Page 6 of We Are the Match
I descend.
I am a sharp shard, the glass of the front windows blown in, blood spilled across the ornate marble beneath my father’s feet. I am the glittering fragment they forgot to sweep up.
I descend.
The room is a mausoleum for me, and still they dance, they whisper, they laugh.
I descend.
I am Helen. I am half god, half girl, half fury, half grief.
And though they do not know it yet, my death is what they have all come to see.
Chapter 3
Paris
I know the games that power plays, and I am furious with myself when Helen descends and I allow myself to be carried forward in the crowd, craning my neck like every other fool in this decadent ballroom.
Helen is tall, or perhaps just wearing heels that make it appear that way, her dark hair brushing past her shoulders in long, loose curls. Her gown, soft lavender silk, whispers against the smooth curve of her legs. She fills the dress, generous curves in all the places where I am sharp edges.
Everything about her is simple, understated, elegant, and not one person in this damn room can look away. There is a bright-red flower—a poppy, maybe?—pinned to her dress.
Her brown eyes are distant, sweeping the room as if she sees past us all toward something we cannot.
I let out my breath in awhoosh, loud in the sudden stillness, and for a second—just a second—I could swear her eyes meet mine.
She is distant again a breath later, as if she were never here.
When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she stretches out her hand, and a broad-shouldered man in a crisp suit takes it.
I suck in a breath, sharp and cold. The air tastes faintly of ash, though I know I am the only one—always—who can sense it.
Because this is him.
Zarek.
He is close enough that I can see him, can feel the heat of the flames of Troy around me, searing my skin but not destroying me. So close I could smash my glass on the bar counter and drive the shards into his chest.
They would kill me, of course. Probably before I reached him.
But themaybe—themaybe I could make it—haunts me, long game be damned.
Helen offers a small wave to Thea, who acknowledges it with a tight nod, and then the party lets out its breath.
Helen has arrived, and the music crescendos ever so slightly, a subtle change but a purposeful one. As the dancing begins again, the waitstaff floods the room with trays of brimming champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres that probably cost more than I make in a month.
Zarek’s people begin mingling. The voices here sound refined, polished, haughty—some tinged with practiced French accents from expensive study abroad, others brushed with Swiss or Russian or Korean or wherever else gods send their children to study before they return to grow their family businesses.
Does anyone else see it? Do they notice who the music plays for?
And I am just shit from Troy, a glass of mostly empty cognac in front of me, a trail of brutality behind me, and another marked out for me on the path ahead.
I kick one combat boot against the bar, my glass clinking in response.
The bartender sighs and looks at me. “More cognac?”
“Whiskey,” a soft voice stops me. “On the rocks, please.”
