The Villain
Trystan couldn’t stand the sound of laughter.
Laughter reflected joy, and unfortunately for any person who came into his path this evening, he was determined to squash joy under his foot like a bug. With his hood pulled high over his face, he entered the village fray. Lanterns were strewn about every street corner; music was playing, couples dancing. Children were watching puppet shows, and there was even a stage off to the side with some sort of playact performance of love lost and tragedy.
How maudlin. How truly ridiculous.
Vendors lined the street. There must have been more than two dozen, and as he walked the line, he listened, feeling struck when he heard a name that ripped the air from his lungs.
“Poor Otto Warsen. I heard The Villain fed him to his wolves!” “The Villain has wolves?” the other voice said.
“Rest in peace, Otto! It just goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished. I told Otto not to hire that strange Sage girl, but he said he took pity on the creature, and this is how she repays him! The treacherous wench. I always knew something was off about her. Working for The Villain! And all the while, her sick father is missing!”
Keep walking, he ordered himself. Do not draw attention to yourself.
He took a hard step forward, pulling his dark hood farther over his eyes. His magic was seeping out already, gray mist surrounding him, waiting to strike. No, he commanded. Not yet.
“She was always a pretty little piece. But the mouth on her! If I could’ve wired it shut, I would’ve enjoyed her for far longer.”
Wait. He knew that voice.
Okay, he told his magic. Go ahead.
It seeped out toward the men near him who were drinking against one of the shop windows. The man speaking had his knee light up in vibrant red— it was Rick, Sage’s unfortunate ex-paramour. Trystan’s magic struck the point on his knee hard, and the man cried out, falling to the ground with a satisfying thud.
“My leg!” he screamed. “Something’s wrong with my leg!” The group of men surrounded him, murmuring concern. Trystan smirked and walked on until an elderly woman tugged on his sleeve.
“’Scuse me, sir? Might you want a face paint?” The old woman had a weathered smile and long gray hair. Her station was a sad sight compared to the other vendors with large carts and opulent signs—all she had was a tiny table with paints and old-looking brushes, and not a patron in sight.
It would be decidedly unwise for him to expose his face to this woman. The chances were high that she would scream or cry out for the guards, effectively ruining any chance he had at finding Nura Sage. But she looked so hopeful, and her hands shook as she waited for his reply. “Please, sir? I promise I’m good! And I’ll only charge you one copper piece.”
A copper piece was hardly enough for a small slab of bread. Dammit. He’d become a weak sap with no sense of judgment. But he sat down on her stool anyway. “Can you make me into a wolf?” he asked, voice low and strained.
The woman looked so genuinely happy that he almost smiled with her—almost. He still had some self-control. “Certainly, sir!” she chirped, dipping her brushes into the paints. Her hands shook slightly as she worked, squinting so intently that it relaxed him. There was no way she would recognize him; she could barely even see. “A right handsome wolf you’ll be!”
As she painted, he scanned the streets, searching for a stand that sold portrait frames. He didn’t spot a single one, but this was only one side of the street. Despite her unsteady hand, the woman worked quickly, and when she held up the mirror, his mouth dropped in awe. She wasn’t just a face painter; she was an artist. His entire face was transformed, etched in dark swaths of gray, black, and white. He looked completely different—unrecognizable.
Perfect.
“What do you think, sir?” the woman asked nervously, offering a tentative smile. “I can redo it if you like.”
“What is your name?” he asked, softening his voice.
“Edna, sir,” she replied, dropping her brushes back into their cups.
He pulled a pouch from his waist—one filled with thirty gold pieces—and placed it in her hands. “You’ve created a masterpiece.”
“But, sir!” Edna exclaimed, opening the pouch with wide eyes. “This is far too much.”
His lip twitched. “I believe that art is the world’s most valuable treasure. Please take it. I can’t think of anything more deserving.”
Edna’s eyes filled with tears, making him so uncomfortable that he looked away, but it was too late. She clasped his hand tightly. “Thank you, sir! I wish you every blessing, every happiness!”
He gently freed his hand from hers, finally managing to meet the woman’s lovely eyes. She was beautiful. And he knew, for once, that he’d done a good thing. “Thank you, Edna. I wish the same for you.”
She returned to her table, walked behind it, and tore a sign down from the wall. As it caught the light of the lanterns, he saw it was his WANTED flyer. She winked at him before ripping it up and letting the pieces scatter in the wind.
I’ll be damned.
With a gallant bow and a crooked grin, he bid her farewell and continued his search, now less wary of being recognized with his new face. “Excuse me,” he said to a gangly young man passing by with a large cone of fairy floss. “Do you know of a vendor here who sells portrait frames?”
“You’re thinking of Mr. Gully. He’s right up that walkway! Likes to keep most of the street to himself,” the boy answered, his mouth sticky with sugar.
Mr. Gully. “Thank you.” Trystan headed in the direction the boy indicated, preparing to ask his questions as discreetly as possible.
But when he arrived at the cart, someone was already there.
A young woman stood with her back to him, speaking to Mr. Gully. Her long silver hair cascaded down in flowing waves. Her dress was tight enough that he could see the elegant lines of her back. A cut-out at her waist revealed a soft patch of skin that made him swallow, and when she turned, he noticed them.
Two golden butterfly combs pulling back her hair and a face painted like a rabbit.
He cleared his throat in surprise, causing the woman to turn. “Oh, I’m sorry, mister. Would you like to cut in?” Her red lips curled into a cocky smile as she propped a hand on her exposed hip.
A man passing by whispered to him in friendly camaraderie. “Aye, she’s a looker, ain’t she? Get in there, son.”
Of course she was a looker. She was Evie Sage.
