Chapter 3: The President’s True Face

The moment I entered the city, I felt it—a wrongness I couldn’t name.

It wasn’t just the way the gas lamps flickered. The air itself felt hollow, the city’s usual noise stretched too thin. I found my hand resting on my revolver more than once as we made our way through the streets.

Outside Savannah, the country mourned the Secretary’s death. Black bunting hung from every porch, children clutching flags as funeral bells tolled. But inside Savannah, life rolled on as if nothing had happened.

Few houses closed their doors in mourning. Most windows spilled laughter and light. The closer we got to the governor’s mansion, the more the city shrugged off its grief.

Music and the clatter of carriage wheels filled the night. The mansion’s foyer reeked of spilled wine and roasted meat, gold candelabras blazing. Crystal glasses clinked, bourbon sloshed, and the air was heavy with the scent of peach cobbler and cigar smoke. This wasn’t a memorial—it was a carnival.

Suppressing my anger, I strode forward, the Secretary’s secret folders heavy in my coat. The President lounged in the ballroom, round as a barrel, a woman in his arms, leading the drunken revelry.

“Mr. President, may I ask what the celebration is for?” I managed, voice steady despite the bile in my throat.

Landon burst into laughter. “Don’t you know Wheeler is dead?”

The officials roared. The President’s eyes glittered, and the room seemed to tilt.

“And you, are that old fox’s disciple. Tell me, General—should I cut the weeds and root out the problem?”

Hundreds of eyes turned on me, the music dying. My mind blanked, sweat beading on my brow. The silence was absolute.

Then Landon laughed again. “General, I was only joking. Why so nervous?”

They howled, pretending it was all a prank. My hands unclenched just slightly.

“You should know, with Wheeler dead, you are now a man of great merit. If you hadn’t poisoned him, how could he have died so suddenly?”

Lightning struck through my mind. Had I—Marcus—really poisoned the Secretary? Or was this just another twist of the nightmare?

Regret and guilt churned in my gut. I wanted nothing more than to leap forward and die with the President.

But suddenly, the air shimmered. Landon’s body swelled, splitting his suit like a Thanksgiving turkey gone bad, until all that remained was a pale, pulsing mass.

The ball of flesh was white and greasy, a massive, bloody mouth at its center, maggots writhing between its teeth. The maw lunged at the banquet table, scarfing down human limbs, the wet crunch of bone echoing through my skull.

Everyone else kept eating and laughing, as though they couldn’t see the monster. Terror clawed at my throat. A cold whisper slithered into my ear: “You... can see?”

I forced my lips into a shaky smile, praying no one noticed my knuckles turning white. “The Secretary’s death was due to your divine strategy, Mr. President. I dare not claim the credit.”

The world snapped back. Landon was human again, but a flicker of disappointment flashed in his eyes. I had survived by a hair’s breadth.