She leaned back, and it felt as though she were staring at a ghost in the looking glass: an echo of the Crown Princess Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov she’d been.
A knot formed in her throat at all the possibilities of how her life might have turned out, the could-have-beens if the smallest thing had just gone differently.
Ana shoved those thoughts to the back of her mind. She pulled on a new set of black velvet gloves. Drew a deep breath. Lifted her chin.
Three sharp raps sounded on her door. And, just like that, their plan was in motion.
Ana barely recognized the young man who stood in her doorway. Ramson was clean-shaven, his hair slicked back, his sharp black peacoat fitted perfectly to his lithe figure. Dressed like that and grinning arrogantly, he could have passed for a nobleman’s son or a haughty young duke, come for a night of trouble in Novo Mynsk.
They stared at each other for a heartbeat, and she wondered whether Ramson found the sight of her in fine clothing just as strange. Heat rushed to her cheeks; she grappled for something to say as she turned away. No matter how well the con man cleaned up, she couldn’t make the mistake of thinking his character had changed as well. He was still dangerous: a wolf in sheep’s skin. One slip of her focus, and he’d have his jaws around her neck. “You clean up nicely for a criminal.”
“Darling, you’d do well to remember it’s often the criminals who are the best-dressed.” Ramson strode in and dumped what he had been carrying onto her bed. “Papers,” he said. “Keep them on you at all times.”
Anna scanned one of the papers.
“ ‘Elga Sokov, water Affinite’?” she read skeptically. To Ramson’s credit, though, the document looked authentic, stamped and signed with the proper formatting of legal documents she’d studied.
“I figured after Kyrov, it would be best for you to have proper documentation, just in case,” he replied, and then pointed to a second set of items. “I also purchased masks. It’s tradition at the Playpen.”
Ana tucked the papers into the folds of her cloak and picked up one of the masks, holding it to the candlelight. It shimmered with silver glitter, faux-gold swirls fanning out from each of the eyeholes. The gold-painted lips stretched in a cruel, mocking smile.
Ramson held up his own mask. A thoughtful look passed over his face as he examined it. “Some think their actions are more forgivable if they hide their faces.”
“You can’t hide your sins from the Deities.” It was a fact she had accepted for her own crimes.
“Correct.” Ramson tipped the mask onto his face, fastening it with swift, surgical accuracy. “But, in this world, life is a masquerade. Everyone wears masks.”
Perhaps that was true, Ana thought as she slipped on her mask.
Ramson turned to her, a hand on the doorknob. His black mask glittered with faux-gold and counterfeit jewels that looked real. “Have you ever been out for a night in Novo Mynsk, Ana?”
Something in his tone made her heart pound—a thrill of danger beneath the calmness. “No.”
He tipped his head in a nod. “Then stay close to me.”
* * *
—
The streets of Novo Mynsk had transformed. Gone were the fine window displays, the vegetable and fruit carts, the gilded carriages and pure white valkryfs. Gone were the families who strolled around in fine furs, the ring-studded merchants who rushed about their business. It was as though the city had donned a mask of its own, replacing its idyllic daytime façade with a dark and dangerous nighttime act.
Torches blazed in the streets, casting flickering shadows on groups of lurkers and revelers. The small pubs and cramped inns in the dark alleyways flared with life, roaring with bawdy singing and laughter. The scents of smoke and alcohol hung thick in the air.
Ana stayed close behind Ramson, clutching her fur cloak tight to her chest. She’d switched her rucksack for a refined purse, in which she carried all of her sketches. They were the only reminder of the life she’d had, and she had the irrational fear that if she lost them, she would lose her past.
She was grateful they had put on their masks before leaving their tavern. Women in strange animal masks and lurid gowns strolled dangerously close to her and Ramson, smiling and purring in their direction. Sallow-faced men with daggers glinting at their belts flashed their gold teeth as they waved their hands at her in salutation.
It felt as though she had stepped into a surreal underground world that was nothing like the Cyrilia she had known her entire life.
Ramson dipped his head to her, and his voice was husky when he murmured in her ear. “The Playpen is ostensibly a club with Affinite entertainers. But like most aspects of this world, it isn’t what it appears to be. Merchants are known to purchase Affinite employment contracts in the back rooms.”
The words haunted her as they wove through the laughing crowds, toward a club that should never have existed in the first place.
Where had it all gone wrong? She remembered, toward the later years of Papa’s life, how he had grown weak and frail; how his judgment and memory had suffered from blinding, fever-induced rages; how his moments of lucidity had become sparser and sparser throughout the years.
Yet another memory gripped her. Papa, turning away from her as she begged him not to let Sadov take her again. We will take measures to cure your condition. It is…for your own good.
Ramson’s hand brushed her shoulder and she jumped, her thoughts dispersing. They were in the middle of a crowded street. People pushed past her, staggering and shouting in their drunkenness, bottles of liquor flashing in the torchlight.
Ahead of them was the most brightly lit building on the street. It was built in the fashion of a Cyrilian cathedral, domes tapering into sharp spires that loomed into the night sky. Yet instead of the white marble walls and stained-glass windows depicting Deys’krug, the exterior had been built in cheap red-brown bricks and the windows were painted with figures of women twisting in grotesque dance moves—a farcical replica of a revered, holy building.
Ana realized that while she had been staring in disgust at the pub before them, Ramson, too, had not moved. He stared up at the tavern, his outline rigid. With his mask on, he felt like a stranger rather than the young crime lord she had partnered with over the past week.
He turned to her, his quick hazel eyes finding hers. There was no humor to his tone as he said, “Welcome to the Playpen.” Ramson’s voice took on a new layer of urgency as he repeated, “Stay close to me.”
Ana did her best as they stepped through the polished mahogany doors. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she began to make out the silhouettes of women splayed on love seats or slouched over bars, crooning words in their patrons’ ears. Candles flickered in magenta casings, casting a seductive hue around the interior of the tavern.
Were all the girls here Affinites? How many had been brought here from a foreign land with the promise of opportunity, and became indentured to this vile place?
Ramson wound his way through a maze of curved archways with beaded curtains until, at last, they reached a foyer with another set of mahogany doors. Two women were perched on a red settee, both wearing black masks with feline features and very little else. Their eyes drifted to Ramson.
One stood, smiling, and sashayed over. Ana noticed that she had whiskers painted on her cheeks, and even a fake tail attached to her backside. “If you’re looking for a show, mesyr, I can give you one.” Her voice was a purr as she ran a hand down Ramson’s shoulder.
“I’d hate to miss that,” Ramson said. “But I’m quite certain the show I seek tonight lies beyond those doors.”
“Hmm,” the cat-masked courtesan hummed thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps I’ll have my share of you another night, then. You may proceed.”
Ana loosed a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. She stepped forward, eager to leave this eeri
e room.
“Wait.”
The second woman on the settee had spoken. Unlike the first, her voice was sharp, and her eyes pierced like daggers as she rose to her feet. They were trained on Ana.
With a growing sense of dread, Ana watched her approach. She sensed Ramson stiffening in front of her. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the first courtesan take a step back.
“What business have you?” The second woman stopped several paces from Ana. Her eyes pinned Ana like a butterfly on a corkboard. Ana’s mind began speeding through all the possible answers to her question. Was it a riddle? Was there a right answer—a code—that she was supposed to give, and that Ramson had neglected to tell her? Or was there another, more sinister reason for that question?
Dread settled in her stomach when the first woman retreated to her companion’s side, raising her hands toward them in a defensive stance. Two small steel blades appeared out of nowhere, hovering above her shoulders, poised to strike. Affinite, Ana realized, and she reached out for her own bonds.
The second woman snarled, and Ana felt a strange, cold pressure on her Affinity: familiar, yet not as strong as the wall-like blockade that the yaeger had pressed on her at the Winter Market in Kyrov. Ana stifled a gasp. The woman was a yaeger.
They had been discovered.
Ana’s thoughts scrambled. Instinctively, she grasped for her Affinity, preparing for the rush of blood and power that would flow through her.
A voice interrupted her. “Deities, how thoughtless of me.” Ramson sighed. In a flash, he positioned himself by her side, his hand gripping her waist as he yanked her against him. “She’s mine.”
Ana tried to tear away from his grasp, but Ramson gave her a light squeeze. A warning—a signal. Let me handle this. She stopped struggling.
“Show your contract,” the yaeger growled. The pressure on Ana’s Affinity did not yield.
Contract, Ana thought, swallowing and trying to steady her racing heart. Of course. Ramson had given her papers back at the hotel, and told her to keep them on her—as a precaution.
With shaking fingers, she took them out and handed them to the yaeger.
“Hmm,” the woman purred, displeasure seeping into her features. She gave the papers a cursory scan, then shrugged and tossed them aside. Ana watched them flutter to the floor. “No.”
“No?” Ramson repeated, but Ana’s temper flared at the sight of the yaeger’s nonchalance, the way she had so casually discarded Ana’s papers. Those papers, Ana now knew, could mean the difference between life and death for an Affinite.
“Why not?” she demanded. “I showed you my papers!”
“Your papers are necessary to prove your status.” The yaeger’s eyes flashed. “But we are not obliged to let you enter, witch.”
The insult struck her harder that it ever had, coming from the mouth of one who should have been on the same side as her. Why? Ana wanted to ask. Why do you do this?
But she knew why: the same reason that yaeger back at Kyrov’s Vyntr’makt had fought against her. If I am not the hunter, then I become the hunted.
Ramson seemed to reach a decision. “You have the authority on these decisions?” The arrogance and disgruntlement had vanished from his tone, leaving only cold calculation.
The yaeger lifted her chin. “Yes.”
“Then you’d do well to remember your place.” Ramson let go of Ana and strode over to the two women, his steps lithe and powerful. His back was to Ana, but what the two women saw had them widening their kohl-rimmed eyes and staring up at Ramson with fear plainly written on their faces.
“Please, mesyr,” the cat-masked woman whispered. “We never meant—we didn’t know—”
“Enough.” The brusqueness of Ramson’s voice made Ana jump. “Open the door now.”
“Yes, mesyr,” said the first courtesan, while her companion stared at Ana with horror. “Thank you for your kindness, mesyr.” She thrust a hand up, and a series of metallic clicks sounded within the two locked mahogany doors. They swept open, revealing a winding set of stairs lit by torchlight.
Ramson extended an arm, the shadows beneath him stretching long. “Come,” he crooned. Ana hurried over, scooping up the fallen papers on the floor. She felt rigid under the stares of the two courtesans, but then Ramson’s arm closed around her and they were through. The two doors clanged shut behind them, trapping them in darkness.
Only then did Ramson stop and lean against the door. His arm was still slung around her waist, as though he’d forgotten about her, and she found herself leaning into him, their hearts beating the same relieved murmur.
Ramson exhaled, his chest heaving beneath him. A second passed, and then another, then he seemed to realize their strange proximity. Ana pulled away just as he tucked his arms against his sides.
“That was close.” Ramson’s voice was rough as he turned to the steps. His mask flashed, his eyes glinting as they caught the strange, far-off light.
Ana glanced at his wrist, which was covered by the sleeve of his peacoat. “What did you show them?”
“A con man’s tricks,” he said briskly, and she couldn’t tell whether he was still acting or speaking the truth. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
As Ana looked at the stone steps that led down into the unknown, she suddenly felt cold, heavy dread settle in her stomach. Beyond those stairs was the answer to the question she had been asking herself since that day in Kyrov. Beyond those stairs was the answer she was simultaneously awaiting and dreading.
Was May alive?
Her hands darted to her chest in an instinctive sign of prayer. She had been so certain, back in the Temple of Deities, that she would be able to save May herself. Yet now she would give anything to have the Deities answer her prayers.
“Ana.” Ramson had paused on the steps. For a moment, he looked as though he was struggling to find words. And then he said, “We’re late.”
They were, and May could be down there. She had to be.
Ana drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She gave a curt nod and followed Ramson down the steps, into the darkness.
The descent seemed to last an eternity. Torches blazed from sconces in the walls, and the stairway was silent but for the swish of Ana’s skirts and the clack of Ramson’s boots.
Gradually, she began to hear a faint sound: At first, it was no louder than a buzz, yet it grew in volume until it became a rhythmic, pulsing beat.
The spiraling stairs gave way to a long, dark corridor that stretched before them, where the steady pounding noise emanated like a living thing. Ramson’s dark mask glittered in the torchlight. Clad in his black peacoat and hidden behind his jeweled mask, he looked like a phantasmal creature of the night.
Ana found his eyes—sharp and intelligent. Their gazes locked, a ghost of a smile flitted across his face, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. After you.
Ana lifted her chin. After me.
The corridor turned and opened up. Beyond an arched stone doorway was a vast auditorium with a sprawling stage, lit by flickering torches. Four tall stone pillars punctured each corner of the stage, with faux-marble renditions of the Deities atop each one. Higher up, empty balcony seats encircled the auditorium.
A strange feeling—of cold, of hollowness—wrapped around her like a nearly imperceptible cloak. For some reason, this place brought back memories of darkness, of helplessness.
The drums continued to pound from somewhere behind the stage. People milled about, torchlight lancing off the precious stones on their masks. Their expensive furs rustled as they clinked glasses of wine, the gold jewelry on their arms flashing as they tipped drinks back in laughter.
“What does this show entail?” Ana whispered to Ramson as they squeezed past a tiger-masked couple. The stage, she saw as they drew closer, was built of blue-veined marble, its ed
ges gilded. The pillars were festooned with expensive silks and silver ribbons, the sapphire curtains made of rich, heavy velvet. The stage itself seemed to have a strange, almost surreal quality to it—something Ana couldn’t quite put her finger on, no matter how hard she looked at it.
“They make Affinites perform using their abilities,” Ramson replied, gently cleaving apart two drunk noblewomen. His hand slipped back, locking around hers, and she nearly jumped. Her heart skittered in an unfamiliar beat. “The nobles pay for good entertainment. And it’s a cover. Some never know about the contract dealings in the back.”
Ana shuddered. “The Affinites, don’t they ever try to run? Even the weakest could put up a good fight against a non-Affinite.”
Ramson tilted his head and pointed, drawing her attention to the viewing alcoves several levels up. “In a few minutes, a marksman is going to appear in every single one of those. They have Deys’voshk-tinged arrows, and they shoot to kill.” He nodded at the stage. “Look closely there.”
Ana squinted and suddenly realized what had made the stage seem so strange. Behind the four pillars, walls of blackstone-infused glass almost as high as the viewing alcoves encircled the entire stage, leaving an area in the front center for a host.
Blackstone. The cold, the feeling of emptiness she’d felt as she’d stepped into this room made more sense now. The same she’d felt each time Sadov took her to that room in the dungeons.
Ramson’s tone was grim when he said, “If any Affinite tries anything, they’ll be shot before they can even crack the glass.”
The design was cruel but efficient; no Affinity could reach past the blackstone-infused glass, which meant the Affinites were limited to the resources they were given for their performances. No wonder none of them had tried to escape.
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