Chương 1: Act 1, Chapter 1: The night it all began

I stole the world once. Snatched it whole from the hands of Reality as though it were but a trinket to be hidden in my cloak. They call it the grandest heist ever conceived. But what is theft compared to the unmaking of fate's order? What is cunning beside the shattering of my own person into myriad faces and minds? I am the Archmage of the Domain of Artistic Creation, master of memory and hue, and yet I still wonder: was that triumph worthy of remembrance?

I have wandered across both realms—the waking world and its shadowed reflection—chasing truth and wresting it from the maw of peril. I have provoked guilds of power until they thirsted for my blood. Wearing faces only partially mine, I clasped hands with demons in the dark and struck down bishops whose sermons birthed nightmares into flesh. I have crawled the endless catacombs of the Old Continent, where the stones themselves whispered blasphemies and dead Domains collided.

Once, my mentor asked me, "Does the art ever dream of you?" That question has haunted me more than any curse. I return to it often, for in that moment, my path changed forever. You may think you already know my names. Perhaps you have heard the whispers, the songs, the fearful prayers of Alexandra May and all the other people who are me. Still, come closer. Walk with me into the tapestry I have woven. I will tell you the truth of what I have done. And perhaps, in the telling, you will learn whether art can dream…

and whether, in those dreams, it remembers me.

Day in the story: 9th September (Tuesday) The heist was supposed to be easy. Instead, every step I took felt like I was maybe three seconds from getting caught. I'd be lying if I said the ever-climbing difficulty didn't excite me a little more each time. I'd just slipped past three men with visible scars circling their wrists and necks, scars they hoped stayed hidden behind starched collars and pressed shirts, tucked further under makeup and Italian tailoring. Amateur work.

Their eyes tracked my every move, but that's the risk that comes with the game I played. Eveline de Marco was my target, and judging by the description, the woman standing before me matched it perfectly. Young, South American and dressed in a gown that had clearly cost more than my last three jobs combined. She wasn't the important part, though. The necklace around her neck was. A beautifully intricate silver dragon cradled five pearls, and I had been hired to take it off her slender neck.

With a blonde wig on, makeup thick enough to bury the freckles nature had so generously scattered across my face and body, and the standard waitress pencil dress, I wove through the gala guests without a hitch. I stopped for a second, waiting on a heavyset gentleman with an even heavier smile to lift a drink off the tray I'd carefully presented him.

What followed was a little curtsy nod and a deliberate sway of the tray, with just enough faked clumsiness to pull his—and everyone else's attention, right where I wanted it. While they busied themselves being distracted and mildly annoyed at me, I pressed the button on a small device tucked in my palm and, with a bit of sleight of hand, slipped it into the pocket of a jacket draped over a nearby chair.

"I'm really sorry, sir," I said, apologizing to the man, then eased myself out of his line of sight, counting breaths as I closed the distance toward the woman I had my eye on. Once I was near her, her partner gripping her elbow, and three bodyguards close enough to matter, I offered them drinks too.

"Thank you, dear," she said, in an accent I couldn't quite place, reaching for a glass. That's exactly when my count hit ten, and the device I'd hidden went off with the crack of gunfire. Several things happened at once. The men flanking the couple rushed in to shield them. The woman and the man beside her turned toward the sound, unbothered otherwise, which I found interesting. And I let the tray clatter to the floor, drinks and all, and with a shout of manufactured fear, wrapped my arms around the woman's neck.

She and her partner reacted fast, shoving me off and pulling her deeper into the crowd the bodyguards and a few panicked guests had formed. I scrambled across the floor a foot or two before melting into the disturbed crowd for good. My sticky fingers already had the necklace tucked away, the one that no longer belonged to Eveline. It belonged to me now, hidden deep in a pocket. I liked things better that way.

I made straight for the kitchen, where the chaos from my little sound trick had already pulled every waiter and waitress in the building. That's when I caught her, one hand pressed to her throat, the other pointing dead at me. That was my cue. I wasn't sticking around to hear whatever story she was spinning for the men in suits. I turned toward the kitchen, ready to disappear.

"Excuse me. Where the hell do you think you're going, Claudia?" asked the most obnoxious type I met in this place. My shift supervisor for the night, he was trying to bring some order to this human-faced entropy. I didn't bother answering him, which got him angrier than I expected. He snapped and lunged at me like he actually thought he could stop me. I'm small, just five-five to his six-two, and faster than I look. I ducked under his grab and slipped past him as if I'd done it a dozen times before.

He stumbled, making just enough of a scene to draw attention and stir even more chaos. I shoved through the big double doors. Inside, a dozen cooks barked at each other, pots were clanging, steam was rising. At least twenty other waiters and waitresses rushed around in the same black-and-white getup I had on. There was so much noise in here I was sure none of them heard the shot. I wove through them smoothly, not drawing too much attention but never slowing down.

Near the far end, I spotted a second door leading out to the delivery lane. I pushed through it just as the kitchen doors behind me flung open again. The second I hit the outside air, I ripped down the zipper on that ridiculous dress, not caring one bit about the four people out there on their smoke break. Underneath, I had on a tight black sports suit. Tucked into the lining was a tiny hidden pouch, and inside it, Eveline's necklace, still warm from where I'd slipped it off her neck.

The alley was too bright for my comfort, lit up like a stage in some drama, so I sprinted forward. I didn't make it more than thirty meters before three guys in sharp suits stepped into view, right at the mouth of the exit. Fantastic. There went escape route number one. In situations like this, every second counted. I jumped, planted a foot against the brick wall, launched myself up and grabbed the loose end of a fire escape. My fingers caught metal. I hauled myself up and started climbing.

Below, I could hear my pursuers yelling, more than just the first batch now. The ones who'd tailed me from the party linked up with the suited trio and were stacking up, trying to reach the fire escape. By the time I reached the rooftop, my lungs burned and the wind bit hard, but I didn't pause to celebrate. From that height, I couldn't be certain, but I'd wager good money that some of the newcomers below were FBI, scrambling to figure out what had just hit their operation.

There were far too many trucks on the side road for it to be coincidence. And yet—I was still free. Of course, luck hadn't been the only thing on my side up until now. A lot of it was because I'd been there before, scouting every inch of this roof before I even accepted the job. Multiple escape routes. That's how I was taught to do things. But even the best preparation can go sideways. And I could feel it, my luck was about to turn.

I ran across the roof, leaping over vents and dodging steel rods—God knows what they were even for, but they weren't slowing me down. The other end of the roof was coming up fast. I reached it, jumped, pulled myself over onto a higher wall and from there, vaulted myself to the next building. I landed in a roll to absorb the impact, my feet finding the ground quickly so I could keep running. And then I froze, because two figures stood at the edge, pistols aimed right at me.

"Freeze!" they shouted, unaware I already had. The FBI must've set up snipers on this roof, just in case things went south. I raised my hands in response, staying calm and scanning the roof quickly. These guys weren't chasing me, they were just there to observe the gala. If things got real, they'd take the shot.

But they hadn't made any moves to secure the roof or anything—thankfully—because I saw the rope, still coiled up against the other edge, one end fastened to a metal pipe sticking out of the building, just like I'd left it. I didn't have time to second-guess myself. I had a route. I just needed to get to it.

"Move away from the edge!" another shout.

"Come closer to me!"

"I can hear you, man," I said, way softer than he did, easing toward the center of the roof. But I pivoted subtly toward the rope. My plan was still alive: bail as soon as the goons showed up on the roof I'd just jumped from. But I needed to stay free until then. The guy approaching me had his pistol leveled at what I guessed was either my chest or head, it was hard to tell from my angle. His partner had already settled back in at the edge, rifle braced and ready. Two pairs of eyes on me. Could've been worse.

Still, I needed their attention to shift, even just a little.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," I said softly, sliding into my innocent-girl act, "I was just practicing parkour. I didn't know anyone would be up here. Usually no one is." My voice was light, shoulders tucked and eyes wide. My body language did most of the talking. He didn't lower the gun, but I saw the tension slip from his shoulders. That was something, a maybe. I could work on maybes, mold them to for sures.

"Why are you running around at night? You're not supposed to be up here," he said.

"Come over. I'll call someone to pick you up." His response was telling. If he was serious about calling it in, then maybe I was wrong about the FBI joining the mob downstairs. These two definitely hadn't been briefed on anything happening. I was still piecing that together when I heard the heavy and quick footsteps, hitting the edge of the roof behind me. The man noticed them too and glanced over. I bolted, slipping behind a rooftop service hatch for cover.

My feet barely stopped moving before I dropped, slid across the surface, grabbed the end of my rope, rolled toward the edge, clipped it to the hook on my belt and jumped. Shots rang out behind me with sharp cracks slicing through the air, but I was pretty sure that they missed me. When adrenaline was in the driver's seat, it kept my body going long past the point where I should have stopped. I knew that from experience, unfortunately. But I was still moving. And as long as I was moving, I wasn't caught.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. The rope ended right where I'd measured it, just short of the open window of an abandoned apartment. Not a perfect line, though. I had to move across the ledge a bit to reach it, since I couldn't hook the rope in a straight drop. As I slid sideways along the building's surface, I heard someone—probably rooftop guy—hit the edge behind me. Then came more shouting. Most likely the agents arguing with the mob muscle. A few shots fired.

Things just kept getting worse. Bloody lovely. The sirens were next. Red-and-blue lights started to paint the street below and the soundtrack that came along was as shrill and grating as I'd expect. I finally made it to the window, unclipped the rope, and slipped inside. Dusty air, peeling wallpaper, and a musty silence welcomed me, my kind of temporary haven.

I headed straight for the old dresser I'd stashed clothes in earlier and pulled out something casual: a worn T-shirt, faded jeans, and a jacket I'd hand-painted an iceberg onto the back of. I tossed the blonde wig into the drawer. My own hair, which was short, brown and wavy, finally breathed. A swipe of makeup remover erased the sugary-sweet blonde mask I'd painted on earlier. My freckles came back. So did my real eyes—once the blue contacts were out—hazel, equal bits brown and green.

I slipped on a baseball cap, slung a small purse over my shoulder, swapped the waitress shoes for my old sneakers and stepped into the hallway, becoming just another nobody in the city. I moved fast. The more chaotic this whole situation got, the higher the odds that I would run into something else I hadn't prepared for. And considering how many things had already gone sideways in record time, I wasn't feeling lucky. I hit the stairwell and dropped down a level. Then another.

Just two more and I'd be clear, except of course that did not happen. Five cops were already storming up. Probably backup for whatever mess was unfolding on the roof. Would they let me go if I played innocent? Maybe. But most likely, I'd end up cuffed and questioned and that was something I planned to avoid at all costs. I ducked into the hallway on this floor and ran toward the opposite end. That's when an old man opened his door to peek out, no doubt curious about the ruckus.

He could be my undoing or my shot at disappearing. Well, no risk, no fucking reward.

"Excuse me, good man," I said in my smoothest, sultriest tone.

"What do you want?" he barked, squinting at me through a mess of greasy hair.

"I'm a working girl. Was called here by someone a few floors up, but with the cops showing up…" I let the sentence hang suggestively.

"If you let me in, I'll give it to you for free." He was maybe fifty, wearing a stained T-shirt stretched over a generous belly and house slippers. But his eyes lit up like a teenager's. Poor guy.

"Free? For real?" he asked, sucking in his gut. I nodded and smiled sweetly.

"Come in then!" he grinned, opening the door wider. I slipped inside fast and he locked it behind us. His apartment was the disaster I expected: three crusty plates on the table, garbage near the couch and some old soap opera blaring on the TV. A single naked bulb swung from the ceiling like it was contemplating ending it all. Mood quickly matched mine.

"How do you wanna do this?" he asked, already pulling off his shirt. I sighed.

"However you like, honey. But I'd love it if you took a shower first, okay?" I crossed to the window and peeked out: no fire escape—just the main street, two cop cars, flashing lights and a couple officers standing around.

"Sure, whatever you like, babe!" he said, enthusiasm almost making me pity him.

"You need a little help getting it ready?" I asked, playing the part.

"What do you mean?"

"I've got a Viagra pill. Makes everything better, sweetie." I smiled wide. He hesitated, insecurity flashing across his face.

"Eh—sure." I pulled the little blue pill from my purse—it was a fast-acting sedative disguised as Viagra and handed it over. He popped it dry, without further hesitation. He'd be out in two minutes, tops.

"Take your shower, handsome. I'll be waiting." He grinned and shuffled off. I checked my watch. One minute later, he was back, still towel-damp, walking a little too straight. It was unexpected, but I played along and led him toward the bed in the corner, helped him lie down all seductive-like and right on cue, he was out cold. I tossed a blanket over him and turned just in time to hear a knock. I crept to the door and peeked through the peephole to see the cops on the other side. I opened the door slowly.

"Good evening, ma'am. May we check your apartment? There is quite a bit of chaos outside," said one, politely but firmly too.

"Sure," I said with a smile.

"But my boyfriend's sleeping." I gestured toward the snoring lump in the bed.

"Heavy sleeper. Please try not to wake him?" The officer nodded and did a quick sweep. It was a tiny place—just a bathroom, kitchenette and the mess of a main room. He seemed satisfied, nodded again and started to leave.

"Mind if I head out?" I asked. He paused, turning back.

"Bit hectic out there, ma'am. Incident at the auction house nearby. We're locking things down. Where are you going?"

"Downtown. I've got a shift. Boss is a jerk, I'll catch hell if I'm late." I gave him my best pitiful shrug. He cracked a smile.

"I get it. Rick!" he called down the hallway.

"Escort this lady downstairs and come back up." A loud sigh echoed from somewhere. Poor Rick was probably stuck with everyone's grunt work. He appeared anyway, young and already tired of life—but he led me toward the exit. The chaos outside had only gotten worse. Fire trucks screamed toward the auction house—more squad cars flooding in, ambulances pulling up. Whatever had gone down over there, it was way bigger than a missing necklace.

Rick explained the situation to another officer near the barricade and they waved me through. A block away, my getaway driver should've been waiting. It was time to disappear more thoroughly, so I walked up to one of the parked cars and adjusted the side mirror until it reflected my face. Pulling my makeup kit from my purse, I steadied my hands and got to work. My usual face was too soft. I needed sharper angles and more defined features.

I lightened my skin, erasing every freckle, then darkened my brows just enough to make them redder and more dramatic. I widened my eyes to give them an innocent allure before finishing with a bold swipe of rich red lipstick, making my lips appear fuller. A strange, colorful light settled over my hands as I effortlessly pulled the red wig over my head to finish my Jess Hare persona transformation, and an odd sensation flooded my mind, as though the Universe itself were speaking to me on some conceptual level.

I reached into my now much emptier purse and put the necklace there. It was a thing of real, artistic beauty. I tucked it carefully inside it, just in reach of the taser hidden at the bottom. I always kept it close, just in case my usual ploy didn't work. It never hurt to be prepared for the unexpected. I rushed toward the car—my ride—though I'd never worked with this guy before. He was someone my employer had arranged to get me out of trouble if things went sideways.

But judging by how the night had been going, it seemed I could really use his help. The black Camaro was parked with the window rolled down and the faint smell of smoke wafted out. Good God, I hated the smell. And the dark, completely blacked-out windows at the back didn't help either. They made me feel trapped and unsafe. I immediately pivoted, intending to keep my distance, but before I could turn away completely, I heard a voice.

"Get inside, thief." The last word hissed from his lips, like it was the dirtiest thing in the world. To make matters worse, he pressed a gun to my stomach. I turned and moved toward the car. He opened the door and shoved me inside. Well, so much for my escape. Not the mob, not the FBI, not the cops, but the guy who hired me. Damn, Lex. You've got to stay more vigilant, girl. The guy with the gun slid in next to me and the driver started the car, merging into light nighttime traffic.

The gun never wavered; it remained pointed right at me.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"Boss wants the necklace right away." The gunman's words were flat and cold. He was a well-built guy, dressed casually in jeans, a white T-shirt and a brown jacket.

"What necklace?" I played dumb, hoping to buy some time.

"Don't play dumb," he snapped. So much for that tactic.

"We saw the fallout from your escape. You've got it, right?" I raised my hands in mock surrender.

"Let me check. I might've lost it on the way." I reached for my purse. He watched me closely with narrowed eyes, gun still trained on me, but the safety was still on. A rookie mistake.

"Don't do anything stupid, or I'll shoot you right here."

"Sure, sure," I said and reached into the purse. When I pulled out the necklace, I held it up for him to see. His eyes lit up for a moment, the tension in his posture easing. Then, with the other hand, I drew the taser, just out of his sight. In one swift motion, I jabbed the prongs into his left arm, unleashing a burst of electricity. His body jerked as the current shot through him. He dropped the gun, his body spasming from the shock.

The driver glanced around in time for me to slam the butt of the stun weapon into his temple, using all the force I had. The car swerved violently as the driver lost control, the tires screeching against the pavement. We slammed against the railing, the car tumbling and rolling off the grassy verge, until we finally collided with a tree. I curled my small, compact body inward and braced for impact. I tightened my grip on the front seat right as the crash hit.

When the world finally stopped spinning, I unbuckled my seatbelt, feeling bruised but thankful that I'd emerged relatively unscathed. I grabbed the gun from the unconscious man's lap and quickly exited the wrecked car, tucking the necklace back into my hidden pocket. I hobbled away from the wreck, making for the nearest pedestrian crossing. Cars on the main road had already stopped, drivers stepping out, craning their necks to see what the hell had just happened.

Phones were out—no doubt someone was calling the authorities already. That's why the gunshot caught me completely off guard. The crack split the air and I felt the bullet whistle past my ear. I dropped instantly, ducking behind the tree I'd just passed. Screams erupted from the bystanders as they bolted for cover, jumping back into their cars and slamming doors. Apparently the driver decided that I wasn't worth keeping alive. I peeked from behind the trunk.

There were more trees ahead of me, lining the road, but reaching them would mean running, something I couldn't manage in my current state. My legs trembled with the adrenaline crash, pain blooming across my side. I scanned the area, trying to assess my options. To the left: another road, sloped slightly upward, out of reach. Ahead: the pedestrian crossing, about thirty feet away. Too far. My hand brushed over the pistol I'd taken, safety still on. I clicked it off, the small red dot glowing like a warning light.

I didn't plan on any kills tonight. But if it came down to him or me, I knew who I'd choose. I heard his steps coming closer. He was limping too. We matched in that way. For a few seconds, it was just the soft crunch of his shoes on the grass, then—nothing. I waited, holding my breath. A muffled grunt, followed by a thud, and silence claimed it all. I dared a quick glance, then another, longer one. He was down, collapsed in the grass, his pistol just out of reach.

One hand clutched his side, his shirt soaked through with blood. The green around him was already turning a dark red. Dead, or incapacitated by the wound, most likely. Either outcome would have been acceptable. I wasn't looking to add another murder to my résumé tonight, but I wouldn't have mourned him either. It was simply easier to avoid consequences without leaving bodies behind. I turned and made for the crossing, limping as sirens split the night air. I slipped between the buildings and headed for the metro.

Every step hurt like hell, but I kept moving—still breathing, and still fucking free.

I reached my apartment about an hour and a half later. The limp had eased up a little, but I still took the elevator. I wasn't tackling stairs after tonight even though I hated those things. It was just past 1 AM when I quietly unlocked the door. I didn't want to wake my roommates. I lived with Peter and Sophie. Peter and I went way back. We met in the orphanage as kids and became siblings in everything but blood. Sophie came into the picture in high school.

Somehow, all three of us ended up at the same Long Island University. Peter got in on a scholarship. He ruled the swimming pool like he'd been born in water. Sophie's parents were loaded, so tuition was never a problem for her. As for me—I got in the only way I could. Sticky fingers and a talent for slipping through cracks. Only Peter knew the full truth about that part of me. Of course he wasn't sleeping. Peter never did when he knew I was out on a job, even if I'd told him it was just waitressing.

He sat on the couch, the sharp lines of his jaw lit by the cold blue glow of his phone screen. As soon as he saw me, he stood up without a word and helped me sit down, careful with how I moved.

"Lex," he said, voice low but firm, "what the hell happened at the auction house? I kept calling, but then I found your phone in your room." I had told him I'd be working the gala, just another catering gig, nothing special. No mention of Jess Hare or my 'hobby.' But the second he saw the red wig and that face I painted on, he knew.

"What are they saying?" I asked, pulling the wig off and tossing it to the side, watching a faint trail of light follow the hair as it slipped away. I wondered if my compounded injuries had finally damaged my brain enough to start seeing things that weren't really there.

"The news is calling it a shootout between the mafia and the police. Apparently, they were after some mob boss who dipped early. There's mention of a fire starting in the kitchen too." He paused.

"You involved in any of that?" I leaned back, exhaling.

"I might've heard some shots—and yeah, some of that might have been my fault." No point in lying to Peter. He never lied to me.

"Damn," he muttered, already filling the kettle.

"You okay? You look like hell."

"I had an unexpected roller-coaster ride out of a moving car." He shot me a look but kept silent. We both came from hard places. He knew the value of silence when words couldn't fix anything.

"I'll be fine by tomorrow," I said, even if that was a stretch. Of course, that also depended on whether the guy who sent me into this whole mess was planning to tie up loose ends. I felt bruised, battered and exhausted and it seemed the price would be paid in a different currency than I'd anticipated. Still, all things considered, it had been a solid night. Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.