“What’s this?” the ringleader mutters, confused for a moment. His eyes dart across the illusion still covering my scarred face. What he sees is a whole, beautiful girl. His grin returns. “Is this your whore, filthy malfetto?” he taunts the boy. “How did you get so lucky?”
A woman beside him gives me a suspicious look. “She was the other gambler in our circle,” she says to the others. “She probably helped the boy win.”
“Ah, you’re right,” the ringleader replies. He turns on me. “Do you have other winnings on you, then? Your share, perhaps?”
A couple of the other attackers don’t seem so sure. One of them notices the smile on my face and gives me a nervous stare, then looks back at where Violetta waits. “Let’s just finish this,” he protests, holding up a pouch. “We got the money back already.”
The ringleader clicks his tongue. “We are not making a habit of letting people go,” he replies. “Nobody likes a cheat.”
I shouldn’t be using my powers so carelessly. But this is a secluded alley, and I can’t resist the temptation anymore. Outside their ring, Violetta tugs faintly against my energy in protest, sensing my next move. I ignore her and stand my ground, slowly unraveling the illusion over my face. My features quiver, transforming gradually so that a long scar begins to emerge over my left eye, then the disfigured skin where my eye used to be, the rough, abused flesh from an old wound. My dark lashes turn pale silver. I’ve been working on the precision of my illusions, how fast and slow I can weave them. I can wield my threads of energy more accurately now. Bit by bit, I reveal my true self to the ring of people.
They stare, frozen in place, at the scarred side of my face. I’m surprised that I enjoy their reaction. They don’t even seem to notice the malfetto boy scrambling out of the circle to press himself against the closest wall.
The ringleader scowls at me before pulling out a knife. “A demon,” he says, with a subtle note of uncertainty.
“Perhaps,” I reply. My voice comes out cold. It’s a voice I am still getting used to.
The man is about to attack when something on the ground distracts him. He looks down at the cobblestones—and there, he sees a tiny ribbon of bright red snaking its way along the grooves. It looks like a little lost creature, wandering back and forth. The man’s brows furrow. He leans down toward the tiny illusion.
Then the red line bursts into a dozen more lines, all darting away in different directions, leaving trails of blood in their wake. Everyone jerks backward.
“What in the gods—?” he starts.
I weave the lines furiously across the ground and then up along the walls, dozens turning into hundreds into thousands, until the entire street is covered in a harsh field of them. I blot out the light filtering down from the lanterns and create an illusion of scarlet storm clouds overhead.
The man’s composure cracks, revealing alarm. His companions take hurried steps away from me as the bloody lines cover the street. Fear clouds their chests, and the feeling sends a surge of strength and hunger through me. My illusions make them afraid and, in turn, their fear makes me stronger.
Stop. I can feel Violetta pulling on my energy again. Maybe I should. These attackers have already lost their thirst for more money, after all. But instead, I shrug her off and keep going. This game is fun. I used to be more ashamed of such a feeling, but now I think—why shouldn’t I hate? Why shouldn’t it bring me joy?
The man suddenly lifts his knife again. I keep weaving. You can’t see the knife, the whispers in my head taunt him. Where is it? You just had it a moment ago, but you must have left it somewhere. Even though I can see the weapon, he looks down at his hand with rage and bewilderment. To him, the knife has vanished completely.
The attackers finally give in to their fear—several flee, while others huddle against the wall, frozen. The ringleader turns and tries to run away. I bare my teeth. Then I snap the thousands of bloody lines across him, pulling them as tight as I can, making him feel the slice and burn of razor-thin threads ripping across his flesh. The ringleader’s eyes bulge for a moment before he falls, shrieking, to the ground. I tighten the sharp threads around him like a spider trapping prey in her silken web. It feels like the strings are sawing through your skin, doesn’t it?
“Adelina,” my sister calls out urgently. “The others.”
I take in her warning just in time to see two others gather enough courage to rush toward me—the woman from earlier and another man. I lash out, washing the illusion over them too. They fall. They think their skin is being ripped from their flesh, and the agony bends them over double.