Page 77 of The Phantom's Vice

Pearls of red bead on the tips of her talons, sliding down the elongated point and landing with aplopon the Persian rug. “I do not find youfunny,Phantom. Tell me—where are Tate and Xander? What have you done to them?”

“First-name basis, I see. A couple of your playthings, then? Have you ever stopped to consider the possibility that maybe they ran away? Idiot children are known to do these things, you know.”

This comment earns me several low chucklesfrom the Table members, all of which are quickly stifled as the Madam’s shoulders tense.

She grinds her teeth, her full red lips disappearing as her mouth pulls down in a grimace. “I know you had something to do with it. I’m no fool, Phantom.”

“Maybe not. Yet here I am. Hereyouare on a lovely Sunday afternoon, wasting all of our time. If you’re so worried about your littledolls,I suggest looking at the smug-faced crowd behind you. The evil that comes from within hurts the deepest, Madam.”

I bow and turn on my heel, deaf to the low rumble of Nix and Niege. They’re desperate to give chase at the Madam’s command. I know she won’t, though. I know what I said gave her something else to think about. The Madams are so cloistered in the bubble the Table crafts for them—so safe in the way of thinking they were taught from childhood—that they never consider suspecting the ones closest to them. She’ll turn to interrogating the Table members before she makes her move against a Phantom. It’s the smart thing to do.

But when she’s done, and she realizes that I sent her around in circles…

Well, I just have to hope I can set my plan in motion before that happens.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

BRETT

Jane Evangeline: Entry #15

It’s been weeks, and I haven’t heard from Maverick.

I have, however, heard from—and seen—Hudson. I know, I know. I should give him up. After all, there’s no more information I can get out of him. He’s no more help to me or to Maverick.

But Maverick isn’t here, and Hudson is.

Part of me thinks Maverick disappeared on purpose. That the kiss became too personal, and he realized what a bad idea involving me was.

I’m still holding out hope, though. Because without him, my story is all dried up.

In my downtime, I’ve been spending more and more time with Hudson. I often spend the nights at his place, waking in the warm embrace of his arms. He explainedthat the first time was his nerves kicking in—that he would normally have held me just like this instead of kicking me out so rudely.

Most nights, we sit up talking—or rather, I’m talking and he’s listening—and it feels so good to feelheard.I’ve shared all of my findings on the Sanctum with him, and he seems thrilled that I’ve made so much progress.

He’s even invited me on a weekend trip up north to see his ski lodge. I’m trying not to see too much into it, but I think he wants to make things official.

Now, the only thing I’ll have to figure out is getting an overnight sitter for Brett.

It’s been a week,and Ghost still won’t talk about what happened in that meeting. When I woke up after getting stabbed in the neck, I was pissed, ready to raise hell if I didn’t get some answers. But then, I saw the tiredness in his shoulders. Later that night, when he allowed me to remove his mask, I just couldn’t ask him about it. A few days later, I got up the courage and have been asking every day since, but despite my efforts, he still won’t tell me why he seems so damn… sad.

Sadis the word I came up with a few days ago when we sat in the library, our noses in matching books—he insisted. During a particularly dull chapter,I looked up to see him poring over the pages, those strange violet-rimmed eyes hungrily jumping from word to word. Only, the sheen you usually see in a living person’s gaze wasn't there. At that moment, when he thought I wasn’t looking, he let down that mask and let me see therealhim.

And that’s another thing I’ve learned about Ghost. Even though he allows me to remove his mask when it’s the two of us, he never lets down the one he wears beneath it, the one that’s more than skin deep. Not until moments like these, when he’s utterly at peace, can I see the tortured soul screaming beneath. Thehatred.

I groan aloud, causing Ghost to whip his head toward me, a worried look pinched between his brows.

“Brett? Are you hurting?”

“Not at all.” I shift on the bed, propping my head up with an arm while I look at him. The mornings when I get to catch slivers of his real self are my favorite part of the day. It slips through the cracks of his waking consciousness and brightens his eyes with a strange youthfulness, adding light to the shadows that normally reside there.He’s… he’s beautiful.

I used to find it strange to hear others refer to aman asbeautiful,but looking at Ghost now, I finally understand what they were talking about. He’s so striking that it almost hurts to look at him. It’s against the laws of nature—someone so magnetic shouldn’t be allowed to exist on this earth. Yet here he is, holding me hostage in his lair by the sea.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like to die?”

Ghost bursts out laughing, one hand clutching his abdomen and his head thrown back. “Good morning to you, too, darling.”

“I’m serious,” I grumble, smacking his bare chest lightly with my palm. I run my fingers lightly over the whorls of pink scar tissue, then press my lips to the area I just hit. Ghost shudders from the touch, and his arms snake around my back, pulling me flush against his chest. I jerk my head up to look at him, my brows set in a deep frown. “Don’t you ever think about it?”

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