t want to find out, so I redouble my efforts of shouting and waving my arms. When we’ve chased away most of them, we both catch our breath and then turn to each other.

“What,” I gasp, “in the name of Shabaloth was that?” She must have attracted every bird within a five-mile radius.

“The reason why I’m not an outdoors person. I don’t know.” Anita laughs shakily, dusting off her trousers as she gets back to her feet. “Maybe this is a sign. Maybe the Grim Creator is trying to tell us that this walk was a bad idea.”

“Yeah. Who knows if he’ll sic a lion on us next.” But even as I say this, I stop in my tracks. Turning back toward the gazebo, I can still make out the miniature shapes of Brye, Laila and the others. “Or, maybe someone really wants to keep us from talking to each other.”

“But who would do such a thing?” Anita frowns. “I don’t mean in terms of motive, because that’s so obvious that it goes without saying — but who would be able to target us from all the way over at the gazebo, and over and over? The only person we know who can control animals is Julian.”

“But he specialises in snakes,” I frown. My guess would have been Sergio, but I don’t see him at the gazebo. I shake my head and sigh. “I take it this has never happened before?”

She bites her lower lip. “No, never.”

“Maybe you had something in your pockets. Maybe it was your deodorant.” But even as I offer up these excuses, I find them unconvincing.

“Maybe.” Anita hugs her own arms, as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. “So many changes are happening at once, and I don’t know how to deal with any of them. There are so many problems, Jean, and none of them have answers. Or at least, none of them have satisfactory answers and I’m starting to worry whether trying my best at this point is even enough. I wish we could all just stop killing each other.”

Her words take me by surprise.

I breathe out deeply, trying to orient myself. “Just hang on for a moment more,” I say, but I can feel my own voice tremble. How am I supposed to convince her if I can’t even convince myself? And even as she nods, I can see the obvious doubt. “We’re going to catch this Demon. And then we can all go back to our normal lives… as best as can be expected, I guess.”

“Well, about that…” Anita trails off. She turns her face away from me as she reaches into her backpack, and pulls out the notebook that I’ve seen her writing in during the discussions. “Jean, I- I’m sorry. I really, truly don’t want to do this any more than you do. And if the circ*mstances were different —”

“Anita, I’m not going to fly off the handle.” I hold up both hands in front of me, and even take a few paces back to give her the space she needs. “I’m not going to make trouble for you just because I don’t like what the evidence says about me. But if Laila thinks it’s important that we talk, I’d like to take a look —”

“Do you trust Laila?” Anita asks, softly.

“Of course. I mean, you think I’m assisting the Demon, but you don’t think the Demon is Laila, right?” I hurriedly confirm. “So there’s absolutely no use in building configurations where Laila is with the reds. She would never be one of them, end of.”

“The Demon isn’t Laila,” Anita agrees. She heaves out a great sigh. It takes a while for her to flip open the notebook, and finally find the right page. “The day Elliot was, um… right. Apologies. What I meant was, you were the only one to nominate on that day, and the bell rattled when I rang it, so…”

The rows of records are outlined clearly in impeccable handwriting. Night two: Delaney, Lyra, Mar, Kasumi (yes). Night three: Kasumi, Mar, Julian, Jean (yes). Night four: Jean (yes). Night five: Delaney, Kasumi, Laila, Julian (yes).

Anita points to the words as I’m looking over them. “Since I got a positive result every night, I thought I should limit my search to names that appeared at least twice, which would be Mr. Wilson, Kasumi and you. It’s possible for either of those two to be the Demon-servant, really, and it’s even possible for one of them to be the starting Demon-servant only to wind up as the Demon’s host later on… but what remains constant is the fact that you were the only one to nominate on the third day. So based on what’s written down here… I can only conclude that you’re the Demon’s servant.”

I rack my brain for an excuse. “Your bell rattled every night, though,” I murmur. “I’m not drawing any conclusions yet, but could someone have tampered with your bell?”

Anita seems to genuinely consider the possibility. But she shakes her head, “We ruled out the Illusionist on the first day. Are you saying it’s a Vigormortis? Brye is my neighbour, after all, but… I thought the Demon was a Fang Gu? At least, that’s what everyone else suggested.”

“But there may have been a Demon transformation last night,” I stress, “and that changes everything. The Demon could have been some other species before, and then changed into a Fang Gu.”

Anita sighs again. “So what are you saying? Has my magic really been tampered with?”

“Can you remind me again, who do you sit next to?”

“Um, Brye and Dave.”

Suddenly, it clicks into place. “And Kasumi is next to Dave. Right?” I catch her nod. “If Kasumi were the No Dashii, her poison would have passed through Dave unaffected, and gone straight into you.”

“That makes sense,” she starts. “But…”

I try working this out in my head. Kasumi would have been eroding Lyra Khan’s magic as well — for simplicity’s sake, I’ll assume that everyone she drew were matching pairs, and they’re all on the side of the town. That’s Yulian, Anita, Brye and Sergio cleared. There’s the matter of Laila’s records, though, and they show that Kasumi couldn’t be the Demon’s host, at least not until Dave was executed. But that can be explained away by a barbaric transfiguration, and the starting No Dashii would have to be either Elliot or Delaney. The other would be the second Demon-servant. It fits together.

“So, Jean,” Anita begins. She looks supremely unhappy, and I can’t blame her. “Have you decided? You’re going to go after Kasumi?”

I shake my head. Kasumi is just one of two people that Sergio has accused, and it could still be Wilson. No, scratch that. I can’t explain why, but it just makes more sense in my head for the Demon to be Wilson. He could be the No Dashii, but that would require Anita to be one of his servants. Or maybe…

Could it be true? I remember Dave suggesting that the Pit-Hag had been transfiguring people into Defects. And when Anita was attacked by all those birds, she didn’t use magic to fight them off.

But if I raised the question, she would just ask why I didn’t use magic either.

Maybe she just didn’t want to hurt a bunch of animals? But she could have picked up a branch and waved it…

“I don’t want to go after anyone,” Anita admits, playing with the pendant of her necklace. “I just want it all to be over.”

“You can say that again,” I sigh. But there’s no way but through. Someone is going to be executed today, and if necessary, the process will repeat tomorrow. More and more bodies will hit the floor and more ghosts will spring up from the remains.

“Julian was innocent, wasn’t he?” she continues, with a bitterness that I didn’t know she was carrying. “Him, Mar, Lyra, Dave. All of them were innocent. All of them.”

“Anita —” I begin.

“None of this would have happened if this stupid Demon hadn’t reared its awful head in our town!” The words keep coming and coming. Like a slightly distorted video tape that’s been destroyed by throwing it against the wall. And I don’t know how to react to her outburst. “Sergio doesn’t talk about it because he keeps to himself, and Elliot doesn’t talk about it because they’re too proud. But I’m not as strong as they are. I don’t even recognise myself in the mirror anymore, because all I feel is this profound disgust, for going along with what everyone tells me to do in the demon hunt. Did you know, Jean, that Julian broke down as soon as we got out of the van? I tried comforting him but he wouldn’t listen to a word of it. We each took one of his arms and had to guide him towards it. Then the barrier absorbed him, and he — melted —”

“Just a little bit more,” I remind her, trying to sound firm, but Anita’s face just falls even further. I gently begin guiding her back, and when she starts walking, it’s with a little wobble. She grabs onto my arm for balance, clinging on like she would her lifeline. I turn and ask her, “Do you want to stay here a little longer?”

She manages to shake her head just before she bursts out crying.

“Anita, Anita, come on,” I cajole. “We’re all in the same boat. Just stay strong for a little longer. We’re going to kill the Demon, and then we’ll have all the time in the world to heal. Let’s go back and find Laila.” But even as I say this, I feel hollow inside. I’m selling her a fantasy that I don’t even believe in. She collapses in on herself, so I do the only thing I know what to do.

Every eye in the gazebo is on me as I drag a sobbing Anita up the white steps. They’re probably thinking I made her cry, and in all fairness, I did. But thankfully, Laila comes forward to receive her, and she wraps her in a comforting hug. Elliot floats up to join in, and they murmur something into their friend’s ear. Something about this display rubs me the wrong way, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.

“Jean,” Sergio approaches me, Lyra half a step behind. He holds one hand out. “Your ID, please.”

Right. After the Twin fiasco, the others had decided to check everybody’s birthday against everybody else’s. I pull out my wallet and show them my birth certificate, which Lyra inspects with a frown.

“Nobody else has theirs in September, so you’re in the clear,” she begins, looking to Sergio for confirmation. “It’s just that… nobody else brought their birth certificate. Can’t you show me your ID card instead? Driver’s licence? Anything with, you know… a photo. So we can check that it’s really you.”

I internally groan. “Is that really necessary? I’m not claiming to be anyone’s long-lost brother, and nobody is claiming to be mine, either.”

“It isn’t,” Sergio agrees. Lyra gives him a weird look, but he explains, “Laila called him a Virgo. It was before the idea of Twins even came up in our discussion, so I don’t think they coordinated that. Who else do we still have to check?”

They leave, Lyra grumbling under her breath that we should have done this since the beginning… and I’m honestly a little taken aback. I have a vague memory of Laila saying something like that, now that Sergio’s mentioned it. I’m impressed that he even remembers such a detail.

“Hi, Jean.” Wilson appears by my side, and a sense of profound dread immediately washes over me. He’s clutching several sheets of paper and a packet of permanent markers, and he’s dressed to impress — or impose. “I haven't managed to catch up with you since the second day. How are you feeling tonight?”

“I’m fine,” I manage, looking away.

“Well, that’s to be expected. No matter what happens tonight, there’s no hard feelings, alright? We’re just two men, trying our best to stop the Demon from destroying our town. Unless you’re not.” I don’t laugh. He doesn’t notice. Wilson claps his hands for attention, and raises his voice so that the whole gazebo can hear, “I believe everybody has arrived. But before we begin the discussion proper, I have a request to make of all the living candidates.”

We gradually return to our seats — I’m the exception, as I practically run to mine. I see that Anita is still sniffling, Laila looks nervous, and Yulian is staring straight ahead. I swallow hard and try commanding myself to focus. Kasumi starts passing out homemade lunch boxes and I gratefully receive mine, having eaten nothing all day apart from a few tangerines that I had at Mar and Lyra’s house.

“That looks time-consuming,” Mar murmurs, looking over my shoulder. I lift the lid to reveal a boxed meal that’s been decorated to look like a garden. On a bed of fried rice, various vegetables have been cut into flower shapes with what I assume is a cookie cutter. To keep with the theme, some of the dishes in the side compartments have also been topped with edible flowers. The whole thing looks more like an art piece than like food.

Lyra raises an eyebrow. “Well, when nobody wants to talk to you…”

Suddenly, Laila grumbles, “Oh, come on!” Apparently, her portion contains all the carrot and potato scraps that our dinners’ flowers were made of. A brief look around the table confirms that Laila’s box is the only one that isn’t pretty. She huffs, face turning red, “She is such a petty f*cking bitch, I swear it would kill her to keep her mouth shut for just one day.”

Once we settle down and start eating, Wilson resumes his earlier speech. “We are nearing the end of the hunt. A few of our ghostly friends may be interested in using their last chance today. So in the interest of keeping them well-informed, I think we should all make a show of our intentions.” He passes us five survivors a sheet of paper and a marker each. “I want you to write your name on the top corner, and make a numbered list. Number one is who you think is the best execution. Number two is your second choice; it can be the person you’d like to vote for in the event that your number one choice doesn’t garner enough support, or the person you would vote for if number one turns out to not be the Demon. Number three is your third choice, and so forth, until you’ve listed all four of the other candidates. Turn your list over when you’re done, and we will all reveal our choices at the same time.”

I scribble my name at the top, and write down the numbers one to four, but then my pen pauses on the sheet, leaving a huge blot of ink. Laila is my number four, no question about that, and Anita is going to be my number three because Laila vouches for her. So now all this comes down to what order to put Wilson and Kasumi in.

When push comes to shove, they’re both equally compelling candidates, and there are working configurations where either of them is the Demon. Laila’s records clear Anita of being the Demon, but she could still be a servant, and all the crying would simply be an act. Or maybe nerves.

But she’s right. I don’t want anybody to die.

Ultimately, I decide to make Wilson my number one, and flip my sheet over, glad that I’m not the last to finish. Anita is frowning over her sheet of paper, and Wilson is scratching his head, which surprises me. As he was the one who suggested the exercise, I’d thought he would already have his list in mind.

On the count of three, we all reveal what we’ve written. Since I’m next to her, I read Laila’s list first, and my eyebrows raise. (1) Delaney, (2) Kasumi, (3) Anita, (4) Jean. I’m pleasantly surprised that she put me last, especially considering how Anita’s been friends with her for longer. Maybe she just meant that she doesn’t want either of us to be executed and put us in a random order, but the thought is reassuring.

Trembling, Anita holds up (1) Kasumi, (2) Delaney, (3) Jean, (4) Laila. Again, nothing out of the ordinary, but the others can probably see a pattern forming. Three of us have put either Wilson or Kasumi as our first choice, which is enough to form a majority.

I think Wilson has noticed the same pattern, judging by how his mouth twists into a grim line. He knows that he has the most allies of all the living candidates, but every one of them is dead. Nevertheless, he brandishes his choice unflinchingly: (1) Laila, (2) Anita, (3) Kasumi, (4) Jean.

“Kasumi, why can’t you follow basic instructions?” Mar’s shrill voice rings out, and I immediately look in the direction they’re pointing. Kasumi has written (1) Anita, underlined it twice, and stopped right there.

Kasumi’s eyes are squeezed shut, and she’s clutching her forehead, like she’s trying to block out all the voices that don’t agree with her. “Because the Demon is Anita, and I will not vote for any nomination that is not hers!” I’m concerned that this is going to devolve into yet another squabbling match, but it seems that everyone has learnt their lesson from yesterday. Mar just sighs loudly and doesn’t try to engage again, allowing Wilson to resume talking.

“Well, thank you all for your cooperation,” he says easily, taking another purview around the table. “I seem to have won. In any one-on-one matchup, more than half the living candidates would prefer to execute me over the other person, and I’m sure that certain members of our panel are already itching to do so. Can anybody tell me what’s wrong with executing off of this information alone?”

Silence envelops the gazebo.

Wilson continues, without any hint of faltering, “Executing me based on this data alone would be a grave mistake, because we’d be giving the votes of liars and murderers equal weight to those who care about the future of the town. That can’t be right, can it? Hence, I cannot be the Demon. Now, my fellow loyalists, I have been forthcoming with the knowledge that I have for the entirety of the hunt. All I ask is that you trust me, because if red and blue both want me executed, it can only mean that red is using me as a scapegoat, and blue has been duped by red.” He holds up his own sheet of paper. “Going back to the exercise for a moment, I’m sure that the loyalists among you have given a lot of thought to who the Demon could be. And for those of you who aren’t loyal, you must have similarly put a lot of thought into who would be easy to frame. Which is why I’m going to completely disregard what everyone has written as their top choices.”

The pit in my stomach continues to grow.

“I think the fairest measure of our intentions are our bottom choices. Imagine, if a Demon-servant is still walking among us, who would they choose as the person they least want executed? Their Demon, of course. Now, I can’t help noticing that Laila is by far the most popular bottom choice. But at the same time, I understand that any support for her nomination will be limited.”

“I’m not the Demon,” Laila’s face flushes even darker. “Don’t accuse me just because everybody else is vouching for me. Whether or not people trust me is not something I have control over!”

Wilson pushes his dinner aside, still untouched. “I haven’t accused you yet, Laila, I was pointing out a pattern. But of course, you are free to defend yourself, and the rest of us are free to see you as unduly defensive.”

“Can I?” Mar whispers in my ear. I nod breathlessly, and they address him, “Professor, the Demon really can’t be Laila. Julian tested her with his snakes, and then tested her again on the night before his execution. I think Jean and Anita both ranked her last because they knew that info.”

“Just to be pedantic for a second, Laila could have passed his test and then been possessed by Sergio,” Brye interjects. “Most of the snakes in this area are diurnal, so Julian would have had to act immediately after the discussion. Whereas, I imagine a Fang Gu would want to perform its covenant as late into the night as possible.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Sergio comments. Brye doesn’t bat an eye at the praise; he just nods coolly.

“Is this an accusation, Brye?” Anita tries to clarify. “Are you formally accusing Laila?”

“Now hold on just one second,” Laila growls. The whole table turns to her as she jumps to her feet, but then she falters. “For starters… which one of you is Sergio?”

Sergio, his cheeks now dark blue — the ghost’s equivalent of blushing, I guess — raises his hand. “Oh, Samuel,” Laila harrumphs, and sits back down. “I completely forgot about you. My mistake. Continue.”

Mar looks like they’re holding back a shocked laugh, watching Sergio’s face turn even redder. Er, bluer. “I don’t think Laila has ever looked in Sergio’s direction, much less colluded with him,” they say with a shrug. “So yeah. Unless we have evidence that directly implicates those two, there’s no point in considering fringe scenarios.”

Wilson nods gravely. “You’re right,” he relents. “In that case, I think that the best nomination for today would be Kasumi.”

“You put Kasumi as number three. Your number two was Anita,” Sergio points out, leaning slightly over the table to point at Wilson’s list. “I’m not saying you can’t skip over Anita, but you have to give a reason why. You’ve been capricious the last few days, and oftentimes, I don’t even know what’s going on in your head.”

“Wait,” I call out, connecting the dots. “Sergio, does Wilson know about… what you told me?”

He nods, and it finally hits me. Wilson knows that Sergio has the demon narrowed down to two people. Assuming Wilson is what he claims to be, if we execute Kasumi and she turns out to be the Demon, all well and good. Otherwise, the Demon’s lot would try to scapegoat him on the final day, but he would be able to push back with the combined votes of himself, Mar, Lyra and Dave. And if Wilson is evil, then it’s still optimal for him to fake the same thought process.

“It’s the fifth day of the hunt. I think you should lay everything out on the table,” I say, desperately hoping that this is the right decision. “Which means your information, Sergio. And Anita’s. And Yulian’s.”

A deep silence falls over the table as we take turns summarising what we’ve learnt, and whispers are exchanged among neighbours. Sergio tells everyone that he has the Demon narrowed down to Kasumi and Wilson, while I tell the town on Yulian’s behalf that Lyra, Laila and myself are in the clear. Is it my imagination, or does something in Brye’s jaw stiffen? Anyway, I don’t have time to dwell on it because Wilson lets out a sigh. “It’s exactly as I feared. Not the part about Sergio’s spell — I knew that already, but Anita’s information matches our worst-case scenario.”

“Honestly, I don’t think it can get any worse,” Laila snarks. “The Demon was probably transfigured into a Fang Gu last night, and if we don’t nab them today, they’ll die and nestle themselves into a more trusted host. By the time we all wake up tomorrow, the Demon could well be anyone.”

“What if it’s the other way round?” Wilson challenges. “What if the Demon was already a Fang Gu, and well trusted, and only accepted the transfiguration in order to further muddle our minds?”

Brye crosses his arms, an uneasy look on his face. “But we’re missing two Defects. I think it’s more plausible that we have one hiding Defect instead of two.”

“Well, since you’ve brought that up, I have a few questions for you,” Wilson turns to him. His voice has dropped to a low growl, which would have terrified the living daylights out of me. But Brye just lounges in his chair, staring back, fairly nonchalant. “Bryan, what happened after you died? Tell me everything you remember, with specific times if you can.”

Brye throws him a weird glance, but then Sergio leans in to murmur something in his ear. This causes Brye to nod, and he recounts, “After the attack, I sat in my room until daylight, making configurations and trying to narrow down to who the Demon could be. At one point, I texted Kasumi, and asked her to meet up. I think that was at around two or three o’clock —”

“Did you message anyone aside from her?” Wilson presses, and Brye shakes his head. “That’s odd. It would have been one thing if you contacted everyone you were remotely friendly with. But why Kasumi? Why not contact one of your friends, like Laila or Mar?”

Brye blinks back at him. “I don’t understand what you’re asking. At that point in time, I still thought of Kasumi as my friend. Why couldn’t I have contacted her?”

“I can’t be the only one who finds that strange, can I?” Wilson turns to the rest of us. “You’re a teenage boy who spends most of the year at university in a different town. She’s a grown woman who barely leaves her house. That’s not even accounting for the age difference between you. Wouldn’t the two of you move in completely different circles?

Brye turns to Kasumi with a ‘look at the kind of bull I have to put up with’ expression, but then he falters, probably remembering her betrayal. His expression quickly snaps back to neutral. “Mr. Wilson, sometimes two people can be friends purely because they enjoy each other’s company. Please don’t read so much into it; you’ll only end up seeing things that aren’t there.”

“I’ll explain once I’ve finished my line of questioning,” Wilson responds coldly. “So you asked Kasumi to meet up with you. When did she reply and where did you two meet?”

“Around five-thirty. She told me she had just been worshipping at the Temple of the Storyteller, and I drove out to meet her.”

Wilson’s eyes narrow. “You’re saying that not only you, but Kasumi was also awake and busy in the wee hours of the morning.”

“I figured she wouldn’t be able to sleep. I’m sure you mean well, professor, but we won’t get anywhere if you nitpick at every damn word that I say.” The last part comes out bitter; in a teeth-clenched hiss. Brye is losing it.

Wilson ignores his outburst. “Then the two of you went to the gazebo to check the results of the previous night’s fireworks show. You saw that Jean’s bucket contained three balls, while Bryan’s had been scrubbed clean, correct?” Brye nods, and I find myself nodding too — argh, I’m so easily influenced. “And afterward, what happened?”

“We sat there for a long time,” Brye gestures with his hands. “I mean, Kasu did. She had a headache that morning, and at one point, I went to get her coffee and ibuprofen. I set up a breakfast date at Laila’s house, and I told her that maybe it was for the best if she didn’t go, maybe I could drop her off at her house and head there alone, but she insisted on being there.”

“So Kasumi wasn’t driving?” Wilson presses further. “You’re making it sound like you picked her up in your car, and offered to take her home. But the Storyteller’s temple is on the fringes of the town, so how would she have gotten there? I’m sure a bright, intelligent boy like you wouldn’t have neglected to mention you left her car parked outside the temple —”

“For God’s sake, who cares?” Elliot interrupts. “Who cares about a single detail that you just asked?”

“Just one more question.” Wilson suddenly turns to face me. “Laila lives with Jean, doesn’t she? Was Jean at the breakfast meeting?”

I didn’t expect him to look at me. It’s like I’ve been doused by an ice shower, struck by lightning, every cliché in the book you can think of. All I can do is force my head to nod.

“There you have it.” Wilson suddenly stands up. “Jean had been talking about how he knew somebody was a Defect, but it’s been several days, and yet for some reason, he refuses to disclose who it is. I propose that Jean was the Defect in question.”

“What?” Mar cries out, immediately craning their neck to look at me. “But that’s not possible, that’s —”

“That lines up with Bryan’s answers to all my questions just now,” Wilson finishes. “He never intended to perform a covenant. He only wanted to stop Jean from getting what he thought was going to be invaluable information, and by complete accident, he wound up snatching Jean’s body. In a panic, he left Laila to deal with Jean — as his childhood friend, she would have the best chance of convincing him not to turn himself in. Meanwhile, he sent a message to Kasumi and asked her to meet up so they could work out a plan. That would explain why the two of them were awake at five in the morning, and why Kasumi wasn’t driving, because she was simply never at the temple. Bryan picked her up in his car and they went to the gazebo. They transferred Bryan’s three balls to Jean’s bucket, and emptied out Bryan’s, to make it look like the Demon had sabotaged him. Then, they regrouped with the other two, and caught Jean up to speed over breakfast at Laila’s house. If this scenario is true, then Anita and I are the only loyalists still alive.”

My hand snaps onto Laila’s shoulder before I’ve even realised it. She hisses a little in shock, and at first she bats me away, but then her fingers clench around my wrist instead. Judging from the way Anita chews on the end of her pen, she’s not entirely convinced. Mar, however, mumbles aloud, “But didn’t Julian audit Jean first thing during the second night — oh! Jean passed the inspection, and then got body-snatched by the Fang Gu. Because, as Brye has kindly informed us, the snakes are diurnal.”

Yulian just sucks in his lips. Whatever he feels about me exposing his information like this, he doesn’t show it.

Meanwhile, Lyra turns away from her roommate, a stormy expression on her face. Wilson continues, “I don’t imagine Jean was keen on remaining as the Demon’s host. He’s too… easily affected. He visited me later that day, presumably on Bryan’s orders, and we chatted about our town’s Defect problem. He was sensitive to everything that I said and took it very personally, which was my first clue that he wasn’t who he claimed to be. Either way, he used my brother’s death to advance his own interests — Laila was later cleared, so the new host would have to be Kasumi.”

“Well, we aren’t a hundred percent certain,” Mar cautions. “If this scenario is real, there’s one more Defect hiding among our members. And if that Defect was Julian, then it’s absolutely possible for Laila to be the host.” Laila’s nails dig into my skin now. I’m too horrified to focus on the pain. “But, considering the fact that we have Sergio’s information, the current host has to be Kasumi. She faked Madness in a failed attempt to convince us all that she was really an innocent victim. That’s the scenario that makes the most sense to me right now.”

I eye the woman in question warily — she’s been surprisingly quiet so far. “Um. Are we sure that Kasumi is only pretending to be Mad? Didn’t Dave say something yesterday about how it wasn’t possible?”

“I was very biased,” Dave admits. “My conversation with Lyra was fresh in my mind, and she said that —”

“Wait. Hold on,” Wilson silences him with a fierce glare. “Let Lyra say it herself. What did you say to Dave?”

Lyra wilts under the pressure of being scrutinised by eleven people at the same time. She turns bright red, stammering out, “No, no! Forget I said anything to Dave. It was completely irrelevant and honestly really stupid, and I didn’t think that what I said would even affect his thoughts to such a degree. I wasn’t even able to say it very well, in fact, because I was still non-verbal at the time and I was just signing long strings of words, and I think I might have got them wrong —”

“It sounds like you’ve got a reason to believe that Kasumi hasn’t gone Mad,” Elliot stresses, deadly precise. “So show us your working. How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“I had a reason to think so yesterday,” she protests. “But then last night happened, and… it doesn’t matter now.”

Mar bites their lip, and takes Lyra’s hand into their lap. “I care what you have to say. Can you start from the beginning and tell us what your thoughts were?”

Lyra covers her face, desperately averting her eyes from everyone at the table. She stammers, “Well, the Demon has either a Cerenovus or a Pit-Hag in their arsenal, right? Mar died at the hands of the Witch, so the Demon can’t have both a Cerenovus and a Pit-Hag. And the lack of a death last night was the Pit-Hag’s calling card.”

“I follow so far,” Mar says, nodding.

“So for Kasumi’s Madness to hold true, the Demon must have had a Witch and a Pit-Hag at the start. The Pit-Hag must have later transfigured the Witch into the Cerenovus. So if there’s no Pit-Hag, Kasumi can’t be Mad.”

“Lyra, I agreed with you up till the last sentence,” Sergio murmurs, nodding along. “Could you explain that point further? Why can’t Kasumi be a Madwoman, even in the absence of a Pit-Hag? Why couldn’t the two servants simply be a Cerenovus and a Witch?”

“Because, well,” she sputters wildly. She buries her face in her hands, but even so, she can’t escape. Resigned, she mumbles, “When I was with Dave, I had a thought. A really stupid thought, now that I think about it — but Kasumi only started acting weirdly yesterday. So who was hexed before Kasumi?”

At Lyra’s words, the spoon clatters from my slack fingers. The clang it makes when it collides with the table is deafening, but my ears are impenetrable.

Who was hexed before Kasumi?

Because if there was no Pit-Hag to transfigure their teammates, we have three nights of missing Cerenovus activity to account for. So if we assume that Kasumi has truly gone Mad, it’s possible that the Cerenovus simply concealed themselves on the first three days by targeting themselves, but that’s a completely illogical waste of such a nefarious ability —

“Isn’t it quite obvious, though?” Brye asks rhetorically, with a tilt of his head. “It was Jean.”

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes, n4 yes, n5 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d3)Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Kasumi, Jean, Elliot
  - d4) Jean, Anita, Kasumi, Delaney, Julian
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1, n3 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1-5 0)
• Julian [died d4] - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2 Snake Charmer
  - n1) Laila
  - n2) Jean
  - n3) Lyra
  - n4) Laila
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher
  - n3) Sage
  - n4) Kasumi or Delaney
  
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier
  - n2) Lyra, Mar, Delaney, Kasumi (yes)
  - n3) Kasumi, Mar, Julian, Jean (yes)
  - n4) Jean (yes)
  - n5) Delaney, Kasumi, Laila, Julian (yes)
  
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant Outsider → Fang Gu → Snake Charmer
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 19: remember the real enemy

Chapter Text

I don’t understand what he’s said until Mar swivels around their seat, their accusing glare directed at me full-force.

“Come again?” I stammer out.

“Jean, you were hexed by the Cerenovus first,” Brye repeats. His tone, normally so light, is sounding a little pedantic. “So, c’mon. Tell everybody what you told me at the waterfall.”

I have a slight memory of that. But it’s somehow fuzzy, and pressure inside my head is building up at the same time.

“Don’t you remember? It was on the third day. I said I couldn’t figure you out, right? And you said you were forced to double up with me because you were hexed.”

When my mouth drops open, Brye tilts his head. “Come on,” he urges, again. “We all know that the Cerenovus made you pose as a Juggler, but we’re still stuck on why you didn’t speak up as soon as you were freed. Can you explain that a little, and can you also clarify how long you were hexed for?”

Did I? Did I? Everyone around me is waiting with expectant faces, like they’ve been waiting for me to tell the truth all this time.

“He abruptly started claiming to be the Tailor when you revealed you were the Juggler all along? And you blame it on a Cerenovus?” Kasumi interjects, shrilly. Her voice is sharp and loud and it diffuses through the exterior, lighting every nerve in my body on fire. “You blithering idiot, he’s the god-damned Mutant!”

“I am not a freak!” I cry out, even as I’m losing my foothold on my train of thought. “I was hexed for three days — the first three days. I don’t know why the Cerenovus shifted their sights to Kasumi, but that is what they did.”

“Bryan raised a very good question,” Wilson levels a finger at me. His face is a mask of incredulous hate. “When Kasumi had her outburst yesterday, why did you not speak up? Do you know how much that would have changed things? If we’d known we had a previous Cerenouvs victim, it would have confirmed that she’d been driven Mad. We wouldn’t have executed Yulian then, we would have gone after Anita, and maybe this hunt would already be over!”

“Hold on, just a moment,” interjects Elliot. “Jean, you’re the Tailor, right? Have you used your opportunity? You didn’t mention it when you were making everybody else lay their secrets on the table.”

Something sharp and cold lodges itself deep inside my throat. I should have known that the calm wouldn’t last, and the storm would be on the horizon. I should have known that I’ve missed something, but I was so caught up in the chaos of the last few days, I’d completely forgotten to prepare anything to own up to my lie to Brye. I’ve mucked this up. I’m stupid and I’ve always been stupid and I’ll always be stupid because there’s something defective with my head. It’s not even a matter of not pushing myself hard enough — not to say that I did push myself hard enough, of course, because I most certainly didn’t.

The only thing I can do is revert to the lie I told Kasumi. That’s the only way to ensure she doesn’t raise hell about me changing my information.

“It was on the fourth night, the same night as the Cerenovus left me alone,” I intone. “I discovered that Mar is cut from the same cloth as Laila.”

The ensuing silence could let a pin drop.

Brye slams his fist on the table — full force, slams — because the bang is as loud and as clear as a whip cracking. The impact sends Anita’s half-eaten lunch box careening over the table and it goes splat on the ground, but he doesn’t even give it a second thought. “That’s your information?” he shouts, having finally lost it. Both his eyes are burning with rage, and he looks like he’s on the verge of incinerating the whole table. “You used your opportunity on that?”

“Brye, calm down!” Laila shouts, but she’s halfway across the table. Too far away to effectively do anything as he continues to round on me.

“Jean, I want to apologise, on the off chance you are telling the truth and you just happened to make an interribly poor judgement call —” he grips the table with both hands, leaning over, exhaling hard. The breath of the summer breeze is on the back of my elbows as I watch him warily. “I got too agitated. Right. Before yesterday’s mess happened, our main concern was which of Julian and Sergio was the guilty brother, or if they were both guilty. We were also keeping an eye on people like Kasumi and Professor Wilson. I get the rationale of comparing somebody against Mar; the whole table trusts them and I don’t see any viable configuration where they aren’t trustworthy. But testing Laila? Are you serious right now?”

“It’s what I —” Brye bangs on the table again, and I lose my whole train of thought. I can hear Anita weakly call out for Brye to leave me alone, but she’s brushed off as well. I have to face this alone. “I really did think it was a good idea. Laila has some powerful information, so I wanted her to be trusted once she decided to come out with it.”

“You don’t understand, Jean. Nobody was distrusting Laila! Not until you started flapping your mouth, and asking us all to trust her. There is no way a town loyalist could have looked at the hunt’s status on the fourth night, and concluded that he needed to verify Laila. Your actions were more than incoherent, they were nonsensical.” Brye glowers at me, and his chest heaves one more time. “You’re either a liar, a moron, or a Defect. One of the three! Which one are you?”

“A moron, a moron,” I cry out. “But I still don’t see it as the stupid decision that you’re making it out to be.”

“Bryan,” Kasumi starts to stand up. “Stop this charade. He’s clearly a Defect and failing to hide it. Listen to what he’s saying —”

“Stay in your seat, Kasumi,” he grates harshly. “I did listen, and I heard a load of complete garbage. Professor,” he turns to Wilson, tone changing immediately. Brye is so good at controlling the tone of his voice. He sounds a few years younger, like an assistant waiting for further orders. “Your theory about the Fang Gu just ran through my head. Could one of the others have body-snatched Laila, and Jean is defending his Demon? Would that be possible?”

“It’s not impossible,” Anita breathes out. “But —”

“It would make the most sense for the original body-snatcher to be Sergio,” Wilson intones, brows furrowed. “He body-snatched Laila, Jean defends her, Kasumi could be genuinely crazy or just faking, depending on whether she’s their teammate and whether Jean is the Pit-Hag…”

“Your configuration is false, and even if it was true, Jean is just a Demon-servant at the very worst,” Laila snarls. “He can be charged with conspiracy and thrown into jail after the hunt’s over. Fact is, he’s not our priority right now. Brye, if you really want to believe there’s been a covenant, then come for me. Leave Jean alone, and don’t insult his intelligence. Making a different decision than you would’ve made in his shoes doesn’t make him stupid.”

Brye frowns. “There’s still just one thing that bothers me. If Jean was never Mad, but Kasumi is, therefore implying the presence of a Pit-Hag, then per Kasumi’s visions, Dave and I would not be more trustworthy than Elliot and Jean. I guess Elliot would be a Defect, but I don’t see why two liars would be more trustworthy —”

“Stop harping on the Storyteller’s visions! How many times do I have to tell you that I made those up?” Kasumi shrieks. “Bryan, today you seem insistent on ignoring everything that’s been presented to you.”

“So yesterday, when you were trying to frame me, you said I made those visions up, but now you’re saying you’re the one responsible?” Laila points out scathingly. “If you’re going to make up lies, at least stick to a consistent narrative.”

“No, hold on,” Dave breathes. “Kasumi wants Anita executed, and she declared on the second day that Mar could possibly be seated next to a Defect. Right now, she’s hammering on about Jean being the Mutant, and who does Jean sit next to? Mar.”

“So what are you saying?” Mar asks, accusingly. “Are you saying that Jean’s actually the Mutant?”

Dave gestures with his hands. “If he was, and if Kasumi was the Demon, she would know exactly who her Witch decided to curse. The entire attack on Jean screams premeditated to me. I’m… leaning towards the possibility that she made the whole thing up.”

“So what now?” Elliot questions. “Are we really going to kill Laila on the off-chance that Sergio might have body-snatched her? If they have a Pit-Hag, he could have snatched any of the living candidates, so there’s no reason for it to specifically be her. She thinks his name is Samuel. Does that strike you as how a body-snatched vessel would be acting? — I mean, not that I would know. But I imagine the brainwashing process would involve something like beep beep, must obey Sergio. Must pretend that Sergio is good.”

Anita flinches. “Elliot, this is really not the time for joking.”

“My question still stands,” they counter. “Who are we sending to the barrier tonight? I think we should decide that before we begin any formal nominations. Just in case there’s still a Witch hanging around. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m not the Mutant,” I say, just one more time. “Please. There’s no reason to execute me at this point. I’m either a townsfolk, a Mutant, or the Demon’s servant, right? We need to execute people who are strong candidates for the Demon itself. There’s far better execution targets than me.”

Delaney, who’s looking down at his notes, tears his gaze away from them at last. “I think Jean is right. I think it’s safest to get rid of Kasumi today, and tomorrow, we’ll debate between Laila and Anita.”

A terrified expression crosses Anita’s face, and she looks sideways to catch Laila’s gaze — but Laila herself doesn’t flinch. Instead, she succinctly points out, “That’s assuming we trust you, Wilson. Which, I don’t. At all.”

He scoffs coldly. “The feeling’s mutual. If you’re truly loyal, though, I would implore you to trust me on the basis that I can always be reasoned with. I don’t have a one-track mind like Kasumi’s, and I’m not a pampered little prince like Jean. I will always side with the person that has the best argument, and currently, I think Brye’s accusation was very sensible. You can always change my mind by arguing back — if you recall, I supported you when you called for Julian’s execution yesterday.”

“Well-argued, my ass! He just called Jean a moron and acted like Jean should have known Julian verified me around the same time, even though the two of them had no way of communicating. Jury’s still out on whether Brye can be trusted, but right now, your motives are the hardest to make out,” Laila admonishes. In spite of her heated tone, every single word is perfectly enunciated. “Wilson, you don’t actually believe Kasumi is the Demon, do you?”

“Sergio pinpointed her as one of his possible attackers,” Wilson answers. “If anything, you shouldn’t be doubting her guilt. The scenarios where Sergio is lying all involve you being complicit to a degree.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that the Demon is you.” She curls her hands into fists, breathing hard. “As soon as Sergio came out with the info on who had attacked him, you knew today’s discussion could end only one of two ways: with her execution, or with yours. Realistically, we are going to execute at least one of Sergio’s suspects at some point or another. And more realistically, if you tried to have both suspects survive into the last three candidates standing, you would have been rightfully called out as wanting Kasumi there to take suspicion off of you.”

Mar frowns. “Laila, none of which you described just now is demonic behaviour. Think about it from his perspective, he was told it’s either him or Kasumi. Of course he’s going to think it was Kasumi, and he’ll look at other options if the hunt continues after her execution. Trying to ensure your own survival doesn’t make you a Demon, it just makes you a human. I think you’re just really scrambling for any reason to demonise him.”

Laila grinds her teeth. Anita murmurs, “Umm, I don’t know what to think. Earlier, Jean proposed a configuration where Kasumi was the No Dashii, and eroding away at my mental faculties, so I was prepared to cast my vote for her. But that configuration involved Wilson as her servant, so the fact that Wilson is spearheading the nomination for her is, well, a little concerning. I don’t think there’s any possible way to reconfigure so that Wilson becomes a loyalist…”

“There would be if you tried a bit harder,” Wilson answers. “Switch a few tokens around. See what you come up with. But we don’t have the time to sit around and fiddle with our Grimoires right now. We need to execute, and we need to figure out who will do the honours of nominating.”

The table falls silent. The grim reminder of the Witch hangs thickly in the air, and for a moment, all of us are too terrified to speak. I exhale, and look around the table. They probably won’t put me on the execution block. That’s good news right now, but it means jack diddly if we’re unable to put the real Demon on the block.

Laila surveys the table, her lips tightly pursed, but I can tell she’s afraid. We’re so close to the end, and so close to our own possible deaths. Anita is fidgety, and glancing at Wilson over the edges of her trademark notebook — damn, did I actually convince her that Kasumi was the No Dashii? Wilson himself isn’t looking at anyone, he’s scribbling something down on a sheet of paper and underlining it twice, I can hear two sharp scratches of his pen in quick succession. And Kasumi is bent over the table with both her hands cradling her head.

If there’s really a Pit-Hag, how likely is it that they’ve kept their presence hidden this entire time? Not likely at all.

So who was hexed before Kasumi?

No one.

No one.

My breath feels suddenly like barbed wire in the back of my throat. I had surmised as much already, but only now have I realised the true meaning of those words. My chest goes completely tight. Every single inhale is pure agony, every exhale feels like I’m choking. We’ve got it all completely wrong. My head is spinning like a top and I might as well have been suspended upside down for hours, because my vision darkens and compresses until it’s almost kaleidoscopic, with little spots of yellow lighting up the black, and I —

“Jean! Jean!”

Someone’s shouting my name. I perceive it like it’s coming from under water, and I just kind of wave it off — I’m okay. I’m not the one they should be looking out for. Kasumi is innocent. She’s been fighting Madness this whole time and no one noticed.

“Jean, it’s summer, you need to drink more water,” Laila scolds. “Especially if you want to have clear skin like mine.” My water glass is pushed into my hand by somebody’s magic — I’m not lucid enough to label the source — and I groggily try to push my mind out of its rut. I see Mar glaring at me with suspicion so I turn away from them, and towards Laila, as I lift the mask just high enough to slip a drinking straw in between. The water helps clear my mind. I just need to get my bearings back and concentrate.

“To me, it’s obvious who should do the honours,” Wilson continues. “If most of us are in agreement of who we want to execute, we should have that person nominate themselves. If nothing happens, all well and good. If they die to the Witch’s curse, we wouldn’t have lost anybody of value.” Elliot immediately opens their mouth to protest, but Wilson holds up a hand and swiftly addresses what I’m sure is everybody’s knee-jerk reaction. “Of course, I don’t expect every nominee to be as cooperative. Perhaps it would be better if we instead had our second choice nominee nominate our first. Laila, Anita, do both of you still stand by your number one picks?”

He sends a quick glance down at the lists that are still on the table. Laila had written down Wilson’s name, while Anita wrote Kasumi’s. They both nod.

“Jean, you still want —”

“Yes, I still think you’re the best execution for today.” My words are such a slurry that it’s a miracle the others can understand me at all. My heart is pounding within me, hard enough to make my knees buckle. I’m all but clenching my finished glass of water for strength as I continue, “Everyone, please listen to me. Lyra asked a very good question just now.”

Lyra turns to me, equal parts shocked and distrustful. “I did?”

I try looking at the table for their reactions — I know it’s bad for my nerves, but I need to know where I stand with the other candidates. And immediately, I regret it. Yulian is looking back at me, two of his hands raised in the air and utterly flabbergasted. Mar, meanwhile, has their arms crossed. Their eyes are bulging like an insect’s, and they glower at me as if to say what the hell are you doing, you unintelligible mask-wearing freak?

But what I’m thinking is this. It’s too late for Dave. It’s too late for Yulian. But maybe I could still save someone.

“Lyra asked, ‘Who was hexed before Kasumi’?” I repeat, feeling how hollow and scratchy my voice is, and I want to fidget with the glass just so I’ll have something to do with my restless hands. But the last thing I need right now is one more reason for them not to take me seriously. “Everybody, I want you to close your eyes. Imagine if Kasumi really has been driven Mad. Who was the previous victim? Answer that question to yourselves, and don’t say anything. Just reopen your eyes.”

It’s not the slam-dunk question that I’ve been hoping it would be. Elliot, in particular, barely takes a second before co*cking an eyebrow and shouting, “You! We’ve already been over this. The Cerenovus first hexed your pretty little head, and then realised you weren’t making a dent in our pool of information, so they turned their sights on Kasumi. That, or you’re both in on it and faking it together. The second option is what I am personally leaning towards, given the way you’re currently acting.”

“I’m not Mad,” Kasumi hisses out. “I really am the Snake Charmer. Just listen to me. Today, we need to go for Paterno —”

Wilson immediately talks over her, frowning. “We have two votes in favour of Kasumi, two in favour of me, and one in favour of Anita. With five candidates alive, we’ll need a majority of three to execute anybody —”

“I’ll do it,” Mar offers. “I can vote for Kasumi. Everybody else can save their votes for the final showdown.”

“You don’t have to.”

Mar gawks back at me, and even I can’t believe my own breathless suggestion. But the plan has seeped into my head like rainwater. And now I can’t shake it out of my head. It might just be enough.

“I understand we need to execute somebody today,” I continue, knowing full well that the others have no reason to trust me, but nonetheless hoping against hope that they will entrust me with this. “I personally really believe that Sergio’s attacker wasn’t her. But I’ll do what needs to be done. After all, we can’t be bogged down with infighting if we want to take down the real enemy.”

“‘Remember the real enemy’,” Laila whispers, just barely audible. “I like the sound of that.”

Sergio coughs a little. “Well, Kasumi is one of my two I pinpointed, so I have no objections. Perhaps us ghosts should let Jean handle today’s vote. If somebody thinks we’re missing something, please voice your concerns now.”

“No objections,” Brye answers, tapping his fingers against the table.

Anita lets a few more seconds pass before she addresses the table. “Alright. Professor Wilson, you were suggesting to have the number two candidate nominate the number one, right? So you may go ahead and do the hono —”

“I nominate Paterno!”

This is a surprise to nobody at this point. Kasumi breathes heavily, and for the first time today, I notice how sunken her eyes are. Had she not been sleeping? …Or maybe she just decided against putting on makeup. I wouldn’t know. If anything, she could have actually used makeup to heighten how ill she looks.

“Just listen to me. She’s the Fang Gu. Sergio body-snatched her, I know that for a fact because I’ve audited just about everyone else for signs of Demonhood.” She groans out loud, tugging at her hair so hard that some of it looks like it came away in her hands. “Wilson, your probes never got any signals. You know that only a Fang Gu could have made it that way. Jean, face up to yourself. You know exactly what you’ve done. You know what you are!”

I know what I am.

Actually, I’ve never had any sort of pretensions about what I am.

Today, I’m merely clinging onto the vain hope that in spite of what I am, I might be able to save her.

“We can’t not execute one of Sergio’s suspects today,” Wilson counters, then he lets out a long-held sigh. “There’s no other way but through. I nominate Kasumi for consideration.”

Kasumi just nods limply, while Anita starts to hyperventilate. I nudge Laila, lowering my voice to just a whisper, because my plan hinges on this. “Hey,” I say, leaning in closer so nobody else can hear me. “I need you to vote yes on Anita.”

She takes one look at me, and her face contorts into an incredulous expression. The protective edge in her voice is clear as she hisses, “You can’t be serious.”

“That’s the only way of getting Wilson on the block,” I murmur, trying to sound convincing. “We get Anita three votes: you, me, Kasumi. Then when it’s Kasumi’s turn to get voted on, only one of us raises our hand, so she’ll get three votes also.”

“And if Wilson drops his hand?” she shrieks, waving an arm to gesture madly. “He votes after both of us, Jean. Then the crazy bitch will have two, Anita will have three, and you’ll have condemned my best friend to die!”

“No, if Wilson drops his hand, that just gives us even better of a reason to go after him,” I insist. “If he drops his hand, one of us nominates him and says that we need to kill him or Asai today, and he clearly can’t be trusted to be objective. We won’t have to convince Anita to vote, because it’s in her best interests anyway. Then, we get Kasumi to join our cause —”

“Since when has she cooperated with anyone?”

“She will if there’s something in it for her. So we tell her we’re on her side. We say that if she votes for Wilson today, we’ll follow her expert opinion and vote whomever she wants executed at that point.”

“You are so pure.”

I furrow my brow. “But I’m being underhanded right now.”

“No, I meant that is the most transparent ploy I’ve ever —” Laila sighs loudly, like she doesn’t think this is a good idea. But eventually, she pulls back and she nods. “Never mind. It’s not like I have any better ideas. Fine. I’ll vote on her.”

“Kasumi Asai nominates Anita Paterno, er, me,” Anita sounds close to tears at this point. “I — God, I don’t want to do this.”

She slams down her book and stands up, wandering off unsteadily in the direction of the woods. Elliot mutters something about giving them a second, and they float-run after her, wrapping their arms around her neck and hugging her until she’s calmed down. But I can’t tell if Anita feels comforted or constricted. She just sobs openly as she’s unceremoniously brought back to her seat.

“Five-minute break!” Laila shouts, as she gets to her feet and grabs her completely untouched lunch box. I watch her march over to Anita, coax her to calm down, eat, and it’s all going to be okay. But first, you have a role to play. You’ve got to stay strong, brave, and confident, Nita. Everything will be alright as soon as the sun sets.

As I watch the scene unfold, something in my chest twitches, but I can’t pinpoint what. Then, I’m tugged out of my thoughts by a strong and powerful voice. “Jean,” Brye hisses, roughly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“He’s growing into his own beliefs,” Sergio answers, before I can respond. “Bryan, I’ve got a question for you. Are you frustrated because you think Jean’s decision-making is wrong, or because he isn’t under your thumb anymore?”

Brye doesn’t answer. He stalks off, flips back open his laptop computer, and starts cursing under his breath as his fingers fly over the keyboard.

The rest of the break passes quickly, and we’re forced to go ahead with the voting even though Anita has just begun a fresh round of sobbing. Elliot takes over the role of moderator: “Kasumi Asai nominates Anita Paterno. In light of unforeseen events, I’ll make her defence for her: Laila’s plant records exonerate her, and Laila’s innocence is vouched for by several people. We’ll run the votes now, starting from Dave and routing all the way back to Nita.”

The confused murmuring begins almost as soon as Elliot starts counting the votes aloud. I exchange glances with Laila. Her hand is raised in the air, just as I’ve raised mine, but I can see that her eyes are narrowed and she looks like she’s on the verge of falling apart, too. So many people have fallen apart already.

I catch Sergio’s absolute bafflement and Wilson’s disapproving glare, which I try my best to push to the back of my mind.

“That’s three votes for Anita; she is placed onto the chopping block,” Elliot announces. In the background, faintly, Anita continues to sob. I don’t even know if she’s registered that she’s been put forward for execution, or that Laila and I have a plan. Nonetheless, my stomach twists into a knot. “Next, Delaney Wilson nominates Kasumi Asai? Kasumi, defence?”

Kasumi is digging her nails into the table. Her current resemblance to that long-haired ghost girl who crawls out of TVs is striking. Instead of addressing the whole table, she just weakly mumbles my name.

“Are you saying something?” her neighbour, Dave asks, leaning in. “Even I can’t hear clearly.”

She looks up, revealing a face that’s slick with sweat. “I… I…” she stammers out, eyes blown wide. But she briefly manages to compose herself. “Three Defects, Jean. He’s one. You’re two. She’s three.”

I would have described her words as cryptic if I didn’t know exactly what she meant. She’s accusing Anita of being the new body-snatcher. Of course, if that were true, she would have to be a Defect, along with Dave and I. Is this some kind of last-minute ploy to get me to drop my hand? But she’s not telling me any new information, and I’m already not intending to execute her.

The votes start from Lyra, so mine is the first vote that’s counted. Laila keeps her hand down, but I can see her stare intently at Anita. A muttered curse manages to slip from my lips: what if Anita decides she doesn’t want to vote for anyone? I hadn’t accounted for that when I first pitched my plan.

Wilson’s hand stays in the air until Elliot reaches him, and he nods curtly as his vote is tallied. “Julian, no. Sergio, no. Wait — Brye?”

“I’m invoking my last chance,” he announces, hand in the air, with the absolute self-assuredness that is his trademark. “It’s simple deduction. Jean’s lying, so Kasumi can’t be Mad. I vote yes on Kasumi.”

She finally collapses onto the gazebo table, thumping her head weakly against it. Elliot finishes counting up the votes — Anita has to verbally be asked if she wants to vote, and five full seconds pass before she gingerly nods.

“What,” Mar spits, beside themselves with rage, “the hell was that?”

“I was locking in the vote for Kasumi,” Brye explains, shrinking back.

“Not you, Brye, I was talking to Jean!” they jump out of their seat, jabbing a finger straight at my chest. “We all saw what you did! You were trying to tie the vote. You were protecting Kasumi! Are you in cahoots with her? Is this why you’ve been acting so weirdly this whole time?”

“I’ve never given serious thought to configurations where Kasumi and Jean were both on the Demon’s team,” I hear Lyra mutter. “If the hunt doesn’t end today, we go back and we’ll go over what we learnt today with a fine-tooth comb.”

My stomach lurches, and I try to tamp down the urge to throw up its contents on the floor. They’re both wrong. I just don’t know how to prove to them that they’re wrong. And with Brye’s vote on Kasumi making it so that she’s gotten four votes, it will take five to overturn that and put Wilson on the block instead. And where will we get those extra votes from? With mine, Laila’s, maybe Kasumi’s, maybe Anita’s, we’ll still have to convince at least one ghost to vote with us.

Elliot starts counting down from ten, asking if we have any further nominations. I’m wondering if I should just go for it, and nominate Wilson regardless of whether or not I get enough votes — but then Laila grabs my wrist and forces my hand down, just as I’m about to call out my nomination.

“No, Jean!” she hisses sharply, and suddenly my chest is constricting so hard that it’s hard to breathe, it’s hard to speak. “It’s not gonna change anything. Worse comes to worst, you’ll just fall victim to the Witch!”

And I’ve lost my chance. Elliot reaches zero and starts the incantation, and when the golden ropes — the infallible will of the Storyteller — wrap around Kasumi’s crumpled form, dragging her upright, binding her to the back of her chair, the table just stays silent when it’s announced that she was acceptable. The knot in my stomach is not relenting. This discussion doesn’t end like Dave’s, with group hugs and final words of parting; or like Yulian’s, with the nearly-departed sitting alone in their chair, with nobody there to comfort them.

There’s fresh blood trickling from Kasumi’s nose.

Mar pauses, falters, then rushes over to her with a wad of tissues from the table. The look on their face is solemn. My teeth clench together at the sight; half in pity, half in bewilderment.

“We need two volunteers to accompany her for the ward ritual,” Dave is saying. “I’d feel better sending two people that we’re absolutely confident won’t conspire with Kasumi.”

“So it can’t be Jean,” Sergio affirms. “I think sending one of Laila and Anita, plus Delaney, would be the wisest option…”

“Are you crazy? Look at Anita. She came back from Julian’s execution and has been barely holding it together ever since. And you want to make her go through that again?” Lyra exclaims. “It has to be Laila and the Professor. I’m even partial to sending Laila and Jean, just so we’re not forcing Professor Wilson to go a second time.”

“No,” Kasumi croaks out. She trembles against her restraints, and then spits out a mouthful of blood. It still doesn’t make sense. Nothing is making sense. “No! Just wait, just wait one second —”

The back of my neck goes numb. My vision blurs. I don’t know what’s happening anymore. All I can do is drift like a spectre in the dazzling afternoon sun. The golden sunset is starting to bear down on our faces when Kasumi lashes out with one final, bloody scream, and when I hear her ensuing words, the world around me starts to spin and my heart slows to a stop and the stitches that have been so far holding me together will unravel at the seams, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again.

“I’m the Flowergirl! I’m the Flowergirl!”

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes, n4 yes, n5 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d3)Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Kasumi, Jean, Elliot
  - d4) Jean, Anita, Kasumi, Delaney, Julian
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1, n3 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1-5 0)
• Julian [died d4] - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2 Snake Charmer
  - n1) Laila
  - n2) Jean
  - n3) Lyra
  - n4) Laila
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher
  - n3) Sage
  - n4) Kasumi or Delaney
  
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier
  - n2) Lyra, Mar, Delaney, Kasumi (yes)
  - n3) Kasumi, Mar, Julian, Jean (yes)
  - n4) Jean (yes)
  - n5) Delaney, Kasumi, Laila, Julian (yes)
  
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant Outsider → Fang Gu → Snake Charmer Flowergirl
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 20: last chance

Chapter Text

My name is Jean Toulemonde. I am the Mutant.

I used to work for John Mercier. He is the Ringmaster.

My best friend’s name is Laila. She is the…

She is the Flowergirl.

She underwent training as the Acrobat, but she is now the Flowergirl.

She has always been the Flowergirl.

Which means Kasumi can’t possibly be telling the truth. The most charitable explanation towards her is that the Pit-Hag turned their Witch of a teammate into a Cerenovus, who then proceeded to hex the living daylights out of her because they wanted her to recant the visions that she’d gotten. Her visions were too powerful for the Demon and its subordinates to allow.

That has to be the truth.

That is the only sequence of events that will make it possible for me to breathe.

“Laila?” Mar ventures, their voice trembling slightly. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“Of course it’s not!” Laila spits. I’ve never seen her cheeks this red before. She’s burning up. “She wants you to think she’s telling the truth, now that she’s got nothing left to lose. In reality, she’s just faithfully serving the Demon. That’s all that this amounts to.”

Mar’s face doesn’t relax. “Then why is she bleeding?”

“Did you not see her earlier, thumping her head against the table like a madwoman? She gave herself that nosebleed!” Laila laughs sharply, bitterly as she gets to her feet. “I mean, I have to admire the dedication, even if she’s hellbent on painting me as the villain. Oh, woe is me, the Cerenovus hexed me so hard that I’m having a nosebleed! But I’m straining against the spell as hard as I can to bring you the truth, so that my death will not have been in vain. Never mind that while I was alive, I was a stone-cold sociopath that got Mar killed —”

“Shut up!” Kasumi screams. Her head is in her hands again, face hidden in her hair. “I’ve had it with you! All you know how to do is tell lies about people!”

“Ritual arrangements now, yelling later,” Wilson reprimands both of them. “Why don’t the two of you continue your dramatic duologue when you’re en route to the barrier? If you truly lack the self-control to not scream and wail whenever you’re in line of sight of each other, at least have the decency to do so in a place where nobody else will hear you.”

Laila snarls. “I am not getting into a car with that woman. She’s going to murder me.”

Wilson only rolls his eyes. “Well then, your boyfriend can tag along and protect you. Or maybe Anita can. I’m sure you can decide among yourselves quietly.”

“He’s not my —”

“Frankly, I don’t care. I don’t care what your intentions are, and whether they’re good or bad, because you’re giving all of us a migraine,” he stresses, low and deadly. “If you argue with a Defect, the only thing you accomplish is allowing her to drag you down to her level.”

Mar hesitates. “But Kasumi isn’t even a Defect. Is she? The word ‘Defect’ doesn’t just mean anybody behaving badly in public.”

“If she’s our Fang Gu, she started out as a Defect,” Wilson turns towards them, voice softening noticeably. “You don’t just turn into a Demon out of the blue. She would have no problems attracting one, with her unstable magic and whatnot, but she convinced it to spare her life and turn her. That simply isn’t something an honest, decent townsfolk would know how to do.”

“That’s still an assumption,” Mar murmurs. “It’s probably just me, but something feels wrong. It’s like you’re just being… judgemental. For the sake of being judgemental.”

Wilson gives a one-shouldered shrug. “For as long as they continue to act the way they do, I will continue to judge them. Don’t you think that’s fair?” He stares at Mar until they nod back, swallowing. “The way I see it, your behaviour is a choice. Standing up for what’s right is a choice. Having zero regard for human life is a choice. Even if you’re a Defect, you have the choice to do the right thing and turn yourself in. That was a choice my brother embraced, and a choice that Asai deliberately turned her back on.”

Brye sighs. His voice is distorted. “Professor, I’d really rather you don’t treat this as an opportunity to preach at us. I just want this over with.”

“I understand. She used to be your friend, after all,” Wilson comments, returning to the earlier gentle tone. At least, it sounds gentle to me. The words feel like waves rolling off the top of my head. I instinctively reach out for Laila, but right now, it’s too much for me. He murmurs, just murmurs, “The way I see it, I’m being proven right. If declaring your Defecthood status was mandatory, we would know exactly what type of Demon we are facing. If they were required to show themselves from the start, you might still be alive.”

Brye doesn’t say anything.

“Right. Of course,” Sergio says briskly. “And, for good measure, every candidate in a future demon hunt should present documentation about whether they’ve had a Defect in the family for the last three generations. And we should make this documentation required for living in the country or applying for a job, just so all those nasty Defects would be forced to get one.” I almost don’t catch the roll of his eyes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Delaney?”

“Don’t use that tone with me,” Wilson answers, deadly cold. “I’ll debate you on the subject after you’ve done more than one Boogle search on the topic. I know the first search result is ‘Defecthood is genetic’, and I also know you haven’t bothered to read past that first line. There’s no point in doing what you’re proposing: yes, Defective children are often born to Defect parents, but there is still no proven cause of Defecthood. So someone like Dave would have slipped through the cracks, because our parents were completely normal. Until you do some basic research, I have nothing to discuss with you.”

Brye’s eyes are squeezed shut. “It’s not about discrimination for the sake of discrimination. It’s about what’s best for the town. And if a handful of people are weakening our defences or outright colluding with the Demon… then it’s best to identify those people, and deal with them as early as possible, so that innocents don’t get hurt,” he affirms, slowly, like he’s not even aware of what he’s saying. Then his eyes snap open and he nods. “Professor, I think I finally understand what you’ve been advocating for this entire time.”

I don’t even know if by ‘colluding with the Demon’, Brye is indicating me or Kasumi. I don’t even know if I want to know.

I’m still in my seat. Which is lucky because had I been standing, like how Laila and Elliot currently are, I’m sure my legs would have given out from under me, and once again I would be falling flat on my stomach in front of everyone else like a blithering moron. I tell myself that Brye’s are just words. They can’t hurt me. I need to stop being so sensitive and get a grip on things. I’m not even expecting myself to fire back at Wilson and Co, I just need to be able to face the rest of this discussion with dignity. And with the sheer amount of fog gathering in my head, it seems like I can’t manage even this.

An icy hand plunges into my arm. Yes, it slices straight through the flesh, and then its owner immediately pulls it back, looking apologetic. It’s Yulian, with a grim look on his face, and he has Mar stand by and act as a translator while he first points at me, and then begins to sign several letters, one by one —

“M-U… ‘Were you the Mutant all along’?” Mar gasps out, even before he’s finished.

I blank.

I can’t say yes. Admitting to being a Mutant, to being one of those traitors that Brye mentioned, would be an instant death sentence. But saying no doesn’t guarantee that anything will change. They’ll still see me as somebody who lied for no reason. Somebody who’s serving a serial murderer, and calling himself Mad just to distract everyone from the bigger picture.

Neither of them meet my eyes now. Yulian’s demeanour is a little different. He’s twisting and untwisting his fingers together, and I know for a fact that he’s silently judging me. The conversations we had, our goodbyes, all of it will mean nothing to him anymore. Mar hisses a quiet curse, shaking their head again and again. I can almost feel the disbelief radiating off of them.

I don’t have the strength left in me to set the record straight, or lie to them. I’m so, so tired.

Laila points a finger at Delaney, and shouts that she’s fed up with listening to this, can’t they just head over to the barrier already, because this is beyond irrational and she doesn’t have to listen to his load of crap.

“No, wait,” I interject. I wrench myself away from the ghosts, and plant myself squarely between Laila and the professor. “Professor Wilson, I’ll go with you today. I’ll go with you and Kasumi.”

Laila draws herself imposingly up to her full height of four-foot-ten. “What? No. Stand down, Jean, I’m perfectly capable of handling this!”

“It’s about Tiya.”

Laila turns to me, her face flushing even redder. She almost charges at me and murders me on the spot. I know her aunt is a sore topic for her. But what I’ve been thinking is that Tiya was an Acrobat.

I can’t in good conscience allow Laila to sit there and listen to Wilson abuse her aunt’s memory.

“Didn’t I tell you to f*cking stand down?” she snarls. “Don’t talk to me about Tiya. You know nothing about what’s going on around you!”

Wilson looks from her face to mine, then seems to make up his mind. “I want Jean,” he announces, standing up from his seat. He picks up his boxed meal, which has remained completely untouched, and places the cover back over it. “It would be unreasonable to force Anita to take on the responsibility again, after she already did it yesterday. Personally, I believe that we’ve captured our Demon already, but just in case we haven’t, it would be advisable to keep Jean and Laila under supervision. Left to their own devices, they might take the chance to scheme with their teammate one last time before the discussion tomorrow. Hence, I volunteer myself for the duty. And if I have to take one of them with me, I want the person who won’t try to provoke me into a screaming match.”

“This is wrong,” Mar bursts out, looking directly at me. “This is wrong on so many levels. We can’t go ahead with this, we can’t!”

“The Storyteller said that Kasumi was acceptable,” Dave tries to be the voice of reason. “There’s nothing we can do.”

Wilson reaches into his pocket and holds out a ring of keys to me. “Jean, would you do the honours? I’d like to have my hands free to finish dinner in the car.” But then he pauses, and withdraws his hand. “On second thought, I’d like to keep my leverage. Forget I said anything. Come on.”

His leverage? What leverage? I have to force myself to straighten up and take the half-eaten dinner that Kasumi had prepared for us. But just before I join Wilson’s side, Laila stands up and jabs a finger in his chest, snarling, “You better bring my sunshine back in one piece. If he doesn’t come home tonight…”

“I’ll drop him off safely at your door,” he promises, with a mocking scoff. “Did you think I would trap him in my car and kill him?”

Laila is silent.

“It’s seven forty. If we head out right now, execute Asai, drop off Jean at Noble Heights… I’ll be home by eight thirty. If it satisfies you, I can send you my dashcam footage. It’ll prove I never laid a finger on your boyfriend, and I have nothing to hide.” He starts towards his car, then pauses. “Well then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I turn to pick up my own boxed meal and spork. Meanwhile, Kasumi gets to her feet. She gathers her belongings and walks over to Wilson with her head held high.

“Let’s not keep secrets from one another now,” Wilson announces, as he unlocks his car. “I don’t mind what the two of you say to one another, as long as all three of us hear. There will be no whispering, no secret conspiracies, no trickery or sudden moves. I think that’s reasonable. Don’t you agree?”

Kasumi and I both concede.

“There ought to be no way to surreptitiously contact people from the outside. Which means no foreign languages. If you have to talk to someone, do it openly over the phone. No sending text messages.”

I stiffen. “But yesterday you let Yulian send me text messages.”

“That’s because I was there to watch over his shoulder, making sure he wasn’t sending last-minute information to his Demon,” he responds. I try not to think about the shiver that runs through me at the words. “Second things second, I’ll be driving. That’s not negotiable. One of you will sit in the shotgun seat, and one of you in the back row. Neither of you will sit directly behind me. If any of you decide to try anything funny, I will not hesitate to crash the car.”

So that’s his leverage? If either of us try to attack him, he’ll crash all of us into the nearest tree. And, if he’s a skilled driver, he’ll be able to come at it from an angle so that the shotgun passenger takes the brunt of the damage —

“I’ll sit in the front row,” Kasumi says.

What? I don’t understand what’s going on in her head. I don’t understand anything that’s going on right now. But what I do know is that I’ve had enough of dealing with crazy drivers for a lifetime.

“Let us both sit wherever we want,” I counter-propose. “After all, you have a car camera, don’t you? If we sprang anything on you, the evidence would be on your side.”

Wilson’s face changes, but he can’t argue. “Get in the car,” he simply says, and pulls the driver side door open.

I sit in the back row. After a moment’s pause, Kasumi slides in next to me. Wilson leaves his boxed meal on the shotgun seat, mumbling something about it going cold. And then he fastens his seatbelt and we’re off, and the gazebo fades from view.

For a long while, none of us say anything.

Kasumi recuperates, occasionally spitting blood into a paper napkin. I’m thinking to myself that bleeding from the mouth isn’t indicative of anything; maybe she’s so committed to the role that she bit her own tongue until it bled. And like Laila pointed out, she’d been thumping her head against the gazebo table. This isn’t conclusive. Nonetheless I can’t shake the feeling that I’m doing something wrong by not offering help to her.

If it means anything, Wilson isn’t concerned about her, either. A few minutes in, he just gruffly asks if we mind him playing music, and the drums and reggae rhythm from what I assume are his favourite Choirboys fills the silent gaps.

My own, untouched boxed meal is in my lap. I guess this is as good an opportunity to finish it as any, but strangely enough, I’m not hungry. It matters little that I’ve barely eaten all day. My stomach has twisted itself into a tight knot, and the world around me seems to have had all its air sucked out of it.

I take off the lid and examine the intricate patterns of vegetables that have been cut into the shape of flowers.

The dishes in the side compartments are garnished with edible flowers.

I recoil like I’ve been slapped. Horror on my face, I turn towards Kasumi, because certainly there’s an explanation for this. There’s got to be a perfectly good explanation, because that’s how the world works. The world is supposed to make sense. Everything that someone does usually has a reason behind it. But right now, I can’t figure out Kasumi’s reason. None of this is making sense, but I’m not hallucinating. I’m seeing what I’m seeing right now. And none of it is making sense.

Kasumi has a pouch open on her lap, and she’s painting foundation onto her face. The point in making yourself a pretty corpse might be lost on someone else, but I understand where she’s coming from.

“Just eat.” Her snippy voice cuts through my confusion, as she continues fussing with her face. “Food is for eating, not for staring.”

“What?”

There’s something like bitter resignation stitched into her brow. “What?”

I take a bite of the salad just to appease her, but then my eyes go wide. The lettuce, the cherry tomatoes, the sharp, tangy sourness of the sauce is perfectly offset by the delicate fragrance of the white flower. The flowers had not merely been haphazardly tossed on as garnish.

The silence is suffocating. I don’t know what she wants from me. The world is spinning and it feels like I’m being left behind in the dust, with no way to make sense of anything.

“Where did you buy these?” I ask, turning one of the edible flowers over with my spork.

Her answer sucks the breath out of my lungs.

“I grew them.”

This can’t be the truth.

“Gardening and cooking is my hobby. I have a few varieties in my back garden and they can go with different dishes. I also cultivate an herb garden,” she shrugs, but her eyes are tight with tension. “If you wish to have it, you can.”

I’m so shocked by this offer, my face heats up immediately. “Do you mean that I should dig up all the flowers, roots and all, and smack them back down in Laila’s garden? Or are you letting me take a bucket and pick whatever herbs or flowers I want?” I quickly clarify, just to make sure I’m not getting carried away.

“The first, but on further consideration, I am not leaving my flowers in the hands of somebody who uses the phrase ‘smack them down’.” She leans down slightly and buries her head in her hands. “This is real life, not Farming Zimulator.”

“I’m sorry.” My heart feels like it’s burning a hole in my chest. More words are on the edges of my lips: you should give them to Laila. She’ll be able to take care of your plants far better than I ever would. After all, she’s the Flowergirl. But would Laila even want Kasumi’s flowers? And conversely, I don’t think Kasumi would want them passing to Laila, either.

Her hands tighten. “Own up to the things you say.”

“But then I’d never say anything.” And then I cringe. I’m getting lectured by somebody who’s already en route to her own death. If she’s the Demon, she’s going to disappear off the face of the earth forever, and if she’s not, she’ll spend tomorrow incapacitated and unable to speak.

She closes her eyes and chuckles darkly, breaking the tension somewhat. “I have something to ask, Jean.” Jean. I think that’s the first time she’s addressing me like that. And, of course, she’s abruptly changing the topic. There’s no consideration for the unfinished words in the previous one. But what can I do? She’s imminently about to die. My ego problems are the least of her problems right now. “Why did you try tying the vote to save me?”

“Because,” I whisper hoarsely. “I don’t think you’re the Demon.”

Kasumi hums quietly. “You don’t want me alive, Jean. Were I to survive today’s execution, I would be home free. I’m guaranteed a spot in the Final Three, because I’m one of the more contentious candidates. Obviously, the second spot goes to the Demon, so the last spot is your only chance at survival. Now, however, there’s two spots that you could possibly take up. See how drastically your survival chances have improved?”

“I didn’t really think of it that way,” I murmur. “To me, you’re innocent. Or at least, you’re not the Demon themselves. That’s enough reason for me to want to keep you alive.”

“And what for? I’m not your ally, Jean. There’s no such thing as allies in a demon hunt. Unless one of those candidates is already dead and has nothing further to lose.” She checks her makeup with her phone camera. “Do you know how many loyalists survive a hunt, on average?”

“Two?”

“Point eight,” she tells me with a humourless smile.

So only one town loyalist is expected to make it out alive. I… guess it makes sense. If most hunts ultimately come down to three people, and the Demon is eliminated only about fifty to sixty percent of the time…

It’s cold in the car. I’m not sure if that’s just me, or if it’s because of the air conditioning. Or if it’s because of the shock of it all. Kasumi and I aren't friends, but something about this hurts.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she continues, “because it’s what I thought at first as well. I reasoned that if there could only be expected to be one survivor, then we’re all each other’s competition. I can’t survive unless you die, and you can’t survive unless somebody else dies, so there’s no shame in preserving your own life at the cost of everyone else’s, because everybody else would be doing the same. Maybe if I’d powered through the hex earlier… Krickett would kill me for it, probably, but maybe we would have ended the hunt already.”

But Kasumi isn’t telling the truth. She can’t be. I’m trying to come up with a reason why she would continue obeying the Cerenovus when she has nothing further to lose, and I’m coming up blank. It’s all so confusing and so, so cold.

“Or maybe she wouldn’t have killed me. It would have confirmed in everyone’s eyes that I was a town loyalist, and conversely, she would have to be evil. Still, I had no confidence that I could read what Krickett would do, and the risk was too heavy to bear. Day after day in the hunt, I held onto the vain hope that I could possibly come out of it alive.” Her words are spoken so quickly that I scrunch up my brow to keep up with her. She is a terrific liar. The first time I fell for her lies was when she offered me sympathy for being a Defect, only to throw that back in my face the moment she was able to. She knows far more than I do and she’s devious in how she knows exactly the right words, exactly the right expressions to draw exactly the right reactions out of me.

And I tell myself that I would never be weak enough to fall for them again.

Because Laila is my friend. Because Laila would never do anything like serving or hosting a demon, and so that precludes any scenario where Kasumi is telling the truth to me right now. It’s just simple logic.

“Ageyenko died, and quite honestly, I think I could have defended him if I had damned the consequences and told the panel what I had been experiencing. I didn’t want him to die, of course, but I wasn’t prepared to offer myself up for execution in his place, and consequently he was executed. Maybe I shouldn’t have fought so hard to live. Ageyenko dead, Brye dead, Wilson dead… and for what? Could they have been saved if I had spoken up earlier? We might have beaten the point eight statistic.” Kasumi continues to ramble, leaving me bewildered. My nails dig into the sides of the lunch box, and I try in vain to block her voice out.

“Maybe I should have believed in everyone. Maybe we could have had more survivors than we currently do now.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” I snap, right as the car we’re in skids to a stop. “You’re a psychopath. Instead of calling your friends or your family to tell them you love them, you’re spending your last moments trying to mess with my head!”

Kasumi whips towards me, and she suddenly places a hand on her head. “Toulemonde, most of my family wouldn’t be able to come to the phone.”

“Because they’re in jail, right?” I say hotly. “They were forcing innocent people into demon hunts.” At this point, I’m just listing every negative thing that she has done in order to remind myself of why I shouldn’t trust her. I continue, chest heaving, “Bottom line, you’ve never cared whether people live or die, hunt or no hunt. You didn’t care about your family’s corruption, and you didn’t care when you caused Mar to die.”

“I caused Mar to…” Kasumi repeats under her breath. Then her voice returns to normal. “What happened was awful, of course, but — who told you the part about the corruption?”

“Laila and Mar,” I rebuke icily.

Her lips purse together, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “Of course. Of course you would inherit their beliefs. And I inherit the legacy of what my family has done. But I swear to you, I was never involved.”

I don’t believe you. That’s what I’m about to say, but then Wilson swivels around in his seat. He hasn’t said anything this whole time, just silently listening in on our conversation, and I can practically feel the thick sarcasm drip off his words as he tells us, “I’m afraid I have to cut your riveting conversation short. We’re here. Right in time for the sunset.”

I swing the door open and step out of the car. The building that stands threateningly before us looks a bit like a schoolhouse, or maybe a rural town’s train station, but the barred windows ruin the impression. The concrete walls have been painted a deep oxblood red, the flat roofs painted brown, and the central part of the building goes up three floors. Behind it, something halfway translucent and violet in colour shimmers. I can feel the hum of ancient magic even from where I’m currently standing. This must be the edge of the town — I can see a forest beyond the barrier, stretching as far back as the eye can see, and the sky is overcast.

Kasumi doesn’t come out immediately, but she doesn’t have to be dragged kicking and screaming, either. With a backward glance at the two of us, Wilson commands us to follow him into the building.

The heavy wooden doors of the building are unlocked. That seems like a security oversight — I cast a sideways look at Kasumi, just to make sure she’s not making a run for it — but then Wilson holds the door open for the two of us, and as I pass him, I hear him mutter under his breath. “This place is deserted. Yesterday there were guards, but I suppose they left on the train last night.”

Right. Of course. Wilson, the only person who’s been present for an execution before, leads us into a narrow and grimy corridor, where he presses the elevator button and crosses his arms as the mechanical grumble fills the room. Then the elevator doors slide open — it’s an old-fashioned thing, with a retractable metal gate that has to be physically pulled shut before the doors will close. We all step inside, and while I fumble with the bars, Wilson presses the button for floor number three.

Rattling fills the elevator carriage as we’re carried further and further up. Kasumi inaudibly gasps, while a strange look crosses Wilson’s face that I can’t quite understand. Is it guilt? Sympathy? Or is he holding back laughter from seeing how he, the Demon, managed to evade execution for yet another day? All three seem equally plausible. I shake my head and try to focus on the task, which is seeing this execution through.

The doors slide open once again, and Wilson steps forward to pull the metal bars back. It gives the elevator chamber a cage-like feeling that I doubt I’ll be able to shake off. And to think we’d have to ride it back down.

No. No, I’m just being silly. It’s infinitely better to feel claustrophobic for all of thirty seconds, than to never come back out of the building again.

The corridor that he leads us down is just as cold and decrepit as the rest of the building. Eventually, we arrive at a door that’s labelled Execution Chamber, and Wilson pushes it open.

Walls; barren. Lights; overbearing. Environment; clinical. The execution chamber is rectangular, and two of the four walls are made from simple, white cinder blocks, garnished with only a single clock. The remaining two walls are facing each other, and are outfitted with mirrors. Fluorescent lights shine overhead, drowning all of us in light, to the point where it’s somewhat unbearable to keep my eyes open. There’s a square of red tape on the floor, outlining about four square metres’ worth of space in the room’s centre.

“Don’t act so scared. I’m not going to lock you both in here and leave,” Wilson comments, reading my thoughts precisely. “The refractory magic would kill me. That’s why the execution chamber has to be operated by two people, from each of the two control rooms.” He points at the mirrors on either side of the room. “One-way mirrors. We’ll be able to see her from inside the control rooms, but she won’t see us. From there, we’ll use the computer system to communicate.”

I fall silent. For a moment, the only sound in the chamber is Kasumi’s hyperventilating, carried across the echoing walls.

“Once you’re inside the control room, there’s a lever at the centre of the panel — you can’t possibly miss it. If the levers in both rooms are pulled at the same time, the execution mechanism begins. As soon as that happens, Jean, swear to me that you’ll try your damndest to control the excess magic. Push it back down with your own. We just have to last until the execution finishes. Do you understand?”

Push it back down with your own.

Right… Wilson thought Kasumi was a Defect, but he doesn’t know that I’m one. Had he known, he definitely wouldn’t have asked me to come with him in place of Laila. Is it too late to go back and swap me out with her? I can’t possibly contain whatever magic that’s part of the execution mechanism. If it’s enough to kill Kasumi, and it’s taken the lives of Dave and Yulian before her, then my defective magic doesn’t stand a chance against it, right? But Wilson mentioned we’re right in time for the sunset. And the drive here was quite long, so even if Laila comes all the way here to spare us the drive back to the gazebo, I doubt she’ll make it in time. Our only real option is to hope that Wilson’s magic alone will temper the unknown.

I force my head to nod, and he seems satisfied enough. “Good. I’m going to be nice and let you make the choice. Do you want to take the left chamber or the right?” I’m baffled by how this is supposed to constitute a nice gesture, but he goes on to explain, “I heard through the grapevine that only one lever truly activates the mechanism — the other merely confirms that an execution is meant to take place. Only the architect knows which is which. I suppose it’s for the executioner’s peace of mind. After all, you can’t feel like a murderer if you can’t ever be sure if you’ve killed somebody.”

I think of Anita and shake my head. But he continues to stare me down with those intense dark eyes, so I don’t really think much about it before choosing the right-hand side chamber.

“I was hoping you would pick that,” Wilson admits, fidgeting with the edge of his coat. “For Julian’s execution, I took the left chamber too. This means that I’ve either no blood on my hands…”

“...Or you’ll have killed two people.” Or possibly even more. A sense of finality settles into those words, and I feel my stomach clench.

Meanwhile, Wilson’s lips press into a contemplative line.

“So, um. Kasumi, I suppose this is goodbye?” I’ve thought over multiple things that I could say, and this was less awkward than asking if she has any final words for me, or if there’s anything we can do for her in her last moments. Nonetheless, I still hate how my voice comes out with my chosen line. I sound like a fumbling child.

Suddenly, she runs forward, catching my hands in hers. The action takes me by surprise, and I’m jolted slightly backward as she commands, “Jean. I live at Number Four, High Priestess Drive. Everything in the garden is yours. I trust you. Please.”

“Whoa, there,” Wilson interrupts. “He asked for goodbyes, not a monologue. We’re running short on time — stay within the red square on the floor, Asai. Jean, I hope you still remember your role.”

She nods to him curtly. We’re standing in the centre of the room, so she’s already in the right position, but her knees tremble unsteadily as she closes her eyes. Wilson walks through the door and holds it open, wordlessly waiting for me to follow him through.

I swallow thickly. “Goodbye, Kasumi,” I call out, and I slowly walk out the door.

There’s no response.

I close the door behind me, trying to ignore how much it sounds like a coffin slamming shut. Wilson checks the doorknob after I lock it — the distrust is evident in his face — and without as much as another word to each other, we go our opposite ways.

The corridor is as barren as the execution chamber that we just went in, and I can feel every squeak and collision that my boots make against the spotlessly smooth floor. The environment is so clean that it’s unnerving. Control Room A is only around the corner, but it feels as though it takes forever.

The door clicks shut behind me. I’m seeing Kasumi again, through a pane of glass — what did Wilson call it again, a one-way mirror? — and below it is a futuristic-looking control panel. There’s the lever that Wilson has described, as well as a computer with various monitors.

Two of the monitors are lit. I can see Wilson’s face on one of them, blurred and slightly distorted. I can see in the bottom-left corner that that monitor is labelled Control Room B. He’s making small talk with the person on the other monitor, whom I recognise as one of the security guards that have been taking the other candidates to their executions.

“Mr. Toulemonde, can you hear me?” they ask. I nod, then realise I can’t see where the camera is. If Wilson is being filmed, then it’s reasonable to think that I’m being filmed too, right? But I don’t get too far before the guard continues speaking, clear and formal. “This is Sergeant Sam Thornton speaking. For the purposes of procedural transparency and future record-keeping, this conversation and the following execution will be recorded. The other candidates have phoned in to confirm that the Storyteller has deemed Ms. Asai acceptable for today’s execution. Today is the fifth day of the demon hunt in Ravenswood Bluff: twenty-third of July —”

I space out as the sergeant continues with even more formalities. I’m focused on Kasumi, whose eyes are squeezed shut, and I’m reminded of her words again. ‘Maybe I should have believed in everyone.’

Well, now’s too late for any type of regrets. And that goes for the both of us.

The sergeant counts down from ten, at which point Wilson and I are meant to each pull our own lever, and commence the execution mechanism. Wilson bites one of his fingernails and then grips the lever with both hands. I’m staring at his screen but not really, too lost in my own thoughts to feel any disgust, or nerves, or nausea for that matter. To my surprise, I’m not that terrified. Anita’s reaction comes up in my mind again, but I try my best to push it down. People react differently to different things, and I’m going to try not to think too much about my feelings, because then I’ll lose this facade of calmness that I have around me. I might start physically having a meltdown instead of keeping the freakout solely in my brain. And that won’t do me any good in the long run. I have to do this because this is my duty, and as a demon candidate, I have a duty to take turns with the other candidates to watch over the executions. This is the only way we can take out the Demon. This is the only way we can safeguard our town.

“Three… two… one. Pull.” I grip the lever with both hands and heave it towards myself, abjectly avoiding looking at the glass panel that’s in front of me. Ancient rumbling fills the control room, and for a brief second, I wonder if something has gone wrong.

The sight in the execution chamber is impossible to look away from. As it turns out, the red tape on the floor is the outline of a trapdoor. I can hear Kasumi’s muffled scream through the walls as she’s dropped into whatever lies below, and fresh bile rises into my throat. But she doesn’t fall immediately. Rather, she appears to gradually sink into something that’s violet and glowing…

I realise too late that the barrier is devouring Kasumi. Her eyes are wide open, her nails scraping the trapdoor’s edge in a vain attempt to cling to survival, and even from the control room, I can see that the skin of her fingers is melting off her bones. My mind — the sick, twisted thing that it is — jumps to the scented candles that Laila used to light. I’m brought back to their memory because the skin of Kasumi’s fingers is melting.

She opens her mouth to scream. Her face starts to froth and bubble, and a row of blister-like protrusions break through her smooth skin. It drips and leaks, and with her increasingly panicked movements, tendrils of violet magic rise above the trapdoor, and she goes under.

This is the only way that a demon can be thoroughly eviscerated.

All of the executees thus far have died this way, my brain adds. A fitting death for a demon, maybe, or a murder accomplice. But between Dave, Yulian and Kasumi… surely at least one of them had been innocent? I can’t stop myself from staring at the scene in shock, a million things running through my mind and none of them clicking with me. It’s like I’m a passenger in my own body, watching all these events pass me by.

Then the sergeant yells that my job isn’t yet finished, and Wilson strains with the effort of containing the excess magic. Right. I’ve only just registered that the barrier seems to have a mind of its own, and if left unchecked, it would devour the entire building with us in it. But we have to contain it until when? And how would I even contribute?

Wilson grunts out loud, and I copy his stance. My magic has been known to work once in a while, but even then, it doesn’t always achieve my desired effect, so I’ve simply opted to never rely on it. The last time I tried using it was three days ago, when I tried to extinguish the flames on my bike, and I only ended up causing an explosion. I breathe in and out, and pray to whatever cruel god overlooking our situation to please just let me have this.

My hands start to tingle, but through my gloves, I don’t see anything. God, as soon as this is over, Wilson is going to grill me on why I didn’t contribute. That is, assuming there even exists a ‘this is over’ and the rogue barrier magic doesn’t simply annihilate all of us. All I can do is repeat to myself the mantra: please, please, please.

Then I hear loud rumbling, like a giant’s roar, as the trapdoor slowly lifts back upright, slotting back into place as though nothing had happened. The execution chamber is empty.

“Execution completed,” the sergeant tells us over the intercom. “Thank you both for your cooperation. Our supervisors will confirm whether or not the Demon has been vanquished. No further action is needed at the moment.”

And then that monitor goes black.

Wilson pulls out his phone, which I think is extremely insensitive of him, until I realise he’s checking with the Group Chat to see whether the ghosts are still with us. Brye answers within seconds, confirming to us both that the Demon is still at large.

“Where’s Kasumi?” I demand, hands clenching into trembling fists at my sides.

Wilson doesn’t answer immediately, he’s busy typing out a message to somebody. But right before he answers, he holds up a finger to his face, as though he’s a Marionette on strings, and then he shakes his head and puts his hand back down. “She’s still inside the barrier. After it dissolves her, then her ghost will appear.”

I try to say something, but then decide against it. He’s the professor here, and I don’t want to say anything that will make me sound like a complete idiot. Besides, it doesn’t seem implausible: Mar’s ghost appeared immediately, while Elliot’s didn’t turn up at the site of the car wreck.

“Come on, Jean,” he murmurs, with a long sigh that hangs in the air, even moments after. “We’ll meet at the elevator. Let’s just go home.”

Wilson’s monitor goes black, too. I assume he’s left the room. I grope around for a full minute, looking for how to turn off my own monitor, but I can’t figure it out so I decide I’ll just leave the room as it is. But no sooner as I’ve commanded myself to walk, my legs start shaking and my body collapses against the door.

I wait for my vision to unblur itself. Normally, when I’m coming down from a scare, I count to ten and my vision will more or less have returned to normal, but right now my world is still shaking. I can see my chest heaving even through multiple layers of clothing.

This is it. I’ve got to keep it together.

I wrench the door open and force myself out, just so Wilson won’t think I’ve been plotting something. As promised, he waits for me by the elevator, and his eyes raise slightly above the edge of his phone to glance at me before he presses the elevator button.

We stand there in silence. I’m half-expecting him to comment on how I barely contributed, but he doesn’t say anything of the sort. Rather:

“Jean, I want to show you something, but I don’t have it with me now.” His words are slow and enunciated, as though he’s carefully choosing them, but I don’t know what for. “Let’s meet at midnight, at the town square. To demonstrate goodwill, we’ll both come alone.”

What the hell is he playing at? What can he possibly want to show me? I reel back, sputtering, but Wilson just co*cks his head to the side. He knows I know he’s possibly the Demon and therefore possibly out to murder me. “Sure,” I say, trying not to let myself sound intimidated. “On one condition, though: I’ll tell the Group Chat that if I’m found dead, I’d been meeting you.”

“No,” he barks. He holds up a hand, and my vision goes woozy again. “Believe me, I wouldn’t insist on absolute secrecy unless I had a good reason. And if I had wanted to kill you, now would be the perfect opportunity.”

But I know that’s not true. I know that within the execution compound, I’m untouchable, because Laila would rain hell upon him if I don’t come back safely from the execution tonight. But I keep that knowledge to myself for now. I tell him, “I’ll think about it.”

Then the elevator dings and we both step into the carriage.

Where we danced so close, we were teenage ghosts

We were doing that graveyard waltz

After all is said and done

We were just too young

To be doing that graveyard waltz

The sun has dipped beyond the mountain range in the distance. I stare out the window at the greying sky, while the rain begins to fall, and drum my fingers against the door of Wilson’s car. All my thoughts are distorted and hazy: overcast skies. Violet tendrils of magic. Blood. I try to block out my heart’s pounding by listening to the music that he’s playing in the background. It’s absolute crap, but I need something to focus on.

And God, I don’t know how he can manage being this effortlessly stoic.

“Jean, get away from the door. You are not going out to meet Delaney, in the middle of the night, while nobody else is around. God, I can’t believe I even have to explain this to you!” Laila is marching up and down the entryway, throwing her hands up and down as she rants. “Do I have to tell you not to stick your hands in fire as well? Not to wander alone into Harpy-infested woods? It’s actually priceless how you think you can waste all the effort that I spent, keeping you alive through five consecutive days of the hunt, and then present yourself to our enemy anyway, on a silver f*cking platter — sorry, not sorry, because I expected better from you, Jean! How could you have even thought for a moment that this would be a good idea at all?”

I press myself against the wall, blinking. Normally, her shouting would have given me a headache, but right now, all I feel is dread. “Laila, listen to me, I’ve considered everything that you screamed at me just now —”

She scoffs coldly. “I don’t believe you for a second. This is how people die in horror movies, Jean! By being fricking dumb! Listen to me: Delaney is a Demon candidate. That means he has a high likelihood of being the Demon. Demons have a high likelihood of killing innocent people. You know the Demon’s going to claim another victim tonight, Jean. There’s only four of us left. We can’t hope to be left alone just by the sheer number of other targets around us anymore. This is your last chance: step away from the door.”

From the pressure of being put on the spot, there’s a sharp pain in my chest that is now travelling down both of my arms. I ignore it and grit out, “But he was right. I don’t think he would have called me out to meet him unless he truly had a good reason. It doesn’t make sense for the Demon to make such a request, because what if I ignored his wishes and told everyone that I was meeting him anyway? He’d be cornered in the next discussion if I wound up dead. At least, I think it might be safe —”

“And if it isn’t?” she demands, advancing closer with a growl. Just answer the question: what if it isn’t safe? You won’t even let me go with you, for Medway’s sake. Heading over with backup would at least be marginally less stupid than what you’re currently doing.”

I look down. “He specifically asked me to meet him alone. I feel like he would be on guard if he saw you tagging along. Besides, I’m worried for your safety. I don’t want to put you in the line of fire if things indeed go south —”

“So you’re not afraid of going yourself. But when it comes to me, then you want to keep me out of harm’s way,” Laila repeats, somewhat incredulously. I shake my head, trying to shake off the feeling. She has a way with words that makes me feel utterly powerless at her hands. If she doesn’t agree with what I’m saying, then that’s it. That’s the end of the road, and there’s no use trying to sway her. “You’re aware of the danger, you’re just refusing to act on it. Delaney is our number one Demon candidate —”

“I’m starting to think it’s not him,” I manage.

“Then you’re saying the Demon is Anita,” Laila scowls. “If it’s not Delaney, and it isn’t you or me, then the Demon would be Anita.”

“I mean, I’m not one hundred percent sure yet…” I’m choosing my words carefully. I don’t want to set her off again. Suddenly, my gaze falls on her, and how she’s still in her outside clothes. “Wait. Actually, Laila, were you hoping to go somewhere tonight?”

“No,” she answers, sounding confused. “Why would I be going out? It’s not safe to go out and nothing’s open.” Then she follows my gaze down. “If this is a ploy to divert my attention, and to sneak out while I’m busy changing —”

“It was a stupid question,” I admit freely. “And I’m sorry for asking it. But honestly, I never planned on sneaking out.”

Her brows immediately stop tensing up, and she breathes out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank Steven.” The joy in her tone is palpable, and I can feel my own heart clench. “Now, are you going to help me finish these cookies, or —”

“No, Laila. I meant that I don’t need your permission to meet up with him.”

And with those words, I start towards the door. Laila lunges for me, and she manages to grab a hold of my parka, banshee-screaming things like how dare I run off like this, I’m going to get myself killed, Jean Toulemonde do you hear me? Do you f*cking hear me right now, you stupid son-of-a…

She’s interrupted by her own sputtering when I wrench her off of me, and manage to slam the front door in her face.

Guilt starts dawning on me after I’ve pulled the bike out of the garage. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh with her. Maybe I should go back and apologise. But when I turn back towards the house, I glance in through the window. Laila is leaning against the shoe rack, holding her phone up to her ear. Never mind, then. I’ll just text her instead.

After I finish doing exactly that, I swing one leg over the bicycle seat, and start heading towards the familiar town square.

This has been reiterated to pandemonium and back already, but the town square is empty.

The weather can’t seem to decide what it wants to be tonight. Gusts of intermittent rain have rendered the wooden benches unusable, and created murky grey puddles on the cobblestone ground. For now, the showers have stopped, but cold mists and the breeze continue to grip the night air, pricking the back of the neck and stinging the throat. Grey thunderclouds glare down menacingly, as though lying in wait — waiting for what, exactly, I don’t know.

I glance down at my phone. The glowing display announces the time as 00:07, but there’s still no sign of Delaney. I have twenty screaming messages and three unanswered phone calls, all from Laila, but I can’t deal with those right now. If I did, it would weaken my resolve. And I have to see this encounter through, because this is part of my promise to myself. A promise that I’ll at least stop being the useless and ineffectual moron that everybody sees me as.

I see a figure faintly being reflected by the surface of my phone, and I’m about to spin around to face them, right as a cold hand clenches around the front of my throat.

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes, n4 yes, n5 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d3)Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Kasumi, Jean, Elliot
  - d4) Jean, Anita, Kasumi, Delaney, Julian
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1, n3 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1-5 0)
• Julian [died d4] - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2 Snake Charmer
  - n1) Laila
  - n2) Jean
  - n3) Lyra
  - n4) Laila
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher
  - n3) Sage
  - n4) Kasumi or Delaney
  
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier
  - n2) Lyra, Mar, Delaney, Kasumi (yes)
  - n3) Kasumi, Mar, Julian, Jean (yes)
  - n4) Jean (yes)
  - n5) Delaney, Kasumi, Laila, Julian (yes)
  
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant Outsider → Fang Gu → Snake Charmer Flowergirl
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)

Chapter 21: look alive, sunshine! (night six)

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry, Jean. But like I said, there’s no hard feelings.” Even as I curse and attempt to squirm out of this tight chokehold, there’s no way I wouldn’t recognise the cold, methodical voice that’s coming from behind my ear. It’s Delaney, and he pushes a small knife to my throat. I can faintly see the glint of its steel edge, and it comes to rest just ever so slightly in contact with my skin, making me gulp. “We’re just two men, each trying our best to survive.”

“Are you the Demon?” I whisper quietly. He hasn’t laid a finger on me yet, but that can change at any time. His touch is icy cold, and I inwardly beg, brain, please don’t stop working on me, please don’t let me die.

Here is what I’m thinking: Sergio said that Demon doesn’t attack in human form (and it stands to reason that he wasn’t lying, because otherwise the ghosts would be screaming “so-and-so killed me”). So the fact that Wilson is attacking me with a knife instead of with claws signals to me that he’s not the evil we’re hunting. Maybe he’s the Demon’s servant and he’s about to bring me to his master.

Which, granted, isn’t much preferable to being killed right off the bat, but it gives me some slim chance of figuring out a way to survive this.

God, why hadn’t I listened to Laila?

“I’m not the Demon,” Wilson mutters against my hair. “Let me put it this way. On the way to the gazebo, I had a realisation. I realised that if Asai was innocent, then the Demon would attack tonight. We’re at the final four, so each innocent person has a one-in-three chance of being the target. Moreover, I highly doubt the Demon would attack its own servants at this stage of the hunt. So if one is still alive, any remaining loyalists’ survival odds drop to fifty percent.”

The knife is so close to my throat that I’m unable to react. All I can do is focus on my own sputtering heartbeat, well aware that each beat could be the last.

“I know I’m loyal to the town. I know my information is critical. I know the Demon will come for me tonight, because any Demon worth its salt would need me dead before tomorrow. And here’s where you come in. See, the Demon only attacks one person each night. What’s more is, when they’re in Demon form, they’re little more than animals. The smell of fresh blood drives them into an uncontrollable, violent frenzy. I went over all the possible configurations, and if I had to bet my life on just one candidate being a loyalist… it would be you.”

“So you’re kidnapping me?” I breathe. Then it hits me. “You’re using me as a meat shield.”

He gives a low hum. “Only as a last resort. But when you really think about it, this strategy benefits us both. If the Demon comes for us, it’ll see that we’re together. It would be too risky to kill when a witness is present. With any luck, we’ll both live to see the sunrise.”

My breath comes out in slow, sharp pants that feel like knives puncturing my sides. He’s not going to kill me. Or so he says. But if I can take him at face value, then this is such a relief. I thought for sure that he was going to drag me into an abandoned building and implant a Demon into my head.

No. Wait. There’s no reason to think he’s telling me the truth. I’ve been assuming that I’m his target, but what if that assumption is wrong? What if the true target is Laila, and he simply drew me away from the house so Anita could murder her, totally unopposed? Or maybe Delaney himself had been circling our house like a vulture, waiting to strike the moment I left. He’d use me as his alibi, and convince me to gang up with him on the completely-innocent Anita tomorrow.

I need to get away. It doesn’t matter if he’s telling the truth. Laila is in danger. I need to get away and split up from him, even if it means there’s a chance I’ll draw the Demon to myself. If only I had an opening…

“Mr Wilson, I applaud your efforts.” I lower my voice to sound less frightened. This is a terrible plan. I can feel it in my bones already. It was concocted in too little time to be sufficient, but it’s the only plan I can envision working. “No, truly, I do. But unfortunately…”

I ready my hands into position.

“...I’m the Demon.”

“No —” Delaney gasps involuntarily, and that’s exactly the opening I need. My right hand closes around Delaney’s hand, the one that’s holding the knife, and I push it away from myself. I wind back my other arm and ram the elbow directly into his face. The full force of my blow shatters into him with a squelch, sudden enough that he lets go of me, flailing for balance. I whirl around and push him onto the ground. Then I kneel over his chest so he can’t get back up, but he doesn’t go down quietly. A curse is screamed. He thrusts blindly upwards with the knife. I grab his wrist to pin it against the ground instead.

Delaney is strong, but not that strong. I’m far younger, and being a circus performer for most of my life has kept me in decent physical shape. He spits in my eye and his hands snake around my throat, as his entire body thrashes violently to fight me off. But I manage to wrench the knife out of his grasp, and then I consider it. One second. If Delaney can distract me for one second, he can snatch the blade back and gut me like a fish. I settle for hurling it as far as I can throw it, and it clatters against the cobblestones some ten or twenty feet away.

“What the hell was that?” I hiss, and Delaney winces at my tone. It’s hard to tell when it’s so dark out, but I’m pretty sure a bruise is starting to form on his jaw. Normally, I would have felt apologetic, but right now I’m too shocked to process it properly. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Like I said earlier!” He manages to put on a show of bravado despite being pinned under me. “If it’s you or me … it’s gonna be you, Jean.”

“You held me at knifepoint!” Blood pounds through my ears in a violent frenzy. Without thinking, I reel my arm back to slap him. But the moment my fingers brush his skin, I cry out and violently jerk my hand back.

There’s no easy way of explaining what Delaney did to me. One second, I’m staring him down, with him at my mercy — and the next, I’m doubled over on the floor, having the most intense panic attack of my life. But I’ve never had a panic attack out of the blue. Cold lightning spreads up both my arms and grips my whole chest with tight, unrelenting hands. My lungs struggle to suck in air, my breathing is becoming even more haggard, and for a brief, insane moment, I can’t even think past my immediate belief that I’m dying. He pushes me off him, and I can hear Delaney’s shoes scraping against the ground, faintly aware that he’s gotten to his feet. I’ve lost my advantage.

His boot comes flying straight at my face. I manage to block the first kick, but then he makes some kind of hand motion. My breath stutters in my throat, and it’s suddenly too difficult to move again. Blow after blow comes raining down. My head is pummelled over and over against the concrete.

“You miserable little — I tried reasoning with you! I laid it all out clearly!” At this point, I’ve come to my senses enough to shield my face with my arms. I nestle my knees against my chest to protect my ribcage. I can deal with this. I might hiss or groan from the pain from time to time but it has to end at some point. Eventually, he straightens up, and I’m given the opportunity to pry my face back up from the ground. He takes a half-step back, crossing his arms as he eyes my sprawled form. “Get up. We aren’t staying out here in the open.”

My face is completely messed up. It’s hot and swollen all over. Some droplets are pouring down the inside of my mask and I’m not sure if it’s blood or sweat. Suddenly, my stomach lurches, and I clamp a hand to my face, not wanting to show weakness in front of Delaney.

I pull myself to my knees, still glaring at him.

And then a cold gust of wind, too cold for a night in July, gives both of us pause.

The trees that line the sidewalk have come alive with manic rustling. Even the leaves know something is amiss, and they’re desperately squirming for cover. A layer of mist bleeds over the earth, carrying with it puffs of white clouds; leaving behind the smell of freshly-nourished earth and some faint, acrid tinges of smoke. A drowsy haze lulls over me. I desperately want to close my eyes and feel the mist on my face, yet at the same time, I’m sobered by the tight pull in the atmosphere that urgently demands the air from my lungs. The threat of suffocation is only matched by the oncoming chill, and then we both see it at the same time.

The nightmare is at the edge of the town square, some fifty or a hundred metres away from us. But time itself seems to freeze as the figure floats towards us. A shapeless deity, its limbs are made from constantly-shifting smoke, and there’s a deep, sunken shadow in place of where the eyes would normally be. In the middle of the deserted square, with shadows lurking around every corner, it seems to glow in the dark. Every minute detail about this creature, this thing, whispers a horrible untold story.

Then it opens its maw — a dark void, filled with rows upon rows of sharp teeth — and lets out an unearthly roar.

I stagger to my feet.

I run. But Delaney is faster. He bristles past me with absolutely no problem. Of course. My chest still hurts from the beating that I took, and my entire body is sore. My vision seems to merge together like a pattern in a kaleidoscope, and I try not to think so much about it, instead focusing all of my energy on getting away, but I don’t know if it will be of any use. Just like Delaney said, Demons act like sharks when they smell blood. If I’m injured, the ghostly figure will come barreling straight for me.

It’s bearing on us. Every breath burns through my lungs, and I will my legs to move, but I simply can’t catch up with him. By now, Delaney has put a good twenty feet between us. I can feel the frozen, bitter breath on the back of my neck, and footsteps coming up behind me.

And then, out of nowhere, a car skids to a stop directly in front of Delaney, just barely avoiding running him over. He curses, tries to run around it, and is immediately struck by the driver’s door being slammed open.

“What did I tell you? What did I f*cking tell you?” screams the sight for sore eyes, my best friend in the entire world with the blazing eyes and the obnoxiously loud voice. “Do you know how long I spent searching for you? You didn’t even tell me where you went to meet Delaney, I had to take a whole ass detour to his house, find it empty, and then drive all the way over here! — Ugh, just get in the car, loser. I want to yell at you in safety.”

Delaney pushes himself off the ground. He’s sporting a fresh nosebleed; he rubs his face with the back of his sleeve, and a quick glance downward confirms what he’s seen.

Eyes clouded over with thought, he throws one last look in my direction.

Then he lunges for Laila.

My legs run forward on their own, but I’m too far away. Before I can close the distance, Delaney has already grabbed her jacket, and dragged her out of the car. Laila screams, and her arms swing out wildly, but she can’t stop Delaney from seizing a fistful of her hair.

A great woosh emanates from above, and I could have sworn that something had just soared over my head. The ghostly figure swoops down from an arc of white mist, and slams full-force into Delaney. Against it, he’s just a rag doll. It floats up, lifting him, and his feet dangle a full three metres above the ground, before it flings him across the street. He slams into the concrete of the building behind him, and he crumples to the ground, fallen.

“Get in,” Laila commands again, and I’m not about to make her tell me a third time. I’ve never felt as grateful as I currently do, when I pull the shotgun seat open and slide in. The door clicks securely shut, and I fasten my seatbelt across my chest, while Laila does the same next to me. But then I pause. “What are we going to do about Delaney?”

Laila frowns, considering the situation. The Demon has made its choice of victim for tonight abundantly clear.

And before I can suggest anything, the car is speeding off.

“Laila, what the f*ck?” I gasp out, craning my neck to watch what we’ve left behind. The ghostly figure is descending savagely on Delaney, and I can make out a muffled scream. My chest feels heavy, but I can’t look away. After the events of the past week, death is starting to feel like a passing acquaintance. Hey Jean, are the folks around you doin’ alright? Well, Kasumi’s dead, and Delaney is dead. And so are Yulian, Lyra and Mar. Absolutely phenomenal. Absolutely.

Laila steps on the gas pedal like she’s imagining my face on it. The tires scream against asphalt as we continue barrelling down the road. “I could ask you the same thing, you know!” she shoots back hotly. “How dare you go out there alone! I should have tailed you, but by the time I found my car keys, you were already gone. I can’t f*cking believe you went out there and got yourself beaten up! f*ck you, Jean! I’m going to scream this at you every day for the rest of our lives now. You’re going to say, ‘Good morning, Laila!’ and I’ll reply, ‘f*ck you, Jean, you f*cking moron, but also good morning.’ You’re bleeding all over my car — take off your mask and tend to your wounds. There’s tissue in the compartments. But as I was saying, you’d be dead if I weren’t around to haul your ass out of harm’s way, because clearly you can’t be trusted to do the right thing.”

The weight on my heart suddenly feels even more heavy. I sigh, pressing a hand to my forehead, saying, “I guess leaving Delaney to die is ‘the right thing’ too.”

She elbows me sharply in the ribcage, one eyebrow raised with incredulity. “Here you go again! Do you want another dispute? Do you want to create another mess that I’ll have to f*cking pull you out of?”

I stay silent.

“Good,” she announces scathingly, “because in case you hadn’t noticed, either he dies, or one of us has to. Are you willing to die to save Delaney?”

“No,” I answer, slowly. “I mean, I get it. I don’t see any way to save him without compromising our safety. But I still can’t shake off the feeling that we just left him to get mauled on the street —”

“Focus on the first part,” Laila cuts in. “There is no way to save Delaney without throwing one of us into harm’s way. That’s all you need to hear, and all you need to know.”

I nod again, apologising at least ten more times for my own recklessness. But then again…

“I’m kind of grateful, honestly,” I breathe out. Now that the adrenaline from earlier is winding down, the pain is starting to get more intense, and the space on my back between my shoulders is starting to hurt. It’s really been a long day. “We might have just narrowly dodged death, but now, we know for sure that the Demon was Anita. I guess Delaney was a genuine loyalist after all. Let’s just get home and wind down so we can brainstorm tomorrow.”

“Brainstorm?” she repeats, her brows knitting together.

“Yeah.” I reach behind my head to undo the clasp that holds my mask together. It’s a little stained with blood, and I do my best job of wiping it off with tissues. No matter. It’s not like anybody apart from Laila is going to see me in this state anyway. I leave it on the dashboard and start dabbing against my forehead. I guess I was bleeding after all. “We need to brainstorm for the final discussion, don’t we? We need to figure out a way to convince the rest of the candidates to vote Anita to the barrier. I’m thinking that if we both accused each other of being the Mutant, everyone wouldn’t be able to tell the difference —”

Laila doesn’t say anything and simply turns the wheel to enter a highway.

“I should have asked earlier, but are you…” I ask, tentatively. “Are you alright? Delaney only grabbed you, right? Did he manage to hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she answers curtly. “I’m not the one with my nose bashed in and looking like sh*t. Worry about yourself, loser.”

The sky really can’t decide what it wants to be tonight, because raindrops start beating down on the car windows. The splashing washes over my ears, a nice soothing contrast to the mess that had transpired earlier. It feels calm, almost melancholic, and the iron bars on the side of the highway pass us in a blur —

“Laila,” I murmur, “there’s no highway between the town square and your house.”

Laila continues to drive straight.

“Nobody’s around. You can just make a U-turn and head right back.”

“There’s something I need to do before tomorrow,” she answers impatiently. She doesn’t even look at me, she just continues staring at the road ahead of her. But as far as I can see, the road is completely straight.

“Laila, where are we going?” A note of confusion rises in my voice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this highway. But then again, I’ve lived in this town for all but a week. For all I know, I’m overreacting and Laila’s just heading to someone’s house to borrow a few eggs from them, so we can make cookies tonight again.

She’s too lost in thought to answer me.

“Jean, I need a favour from you,” she commands, her brow tightly furrowed. She’s in one of those moods again, and I know better than to challenge her in this sort of situation. “Call Eli from your phone and put it on speaker. Just keep dialling until they pick up.”

The relieved smile dries on my face. I nod demurely, pull out my phone and scroll down the list of Group Chat members until I find them, and press the ‘call’ button. The rain starts falling in thick sheets, which somehow seems to resonate with my trembling hands. Elliot picks up after the first ring, and the slightly annoyed “What do you want, Jean?” makes me flinch so hard I drop my phone entirely, and have to lean down to recover it.

“Eli, it’s me,” Laila announces, as I hold the phone up to her face. Her words are clear and every syllable is carefully enunciated. I can’t explain it but something about the way she’s talking feels off. Maybe she’s equally afraid of Elliot exploding as I am. “I’m driving and Jean’s next to me. Anita just killed Delaney.”

“Oh my god,” is the whispered reply. I can’t tell what Elliot is thinking. “Did you see it happening?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Delaney was attacking Laila. Then the Demon surged forward and ripped him off of her. I didn’t see it through to the end, but I’m pretty sure Delaney is dead now.”

Elliot hisses out a sharp string of curse words. “She’s gone over the edge. So what’s the plan from here?”

Silence hangs in the air momentarily. “We split up,” Laila declares, with a defeated sigh. “You go after Anita, and make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid for the rest of the night. Meanwhile, I’m taking Jean to the old place.”

As soon as she gets off the phone, I lean on the dashboard and ask conversationally, “So, what is the ‘old place’ that you mentioned?”

Laila seems to consider the question for a long while, and I can see her fingers clench around the wheel. Finally, she relents and sighs. “We’re going to the Temple of the Storyteller. We need all the luck that we can get for the final discussion, so I’m going to leave an offering and pray for her blessing.”

Immediately, the tension in my throat lessens. “See?” I smile, leaning back in the chair. “You just had to tell me. I’m fully on board now, but earlier, you were kind of starting to scare me. You don’t normally act this stiff unless there’s something serious on your mind.”

Here, she huffs and runs a hand through her long sleek hair. Her eyes are as tempestuous as the street lamps that run across the highway. “That’s because I’m trying to think right now, and you’ve been getting on my nerves all night. I — I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like a crabby ass bitch all night, and I really can’t help it, but that’s no excuse to be talking to you like this. I’m not angry at you, but I am angry. You riled me up. Do you get the difference?”

No, I don’t. But whatever she’s riled up over, I don’t want her to get even more peeved over it. “Is there, um…” I start. “Did I do something that angered you?”

“You mean, aside from running off alone like a braindead Fool?” she harrumphs. “Well, you brought up the matter of Tiya.”

I stare out the window and reflect long and hard on it. Seriously, I do. But I really don’t see what I could have done differently back there. I’d been deliberate in only saying Tiya’s name, and nothing further, since all the other candidates were standing around and could have easily overheard. I know the memory is still a sore one for her. It’s always a heavy blow to lose someone at a young age. But what else was I supposed to do today? I tell her exactly that. I tell her that I’m sorry, I’m legitimately and seriously sorry for upsetting her, but I had good intentions and I just wanted to shield her in case Delaney decided to run his mouth again. Out of the two of us, I might be the Defect (as opposed to Laila who’s only the relative of one), but I can deal with a few mean comments. She listens to all of this with her lips pursed as tightly as a vice.

“You are not the problem!” she explodes at me, taking me by shock. What the hell am I supposed to do here? is my immediate thought, because if I’m not the problem, then why is she shouting at me? There’s some sort of tension pulling at my chest, making it hard to breathe, even though the air conditioners in the car are cranked all the way up. I shrink against the door to my side, needing to put a few more inches’ space between me and my best friend, but there’s nowhere for me to go. We’re charging across the highway at speeds that are far, far above the legal limit. “You are the outcome of the problem! Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?” I whisper, slightly cowed. I’m able to mask the tremble of my hands, but I have no hope that she won’t see the look of terror on my face. “Please just tell me. What is there to get?”

Laila wrests sideways to glare at me. The moment she takes her eyes off the road, I start to panic.

“Please, focus on the road,” I beg. “You can tell me what I did wrong, but please don’t glare at me like that. We’re going so fast, and —”

And we could crash through the side of the highway and fall tumbling into whatever lies below, but I don’t say that out loud. I don’t need to explain to Laila how I got that irrational fear, and I don’t want to explain it to her. But the car only seems to increase in pace, and I find myself truly realising how powerless I am. I’m stuck in this car that is going way too fast for my liking, and the scenery around us is shifting like a fever dream. And the two of us are just two specks of brightly-coloured dust, speeding across the highway, assaulted by the oncoming rain.

“And what?” she hammers. “You think we’re gonna take a tumble off the highway? I’m not Elliot, Jean.”

“So you knew?” I venture. “You knew all along?”

“Of course I knew!” Laila shouts, like she can’t believe I could seriously be this stupid. “Do you think the second their ghost was back, I wasn’t demanding to know what the hell they were thinking? They said, it was either that or ramming both you and Anita off the cliffside. So I’m furious, Jean. You keep trying to protect me, and normally that would be foolishly admirable, because we live in a world that barely goes through the trouble of protecting anyone from anyone else, really. Nobody protected Tiya, even though she needed protecting. You tried to protect me, and you couldn’t even do a good job of it. Every single attempt that you made has backfired, because you keep charging into situations that you don’t even understand!”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. My eyes dart back and forth between her livid face and the windshield. I don’t know how far our destination is. “But, um. Nobody could have protected Tiya. Nobody was around at the time of her death.” I think? Tiya died in a freak accident involving the circus’ lion. Nobody could have done anything.

“Acrobats,” Laila sneers quietly, nostrils flaring, and she looks absolutely crazed. I glance at the speedometer that’s rapidly starting to approach one hundred. “Acrobats, acrobats, acrobats. Everybody loves Acrobats. Who doesn’t love Acrobats? For how they’re treated, they should be honorary Townsfolk. They’re pleasing to look at and they don’t have feelings.”

“Laila, slow down the car,” I whisper, watching as the speedometer keeps going further and further up.

“I might have been one of them. Can you believe it? In an alternate universe where Tiya never died, I would never have gotten out. But it was already too late for her, and it was too late for you as well. The Ringmaster’s already clawed his way into your innocent little head, and you don’t even realise it.”

It’s pitch-black outside. We’re worlds apart, disconnected; each caught up in our own motives. I’ve long since stopped being able to make out the individual metal poles that are on the side of the highway, but the way Laila bulldozes past them is making me see stars. My head is actually starting to spin, and a twinge of pain pricks into the back of my skull. “Laila, you absolutely do have needs and feelings,” I desperately try to reassure her. “I’ll listen to you. I don’t know what the Ringmaster or Delaney or whoever else said to you, but that doesn’t matter. Will you please drive slower?”

Laila lets up on the gas pedal, but it only lasts a moment before the car starts picking up speed again. It’s a straight road for now, but I fear to think what’s going to happen as soon as we need to take a turn. The rain is pounding down so hard that I doubt Laila can even see the road clearly. “Jean. Listen to me. Seriously. Have you never questioned why everybody knows how to use a mobile phone except you? It’s not some crazy newfangled technology.”

“It would have interfered with training,” I protest. At this point, I can’t tell if I’m trying to defend my honour or calm her down. “It was for the best, you know. If I had seen that petition while Mercier still employed me —”

She looks surprised. “Petition?”

“Yeah.” My fingernails dig into the seat belt. “There was a petition on the Internet, telling Mercier to remove me from Cirque du Roi. A lot of people signed it — seven thousand, almost. If I’d known earlier that he was under pressure from the public, it would have crushed me.”

“Seven thousand? Seven thousand?” she shrieks. “This is what I meant! You’re completely out of touch! No circus would change the way things are run just because of seven thousand signatures — seventy thousand, maybe, but seven thousand is a drop in the bucket. Cirque du Roi easily pulls in that many audience members in a single day.”

Something in the back of my head explodes in pain.

“You were made redundant, Jean,” Laila spits. Her hands are shaking slightly on the wheel. “I’m still in contact with some of the technicians. They told me Johnny Mercy found another Mutant — a scarier one, apparently, with green scales all over her skin. He pulled you from the lineup so that everyone would wonder who the new circus freak would be.”

But this can’t be true. Can it? Because Mercier had told me that the audiences wanted me off the stage specifically. Maybe he meant that they were bored with me, and wanted to spare my feelings? “That’s just how showbiz works, isn’t it?” I say, more to reassure myself than anything else. “You’ve got to be the best in your field. The best-trained Acrobat, or the freakiest Mutant —”

She glares at me. “There should be no circus freaks at all.”

“If there were no circus freaks, people like me would have no jobs.”

“There should be no circus freaks. There should only be human beings.” Laila continues to lecture me, but all I can feel is the rain starting to fall down, burning a hole directly into my head. Her foot slams down on the gas, and my eyes widen as we go even faster. “Scratch that. There’s no distinction between groups of humans at all. Yet in practice, it always seems to be the case.”

“Laila, stop the car —”

“The Ringmaster used you, Jean!” she screams, at throat-breaking pitch. “He kept you uneducated, and innocent, and naive. You and me both, actually, but I was just lucky enough to have somewhere to go after I left. You had no one. You had no family in the country, no backup plan, no documentation. He didn’t give you better opportunities, he was just concerned with himself! He used you and then washed his hands of you, and you yourself don’t even realise it!”

My hands shake again, and I can’t hide it this time. The rain is almost uncomfortably heavy now, to the point of blocking out part of my hearing. I feel erratic and my thoughts can’t be controlled; they’re just flowing out of me and I can barely grasp onto them. Combined with my dizziness at the breakneck speeds we’re going at, I don’t know the purpose of this. I don’t know where we’re going, or what we’re going to do, or anything —

“He made sure to keep you that way!” Laila continues to shriek. “Just because you were a Mutant! He made sure you never learnt to use the internet, so you could never find out how you were being f*cked over! And he did the same to my damn cousin —”

“Laila! Let me out of the car!”

Against my better judgement, I snatch one of her arms off the wheel. It’s just to get her to step off the goddamned pedal. She’s reminding me far too much like Elliot for my liking and all I can think of is that it’s too much. Rambling on about something that only vaguely relates to me, which I think I’m supposed to understand, but it only fills me with terrible fear and leaves me feel like I’m lacking in something. But even that pales in comparison to the threat that at any moment, we could both rush over the edge and lose our lives.

Laila screams without looking and elbows me across the face, directly on a spot that’s already sore. I flinch away from her, but only succeed in slamming my head against the window behind me. The car veers left and right, and ultimately, she loses control. My chest constricts to the point where I can’t breathe, and I distinctly remember thinking that we’re both going to die. The vehicle slides across the rain-slick highway, fifty metres, a hundred metres… then there’s a deafening crash, and we collide with the rail on the side.

For a moment, there’s no sound in the car except for both our rapid breathing. I’m astonished to be alive. I raise a hand to the back of my head, feeling it for any bumps, finding none… and then I turn to see Laila, beside herself with rage.

“From now on, you will shut the f*ck up,” she snarls. “And you will not do any more absolutely stupid things without consulting me first.”

I bury my head in my arms, cradling my headache, as we drive on in silence.

I don’t know how much time passes until we pull up next to a small arrangement of run-down buildings. The only reason why I can even tell that they are buildings is because the headlights of the car illuminate a few inches’ space ahead of the car. I make out rough, crumbling shapes that could just as well have been the ruins of an old castle.

Drip, drip.

I push the sounds of the rain out of my head, as well as the trepidation that shivers through my entire body. We’ve arrived. As soon as I push the car open, I can taste the night breeze that’s as cold as it had been when the Demon first attacked. Immediately, lethargy sets itself deep into my bones, and I pause.

I don’t want to leave the car.

But my wishes don’t matter. Laila dismounts from the driver’s seat, and she wraps one arm around my own. Just like that, my will is overcome. My head feels like an old tin can, rattling with something that I can’t quite dislodge from the centre, and it’s too heavy for my shoulders to hold up.

I half-follow her through the front door of the temple, and she half-drags me forward.

I don’t know what I expected from the Temple of the Storyteller. Some part of my brain spits out a memory — Kasumi, was it? — of statues being shined, and incense being lit. And indeed, I can pick up on the reflective gleam of bronze, and the telltale smell of smoke, even as I’m standing in the doorway. The entrance chamber is almost completely dark, and I can faintly hear water dripping from a leakage in the walls or the ceiling. But Laila seems to know the way and she surges forward, so I fall in step behind her.

She takes me though a winding corridor, and we take a left turn, then a right. She drags me down the stairs — I use the word ‘drag’ because I would have tripped down them if not for her iron-clad grip on me. Eventually, we’re far underground enough that the sound of the rain fades, but the faint breath of moisture in the air continues to sting my neck. Any number of creatures could be perched in the shadow, lying in wait to jump out at us. The darkness is so deep, and it seems to stretch on forever, to the point where I don’t think I could have found my own way back out if I got separated from Laila. It’s gotten to the point where it’s starting to mess with my mind.

That’s what my world dissolves into: walk. Walk in the direction that you’re being pulled in, and don’t do any more absolutely stupid things. The process drags on for what seems to be hours, and at one point, I wonder if some tendrils of darkness have seeped into my mind. Having my best friend in the world at my side isn’t helping me keep my paranoid thoughts at bay.

What are you supposed to do when your best friend in the world is scaring you?

With absolutely no warning, my vision floods with light. My eyelids burn from the sensation, and I force them closed. Anything to relieve the insurmountable pressure that is building up inside my head. Even as I try to get my eyes used to the brightness, my vision feels like it’s rippling. It ripples this way and that, like flowing water, and it’s all. Just. Too. Much.

“Jean, look up.”

Like a Marionette that’s dragged on strings, I manage to obey her command. A quick gaze around the room makes every nerve in my body start to scream. We’re in something that looks like a hospital’s operating room, but various touches ruin the picture. For instance, I’m pretty sure that the patient’s bed would not have thick leather straps dangling off the sides. Where an operation room would have high-tech screens and close-up displays of the patient’s organs, an old-fashioned television screen adorns the wall instead. It doesn’t belong. And unlike the rest of the room, it doesn’t look to be covered in a layer of dust. But what ruins the clinical, calculated impression the most is the overall design: torches line the stone brick walls, and they’re glinting with purple tongues of magic. It looks more like an abandoned cellar that someone repurposed into an operation theatre, rather than anything that looks like a product of modern medicine.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here. I don’t know why she brought me here. All I can do is turn to Laila for directions.

“This place used to be gorgeous,” she says idly. “Or so I’ve heard. But people still come here from time to time. Apparently they feel a deeper connection with the Storyteller here, but most don’t go past the entrance chamber. One day, I grabbed a friend and we went exploring, and we found this old room.”

My phone rings in the pocket of my trousers. It snaps me out of my trance, fills me with some sort of purpose, albeit temporary. I pull it out and swipe to accept it, at the same time I see that the caller is Elliot.

“Laila, we can’t find Anita anywhere. Are you finished with Jean?”

“What?” I whirl on the person I’d previously trusted. Whom I’d thought was my best friend this entire time. I spit out a wad of bunched-up words. “But you — you — what the hell is going on now?”

Laila leans over and rips the phone from my grasp. She holds it up to her ear, tilting her head, narrowing her eyes, scolding Elliot for something or other — and then she winds her hand back and flings my phone full-force into the ground. I flinch as it smashes against the stone floor, cracks, and shatters.

“Cancers,” she complains, as I start looking for a way to escape this room, escape this situation. “Always acting without thinking first.”

I don’t know much about astrology, but this I do know. “They’re a Cancer? Laila, you can’t possibly mean —”

But the look in her eyes confirms exactly what I’ve been thinking. “They’re a Moonchild. Used to be, anyway, until a Zombuul came knocking, and the idiot townsfolks in their old town started f*cking sh*t up. Jean, I’ve only known Eli for a few years, but I know we share the same values. We came from the same background as each other. As you.”

What is she on about? “But you were only training to be an Acrobat! You were never a real Defect in the first place; you were able to become a Flowergirl!”

“I…” Here she falters. Her arms twitch at her sides, grasping for a stability she doesn’t have. “Like you said. I never finished Acrobat training. — I couldn’t go through with it. Not after what happened with Tiya. I managed to get out of the circus before it was too late, but it was already too late for her then.”

“Laila.” My own voice sounds unbearably fragile, even to my own ears. “Laila, please remember. Tiya died in an accident. No one could have done anything.”

“You should have seen Tiya prior to the accident,” she snarled back. “You should have seen what they pushed her to, and what he got away with because Acrobats are just pretty baubles for people to look at. I know you two barely crossed paths, but let me paint you a picture. She’d been subsisting on powdered nutrients and pill supplements ever since she was sixteen, because Mercier and the trainers kept telling her she wasn’t slim enough for the cameras, even though she was five-three and eighty-five pounds. You wouldn’t know, you were a Juggler — but us Acrobats get pushed to train, even if we’re injured. They tell you that there’s so many other Acrobats, younger than you, prettier than you, less injured than you; waiting for a chance to claim your place, so you can’t afford to be lazy like that and take a week off willy-nilly. Right before her death, she’d fractured her wrist during training. The Ringmaster convinced her to practise anyway. A lion wasn’t involved at all. She couldn’t grab the trapeze and fell.”

The image is horrible, but my mind refuses to believe it. “Mercier would have done something. There would have been an investigation, some kind of consequence. The police would have done something.”

“God, Jean, you really are dense sometimes! People like Mercier don’t get investigated, and even on the off-chance that they do, I wouldn’t hold my breath for consequences. There was no internal meeting, no review of the training processes, nothing. They just replaced her with the next Acrobat that they already had lining up to take her place.” Laila takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Do you even remember all the girls who were the ‘face of the circus’ after her? I wouldn’t fault you for not remembering. There’s got to be at least ten after her, and most of them barely lasted a handful of months. They just churned out our bodies, starving us, over-training us, until we inevitably wound up in a wheelchair or a neck brace and then they’d just replace us with the next one. We’re just a volley of fireworks to them, lucky to shine for a minute in the air, before we inevitably burn up and the next one takes to the sky. I would have been one of those fireworks. I just happened to be lucky enough to get out.”

An image flashes across my eyes. I’m back in the red-and-white-striped big top, and the coroners are carrying the deceased away on a stretcher. But instead of Tiya’s body, lying there motionless, it’s Laila.

She sits up and grabs me.

My jacket collar tightens against my throat to an impossible degree. She’s screaming in my ear, I’m screaming with her. I don’t know what’s happening anymore. At some point, my brain had severed connection with the rest of the world, and I don’t know how I’m going to take the bridge back across that chasm. Her fingers are long, sharp talons, and they drag me downwards, through the stretcher and into a bottomless pit. Then the torches around the room go dim again, and I’m free-falling. Eventually, I slam knees-and-hands-first into the coarse earthen ground.

A coarse voice in my head wonders how. My head screams in response. The space between my eyes is flaring up with pain, burning, searing hot. I don’t know where I am anymore, but I don’t think I’m in the operating theatre. I push myself to my feet and nearly keel over from pain.

In the middle of the suffocating darkness, something blinks at me feebly, some sort of light source, maybe a star. I run towards it without really thinking about it, unable to think. The pressure at the back of my scalp is threatening to erode at my sense of direction. Maybe my cranium is being sliced open like cheese being grated.

There’s no other soul around in sight. But the star only seems to recede further and further into the distance. There’s no other source of stimuli in this unknown place, and it feels directionless almost, to the point where I don’t know how long I’ve been running. But eventually, my feet stand at the edge of what looks like a large crater, dug into dusky-brown rock and sand.

Jean, this is your future.

It rasps to me using my own voice. But somehow, I know that the words being said are unquestionably Laila’s. The splitting headache comes back with a vengeance, pounding like a trapped animal in my head. It’s all I can do to stay standing upright.

“Laila, I had no idea the Ringmaster did this to you,” I venture out. “You… and your aunt. It’s horrible, and nobody should ever have to go through what she did. But what exactly are you trying to tell me?”

Oh, Jean. You are so naive.

It’s always the same story, repeated a thousand times. We’re Defects. We are the ones they sacrifice when the situation goes to sh*t. We are the ones they treat as interchangeable. We are the ones who get run out of towns on account of helping Demons, and we are the ones who have to ruin our bodies and give up our lives so that the townspeople can be satisfied. Just ask Sergio and his Damsel.

I stagger back a few steps, disbelieving. The pain in my head goes crazy again, and something with a magnetic pull on me seems to drag me back towards the pit in the ground.

And they will say that the world is better for it. It happened to every person that I cared for. It happened to you, to me. To Tiya. To Eli and Anita. To Niamh, and to Dave, even. They’re not the first Defects that were senselessly sacrificed, and they certainly won’t be the last.

There’s only one solution left.

The ground trembles underfoot, and I stumble back. The crater crumbles and gives way to a collection of town-houses, painted white and grey and rose. I realise I’m looking at a miniature version of Ravenswood Bluff: the town’s famed landmark, the steel-and-brick clocktower, comes up to around my chin. I can make out the cliffs where I faced off against Elliot, and the garden I had gone to with Kasumi. Choked up by the flood of memories, my breath hitches in my throat.

What do you do with something that’s rotten to the core?

My arms raise by their own. I’m not awake, I’m not there, and I’m not in my own body. I don’t feel any different from acting out a dream sequence. I’m performing a dance, I’m just doing a movement that was choreographed for me, timed to music that even I can’t hear. I extend my arms, hands facing outward, and twin jets of fire shoot from my palms, which my naked face. The heat dances off of my hands, illuminating the town, but I don’t react. Is this what I’ve been missing all this time? Magic, completely effortless and wholly at my fingertips?

The town goes up in flames. First the townhouses fall: tongues of fire poke through the roofs, and the walls crumble like smoke in dreams. Then the roads take up the torch, bright lines of fire moving from one side of the town to another in a steady progression, until the ground is covered in a capillary network of glowing gold. Eventually, the flames engulf the sides of the Clocktower, spiralling up its turret until eventually, the tower’s body snaps in two and crashes down onto the streets below. It’s brilliant, it’s beautiful, I know it’s sick and wrong, and yet I can’t tear my eyes away.

That’s right, the voice rasps. You burn. You raze it all to the ground and you start over anew. All the incivility, all the bloodshed, it ends tomorrow. Ravenswood Bluff will only be the beginning. The Outsider Uprising will spread across the country, and the Defects together will not be stopped.

I wake up from my trace, but my vision remains dark. Everything is a blur. I instinctively tilt my head back to drift off to sleep, but my head only hits the rough fabric of an operating chair. I can’t move my arms or my legs. Everything is strapped down. There’s something metallic and heavy covering the top of my face, and I can’t rotate my head either.

“You spent your whole life trying to be a good Defect. I can’t blame you, Jean. I went through that phase for fourteen years, too,” Laila’s voice seeps down from somewhere above me. The weight on top of my face shifts. “You thought if you worked hard, pulled yourself up by the bootstraps, and gave spectacular performances, everybody would treat you like an equal. But the truth is, you will never be treated as an equal. To them, you are simply not a human being. You saw how eager Brye was to sacrifice you for his own benefit. How quickly all your friends turned on you when they realised you could be the Mutant. We are good for being bodies and corpses, and nothing more.”

Her words float into my head. I’m listening, but barely registering. In the back of my head, something loud and shrill rings like a bell.

“Their systems have no place for people like us. Tiya did everything that was expected of her, and she was still paid in death. I, for one, have had enough of being Sweet and forgiving.”

My mouth feels dry. The pressure in my head does not relent.

“The straps will automatically release you at sunrise. Here is what you will do. When the discussion comes tomorrow, you will not nominate. In fact, you will not say anything at all. Sergio and Eli should be instructing Anita to do the same thing as we speak. We won’t hurt our own brethren for as long as you comply with us.” Laila’s footsteps seem to recede, as though she’s preparing to head back the way we came. The thought of being left here, blind and completely immobile, sends a fresh wave of panic through my chest. “And from there, we will stall. No executions during the day, no pointless killing in the night. The demon hunt in Ravenswood Bluff will never come to an end, and we will demonstrate to the world a new way that things can be. But, just in case you decide to act out on your own again…”

The device clicks in place around my head. Laila’s voice deepens into the authoritative rasp that I had heard in my hallucination, speaking back to me with my own voice.

“You are a Mutant.”

The words reverberate through my cranium, bouncing off of each other and multiplying tenfold in a smattering of incomprehensible noise.

You are a Mutant.

You are a Mutant.

You are a Mutant.

Pain explodes in my head. Like shards of broken glass, they penetrate through my forehead, piercing into what’s below. My composure finally breaks and I slam my entire body’s strength into the restraints, howling like a wild animal. I am a slowly decomposing corpse, trapped in my own body and completely immobile, while the world around me falls apart. This is the reality I’ve avoided facing up to this entire time.

She pats me on the cheek. The gesture might have once held a note of affection, but it feels completely foreign to me. It stings. Her hand is as cold as the storm brewing outside the building, and I flinch from the touch.

“Look alive, sunshine,” she finishes, in that singsongy, elongated drawl that used to be so familiar to me. “We’ve got one final stage production to finish.”

Jean's Notes:

• Jean - Juggler (3 - Laila flowergirl ✓, Mar dreamer ✓, Lyra artist ✓, Brye mutant, Elliot snake-charmer) Seamstress (Laila Mar, yes)
• Laila - Flowergirl (n2 no, n3 yes, n4 yes, n5 yes)
  - d1) Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Brye, Dave, Mar
  - d2) Jean, Delaney, Julian, Anita, Dave, Lyra
  - d3)Delaney, Julian, Sergio, Kasumi, Jean, Elliot
  - d4) Jean, Anita, Kasumi, Delaney, Julian
• Elliot [died d3] - Oracle (n2 1, n3 1)
• Delaney - Mathematician (n1-5 0)
• Julian [died d4] - fake twins w/ Sergio, Snake Charmer (?) Clockmaker - 2 Snake Charmer
  - n1) Laila
  - n2) Jean
  - n3) Lyra
  - n4) Laila
• Sergio [died n4] - fake twins w/ Julian, Philosopher
  - n3) Sage
  - n4) Kasumi or Delaney
  
• Brye [died n2] - Sage (Julian or Sergio) the real Juggler
• Anita - Town Crier
  - n2) Lyra, Mar, Delaney, Kasumi (yes)
  - n3) Kasumi, Mar, Julian, Jean (yes)
  - n4) Jean (yes)
  - n5) Delaney, Kasumi, Laila, Julian (yes)
  
• Dave [died d2] - Barber
• Kasumi - Savant Outsider → Fang Gu → Snake Charmer Flowergirl
  - d1a) Brye & Dave are more trustworthy than Jean & Elliot ✓
  - d1b) If there is a Juggler, there is also a Pit-Hag X
  - d2a) Brye would've learnt a 3 (Mar dreamer, Lyra artist, Delaney mathematician) X
  - d2b) The Witch cursed the neighbour of an Outsider ✓
  - d3a) The Fang Gu has already formed a covenant X
  - d3b) There are three townsfolk who can learn information exactly once ✓
  - d4a) Yesterday, Jean’s true identity was leaked behind his back X
  - d4b) If Kasumi were Empath, N4 (Jean Anita 1) ✓
• Lyra [died n3] - Artist (yes)
  - d2) “If seamstress A chose Brye and Anita, and seamstress B chose Sergio and Julian, would only one seamstress learn ‘yes’?”
• Mar [cursed d2] - Dreamer (n1 Lyra Artist/Vigor, n2 Dave Barber/Fang Gu)