The Performance
The first rule of their unwilling partnership, established somewhere between the third hostile silence and the fifth mind-lash, was misdirection. If the author of The Heart-Eater's Echo was watching, they needed to give the audience a performance that was loud, passionate, and utterly convincing—a dramatic urban romance.
The second rule was simple: survive.
Ezzy had a lead. Earlier, she'd tracked a whisper of energy—a faint, brittle purple—that belonged to a minor Rival of Caspian's: a power broker known only as The Collector, who specialized in hoarding rare auras. Caspian confirmed The Collector had been trying to track his weakened state since the subway incident.
"He hunts in plain sight, at high-end events," Caspian explained, leaning against the cold metal railing of a fire escape in Little Italy. "He feeds on the aura of cultural triumph—the moment an artist wins an award, a financier closes a historic deal. He is systematic and patient."
"So we crash his party," Ezzy said, pulling her worn leather jacket tighter. She could feel his cold essence inside her, urging her toward confrontation, toward power. It was addictive. "Where is he now?"
"A private gala for emerging artists. The theme is 'Illumination.' Fitting," Caspian scoffed.
"We need to be the spectacle," Ezzy decided. "The lovers who can't keep their hands off each other, the drama that steals the spotlight. We give The Watcher an entire chapter of romantic tension."
The gala was held in a gleaming, glass-walled penthouse overlooking Central Park. Ezzy was wearing the only thing she owned that passed as 'gala wear'—a dark silk slip dress that felt impossibly thin against the cold shadow inside her. Caspian, effortless in a perfectly tailored black suit, looked less like a guest and more like the inevitable disaster.
They walked in, and the performance began.
Caspian pulled her close instantly, his arm wrapping around her waist. The contact sent a powerful jolt down the bond. It wasn't just physical touch; it was the meeting of light and dark, a surge of power that made the air around them crackle. Ezzy gasped, not from fear, but from the terrifying intensity.
"Look like you want to devour me, Anomaly," Caspian murmured into her ear, his breath cool against her skin. "The audience is waiting."
He guided her into the center of the room, through glittering crowds radiating the vibrant, self-satisfied auras of the city's successful. He never looked at the crowd; his focus was entirely on Ezzy, his eyes like glacial magnets.
"The Collector is near the main installation," Caspian transmitted directly into her mind. "Brittle purple. He will be hunting the artist who wins the evening's prize."
Ezzy nodded subtly, playing her part. She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him lower, staring up at him with what she hoped was a mix of desperate passion and utter fury. The dramatic tension was real—fueled by the fact that they were terrified of each other, yet bound together by a desperate will to survive.
"You're radiating too much smugness, Thief," she whispered, her voice laced with adrenaline. "Try radiating love."
His lips twitched. "I wouldn't know the color."
"It's red," she hissed. "A desperate, bloody, burning red."
She focused on the shadow-shard inside her. She forced her own vibrant silver light into it, trying to warm the cold, black essence. The effect was immediate and dizzying. The shadow didn't turn red, but it flared with a raw, dark heat.
Caspian's eyes widened slightly. He felt the wave of raw, manufactured passion Ezzy had just injected into their bond. It was overwhelming, addictive, and purely for the audience.
He reacted on instinct. He pulled her flush against him, crushing her to his chest, and lowered his head. His kiss was possessive and cold, yet laced with the dark fire she had deliberately ignited within them. It wasn't a romance; it was a claim.
The crowd nearest them went silent. The collective auras of the guests spiked—shock, envy, and immediate, frenzied gossip. This was a scene for The Heart-Eater's Echo.
In the chaos, Ezzy felt the faint, brittle purple of The Collector. He was standing by the glass wall, momentarily distracted by the spectacle. He was looking at them, not the award winner. Their dramatic show had worked.
"He's focused on us," Ezzy murmured against Caspian's mouth.
"Good," Caspian replied, breaking the kiss with an audible intensity that thrilled the onlookers. "Keep him focused."
Ezzy broke free, grabbing a champagne glass from a passing tray. She lifted it, but then, fueled by the cold energy from the shard, she did the exact wrong thing for a gala: she threw the glass against the polished marble floor. It exploded in a spray of shards and golden champagne.
The room went dead silent. The Collector's purple aura spiked with pure, unadulterated annoyance.
"You left me!" Ezzy roared, improvising a line so ridiculous it was perfect for a viral sensation. "You always leave me, Caspian!"
The Collector, now radiating annoyance and curiosity, started to move toward them.
Caspian didn't hesitate. He played the villain, the dark lover. He strode toward Ezzy, his face a mask of furious, possessive desire. But as he passed The Collector, he didn't even glance at him. He simply flickered.
It wasn't a teleportation; it was a microscopic shift in the shadow essence, a tiny, directed pulse from the power he shared with Ezzy. It was just enough to create a momentary psychic blind spot—a whisper of the void.
The Collector suddenly blinked, rubbing his eyes, losing track of the powerful lovers for a fraction of a second.
That was all they needed. Caspian grabbed Ezzy's hand and, in a dazzling blur that looked like furious escape, pulled her toward a service exit.
"That was reckless," Caspian growled as the service door slammed shut behind them, muffling the gala's renewed noise.
"That was viral," Ezzy countered, adrenaline singing in her veins. "We got his attention, we drew him out, and you used the cover to get close enough to blind him."
"Blinding is temporary. He will find us again," Caspian said, pulling her down the steel staircase.
"Then we give him another chapter," Ezzy said, her hand tightening in his, feeling the terrifying, beautiful connection between them. "We lead him into the chaos. After all, the best urban love stories always end with a chase."
Their public performance drew the enemy, but it also made their shared power—and the fake romance—alarmingly real. The Collector was blinded, but the viral story was now running wild, and the chase was on.