Chapter 23

Night fell fully.
Darkness thickened in the drawing room—like blood, like tidewater, rising and rolling in slow waves.
Boyd kept glancing around, desperately searching for his gun—
But it was gone. His gun had been taken.
Only one person could have taken it.
His breath came fast, almost loud enough to frighten him by itself.
Then he saw a tall shadow appear behind Bo Li.
White mask. Eyes cold and bored. Black greatcoat over a white shirt. Black leather gloves closing slowly over Bo Li’s eyes.
…Eric.
A chill shot straight up Boyd’s spine. He held his breath, terrified any sound would draw Eric’s attention.
Eric seemed to be planning to kill Bo Li. One hand covered her eyes; the other closed around her throat.
She was on his side—and he still wanted to kill her.
He was insane.
Boyd shook all over, hunching in on himself as he inched toward the parlor door.
The “mediums” had scattered the moment they saw Tricky’s head. Not one remained.
He was sick of their cowardice—eating and drinking on his dime, then useless when it mattered. If they’d stayed, he could at least have grabbed one as a human shield.
As he backed away, he kept one eye on Eric.
What he saw made him doubt his senses.
Bo Li was mad too. She actually took Eric’s hand and kissed his palm.
She seemed utterly blind to his killing intent. She even nuzzled his palm with her cheek.
Was that how she’d survived?
By giving herself to the devil?
If it weren’t to survive, who would willingly kiss something that looked like him?
Sure enough, Eric paused, then slowly released her throat—and lifted his gaze to Boyd.
Like a man who’s just been handed his own death sentence, something mean sparked in Boyd’s chest. One last, spiteful thought:
This girl had made Eric cut off his fingers, made Eric hang Tricky’s head from the chandelier.
She kissed the devil’s hand and thought she’d found a way to command him. But did she have any idea what she’d just kissed?
Boyd laughed coldly to himself. Once she saw the portrait, could she still do it?
He was going to die anyway.
He would drag her down with him.
With that, Boyd lunged for the portrait, hauled it off the wall, and set it upright on the table. In one yank he tore away the dark red cloth covering it.
“This painting looks almost exactly like him… Don’t you want to know what kind of man you’ve been kissing?” Boyd was almost screaming. “Open your eyes! Open your eyes and look at it—ask yourself if that’s a human face! You’ve read books. You know what heredity is. So tell me—what kind of parents would create a cross between a man and a skull—”
He didn’t finish.
A rope snapped tight around his throat. There was a crisp crack, and a massive force broke his neck.
This wasn’t human strength. If this wasn’t a demon, what was?
It was Boyd’s last coherent thought. His head slumped sideways, the white of his spine jutting through skin as he crashed to the floor.
Bo Li didn’t see it.
She’d kept her eyes screwed shut.
She had felt Eric’s intent—she’d actually thought that when he covered her eyes, it was to spare her the gore. Instead, he’d meant to kill her quietly.
His black gloves were ice-cold, utterly without warmth. As he stroked the side of her neck, it felt like cold water running through her veins, freezing them stiff.
In a panic, Bo Li had forced herself to play dumb. She’d caught the hand on her throat and bent to kiss it.
The stink of blood hit her nose.
This was a killing hand.
The leather might still be slick with Tricky’s blood.
The thought that there might be a dead man’s blood on her lips nearly made her retch, but she swallowed it back and rubbed her cheek lightly against his palm instead.
He didn’t move, letting her nuzzle his hand as if the killing urge had ebbed.
Then Boyd had suddenly gone mad, screaming at her to look at Eric’s portrait.
Bo Li’s mind flooded with curses.
Why was this idiot so intent on dragging her to hell with him?
Didn’t he have a gun?
Why wasn’t he using it to bargain with Eric?
Whether Boyd lived or died had nothing to do with her.
But if he died too quickly, then the only people left in the drawing room would be her and Eric.
In the end, Boyd still died.
He was too afraid of Eric, hated her too much. He didn’t even struggle—just died with his neck in Eric’s rope.
Silence fell over the drawing room again. A dead, heavy silence.
Bo Li couldn’t see a thing. All she could do was listen.
Where was the portrait?
Had Boyd actually pulled the cloth away?
Could she open her eyes now?
After killing Boyd, Eric had taken his hand from her eyes. She had no idea what he was doing.
When you close your eyes, you don’t see only black—you see the swirl of light and shadow behind your eyelids.
Those shadows were Eric pacing in front of her.
He seemed to be circling the room, inspecting things. There was a sudden crash as the portrait hit the fireplace.
The flames hissed louder, roaring up. Then came the soft scrape of cloth—Eric hauling Boyd up and going through his pockets.
Bo Li listened to the crackle of the fire and had no idea how long it would take before the painting burned away.
Her legs were starting to go numb.
Staying silent forever wasn’t an option. She had to break it.
She needed him to talk. Only then could she find a way out.
Darkness. Fear. The stench of blood. Danger. The shiver of being watched. Cold leather gloves. The desperate thud of her own heart…
There was too much in her chest—too many feelings, all tangled. Her throat tasted of adrenaline, sour as swallowed blood.
Eric finished searching Boyd and came toward her.
He was tall, his presence crushing, like a solid shadow about to swallow her whole.
Bo Li jolted and blurted out, “…Did you read the letters I wrote?”
He stopped. He neither answered nor grabbed her throat.
Cold sweat had soaked her back. She felt wet all over, as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over her.
After a long time, his voice came—cold and low, making her ears tingle. “Letters?”
Bo Li couldn’t help rubbing her ear with her shoulder.
Leave it too long without hearing his voice and this happened. Every syllable raised gooseflesh along her arms.
“I knew what they were after from the start,” she said as steadily as she could. “I meant to give you their letters right away, but then you suddenly disappeared… I was afraid you’d think I was with them. Before I left I wrote an explanation and put it on top. On the desk in the room. You didn’t see it?”
He said nothing.
She didn’t need an answer.
“I don’t care what they say,” she went on. “And I don’t care what you look like. All I know is you saved my life more than once. Without you, I’d have died back in that circus camp.”
That, at least, was true.
If not for him, she’d never have known Richard had gone off-script—trying to cut a deal with the manager instead of stealing the backpack.
“Maybe you thought…” She took a deep breath. “Maybe you thought I picked you and not the manager in the woods because I was sure you could kill him. I didn’t. I knew the manager didn’t intend to keep me, and there are a dozen ways to open a pack. But there’s only one you. I knew very well he wanted to drive us apart—to trap you between enemies. That was the only way he could try to drag you back.”
Half truth, half lies.
She understood the manager’s game—but she’d also known Eric could kill him.
“I didn’t know what kind of person you were before,” she said, swallowing. “But now I trust my own judgment more than what others say. The manager said you were cold-blooded and cruel. Dangerous. But after all this time… I don’t think you’re dangerous. I think you’re kind.”
Eric’s voice cut in, flat and sudden. “Kind?”
“Remember what the manager said in the woods?” she pressed on. “That you were once a condemned man in Persia, that he gave you freedom… He kept saying you were ungrateful, that you never repaid him. But I think you already have. Mike tied you behind a horse and dragged you. You could’ve killed him a thousand ways. But in the end, you didn’t touch him. If that’s not repaying a debt, what is?”
He didn’t answer.
“Boyd keeps calling you a demon, an evil spirit,” she said, slowly exhaling. “But to me, you’re not just some all‑round genius. You also have a kind heart… I can’t believe you’re a demon.”
Her mouth was dry; it felt like she’d just poured a whole barrel of beauty filter over him.
Even so, he stayed dangerously silent.
Bo Li’s heart squeezed.
Had she gone too far?
Whether or not Eric was “kind” was debatable. But he did spare people who’d helped him.
If she hadn’t tried to help him that first day—cleaning his wounds, feeding him medicine—she’d probably have died a dozen times already.
Her heart pounded so hard her chest hurt. She felt cold sweat slide slowly down her cheek.
With no idea how he’d taken it, she could only grit her teeth and keep going.
“I didn’t keep my eyes shut because I was afraid of your face,” she said. “I was waiting.”