After some of her balls, stories of what had transpired in her castle spread for months, passing from person to person. Guests talked about the dazzling games, unlike anything they’d ever experienced. Sometimes I sparked their imagination with passion; other times, I paralyzed their minds with fear.
It was like attending a movie,butinstead of sitting in the safe front row, you became the main character, with no escape before the final credits roll. I didn’t just create entertainment; I shaped nightmares and dreams, blurring the line between reality and illusion. There was no finer architect of games than I.
Nor a more skillful manipulator during the negotiations held over glasses of wine. While Madeline shone from her central seat at the table, I whispered into her opponents’ ears, planting words that wrapped around their minds like webs and became their own ideas. I was an indispensable weapon in her court, and she knew it. Many witchers could enhance the magic in their blood through dealings with the Higher Powers, but the mind, now that’s something you’re born with. And mine was what Madeline valued most, along with my ability to read the true nature of beings. Their most cherished dreams. Deepest secrets. Darkest fears.
The only one. I failed to read that night was Madeline.
By the time I felt the black veins of magic weaving into my muscles, slowing my vital functions, it was already too late. My body succumbed to the dark energy spreading with every beat of my heart.
If illusion was my domain, then control over the body was hers.
She rose from her seat, the flowing veils of her pale blue gown swirling around her like a blaze of ice. The music fell silent, as if magic had frozen the strings of the instruments. Sounds faded into a tense hush, and the light dimmed.
“The game is over,il mio giullare,” Madeline said.
My joker.
My barely functioning muscles managed enough tension to form a frown. Years of performances and games for her guests, dozens of manipulations carried out in her name, all to be called a mere joker?
I clenched my jaw. Not that I could speak in my current state, but to justify myself would have been beneath me. I already looked pathetic enough—a puppet on strings, left at the mercy of its puppeteer.
Madeline circled the table with movements so fluid they resembled some kind of ritual. She held the veils of her dress with graceful nonchalance, yet every step was laced with menace. The light vanished altogether, the colors of the hall fading to a gray hue. A magical veil descended from above, severing us from the rest of the world.
“Because of you, the Cantoni family withdrew from my little project. And they’re not the only ones you tried to sway. Are you playing the saint, Gaetano?”
Every muscle in my body screamed, but I refused to yield. Silence was my way of showing her I was no puppet, no matter how much she wished me to be.
A smile spread across her lips—one that held me tighter than any spell she had ever cast. “Since you’re so eager to play the altruist,” she said, “then I shall prove to you that you’re quite the opposite. I’ll give you the chance to atone for yoursinsin a manner befitting your artistic nature.”
She moved closer, and the veils of her dress fluttered around her like living creatures, hungry for flesh. “Threehundred souls, Gaetano. You’ll collect three hundred souls for me. You’ll deceive them, break them. Bind them into a contract with no escape.Harvests,stripped of everything, condemned to eternal misery.”
The energy around us thickened, rising into a black mist that coiled around my body. Each word embedded itself into me as runes branded my flesh.
“From this day forward, you’re a prisoner of your curse, Black Joker. A prisoner who may leave his cell once summoned. With each harvest, you shall be free to unleash the full force of your manipulative nature.” The mist swirled around her. “Eventually, you may even achieve the selfish goal of regaining your freedom. But if even one soul defeats you, you’ll remain trapped within my magic forever.”
9
Nicole
Day 4
Achill shoots up my legs. The soles of my feet pound the cold stone floor while I run through endless corridors. My black dress rises with each step, and the white tail stitched on it bounces mockingly behind me. The rabbit ears on my headband tilt with every movement. The leather collar around my neck is choking me. My fingers fumble to loosen it, but the metal ring won’t budge.
I trip. The rough floor scrapes the skin off my knees, and the fabric of the dress pulls tight in protest. The rabbit ears droop, the collar tightens further.
I glance over my shoulder, heart pounding in my ears. The shadows leap after me like a pack of wolves.
But it’s not them who break me. It’s the wall behind them. And the word BUNNY, scrawled across it and struck through.
Panic consumes me whole. I attempt to scream, but my voice has been stolen again. The roar of the darkness intensifies until the shadows completely surround me.
I jerk up in bed. The duvet lies discarded on the floor, and I’m clutching my throat.
For a moment, I’m back in the schoolyard, knees scraping against the asphalt. A wall of laughter and taunts surrounds me. I haven’t done anything to deserve it, but no one cares. Not the participants, nor the spectators. The humiliation weighs heavier on my shoulders than their insults ever could.
It took me time to realize I was as responsible for the bullying as the girls who did it, simply because I let it happen. I was weak.
You’re either a victim or a predator. That’s how the world works.
