Game of Pawns

Chapter 16

Everything Zan saw behind closed eyes was drenched in shades of red. Droplets of ruby agony. Pools of scarlet life. Fields of red spider lilies and devil's thorn. This was the world that Illusionist had resided in, a world filled with hatred, lust, envy, and greed. Illusionist did not wake in the middle of nowhere with no direction. Originally, Viktor, as he was once known, had been a man guided by unreciprocated love; the jealousy ate away at the marrow of his bones, turning him hollow. And when he finally found her, the woman named Isabel, he knew that he wanted her more than anything still. The world was cruel and unfair, though, and both of them had been cast as players in a game neither of them understood.

Viktor was already mad from the experiments. Now, he was mad in love as well.

And I've long thrown away that name.

She reached up with an ensanguined hand to run those carmine fingers through his hair. On her arm was the remains of a tattoo, but the letters had been chiseled away to leave only a faint suggestion of her abilities. Bathed in her own blood but still hanging on, she was a formidable foe. His one and only. A chill touched the back of his neck, giving rise to goosebumps. Drawing his ear towards her lips, she started to murmur a warning, one that he had heard a thousand times. It was a premonition of his demise.

No, not his death.

Zan was merged once again with him—Illusionist—and witnessing yet another memory of orchestrated torture that was played out by two victims of the same cruelty. The pain began at the heart of all their troubles. That was the Game in which they were both players with nearly identical abilities. Though the memories were ages old, it seemed, the things that the woman spoke of resonated within his own brain. Everything made sense, and Zan couldn't decide if it was because he was now a part of Illusionist or if the caveat had truly been meant for him.

"One day, you'll see with more eyes, taste with more tongues, grasp with more hands and it shan't be mine." She drew away from him as her ocher eyes rippled with the pain of her wounds.

Back then, Illusionist was a man. A terribly wanton man filled with an insatiable urge to claim everything for his own. He started with gambling and drinking and perverted sex. Later, he switched to choking, stabbing, and bathing in blood. But even that dulled like a knife used too often. Isabel was the only one. Seeing the flayed skin on her thighs, the carvings across her chest, and the splashes of blood laying like rubies against the coppery skin of her throat summoned his lust. Fire raced through his veins.

"No," he whispered in a deeper, gravelly voice. "You'll always be mine, Mentalist."

The epithet was spoken tenderly. Her reaction to it was another thing. Face screwing up with anguish and amusement, the woman tilted her head back and looked through her black fringe. The column of her neck was exposed, and it was enough to stir the monster inside him. The longing to defile something so pure was out of his control. He could show her a million different illusions, have her in a million different ways, and yet, she would always resist him just by averting her gaze.

I want to know what you see, he thought.

Zander watched his hands reach for a knife. The blade was stained with dried blood, and the edge was chipped from the countless number of victims used to feed the beast. He was helpless to stop what came next, even though it was his hand guiding the knife. Mortified by the sight of blood gushing from a woman's contorted face and the screams, Zan tried to squeeze his own eyes shut.

But it was no use. His eyes belonged to Illusionist and Mentalist.

The pits in her skull that used to house her eyes became pools of wrath that oozed scarlet tears. Though he clutched the orbs in the palm of his hand, he knew that she could still see him. Now, she reached for his throat, finding it with such ease that it shocked him.