The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  In his stead, he granted his golden child, Leviathan, permission to marry his next bride-to-be on the exclusive date. It would bring Leviathan’s tally of wives up to the round number of twenty. This ensured it would be an especially grand affair. Solomon was known for being brusque and quarrelsome, but Leviathan was his opposite in that way. He had more friends in high places than he knew what to do with.

  As much as Blasphemy found her boss, Gordon, distasteful, she found the Braintree family’s “Manager of Hospitality” even more so. And she was a woman, someone “career-minded” who married into the family and let the power, relatively speaking, inflate her head. Her ego seemed to overflow into her brassiere as well.

  Since “Serenity” took pride in being objectified, any other ladies in her employ were required to follow her lead.

  “No, no, no!” Serenity scolded as soon as Blasphemy returned from the dressing room, ready to begin making her rounds with whatever tray she was assigned. “That will not do.”

  Blasphemy looked down at her “uniform.” She added, albeit without permission, a black cardigan. It was approximately zero degrees outside and the service zones were drafty from the constantly opening and closing doors.

  She was also short and lean for a young woman and had slightly broad shoulders. She picked the smallest size she could find out of the closet of black, shimmery cocktail dresses. Sleeveless and with a low, swooping neckline, it wasn’t a perfect fit. But she thought it would get her through the night unnoticed. And that was her intention. She was there to work, after all, and the less ogling and ass-grabbing, the better.

  In a few brisk steps with legs that came up to Blasphemy’s eyeballs, Serenity was upon her with a handful of items she had plucked from her handy “glamour” kit. Without asking or much warning, she stripped off Blasphemy’s cardigan, tossing it into a dingy, neglected corner. It was her favorite sweater. And then Serenity began stuffing Blasphemy’s bra with clean rags.

  “Hey!” Blasphemy clenched up and shielded her chest with her arms. “Easy there!”

  But that didn’t do much to deter Serenity. Her cold hands and sharp claws were busy molding “cleavage” where there wasn’t much. This was all in front of God and everyone! The greasy male cooks paused to catch the free show. The other servers openly snickered. And despite the chains on her wrists, even the closest Fallow, peeling potatoes at a far-removed table, couldn’t keep a straight face.

  After that humiliation was through, Serenity swapped her comfortable black flats out for spiked heels, and then went for Blasphemy’s hemline. With little discretion once again, she used black tape to bring the hem of the “little black dress” from mid to upper thigh. As finishing touches, she added whore-red lipstick and slapped and pinched Blasphemy’s cheeks until they were rosy.

  With a curt nod of tolerance—not anything close to approval—Serenity handed over a heavy tray of champagne flutes, nearly full to the brim.

  If there was one thing true about a Braintree event, they could certainly clear a tray of champagne in record time. Blasphemy seemed to be spending more time clearing empties than actually serving.

  The night was flying by. And she was a lousy spy, mostly because she was too overworked. And as far as she could tell, they were just the normal, pompous lushes. Loud and merry, a little improper as the alcohol took full affect, and politely condescending, it was what she was accustomed to.

  Other than that, the reception seemed to progress relatively scandal free. They were embellishing their accomplishments with much bravado. Amid all that hot, stagnant air, it was impossible to hear the skeletons rattling.

  Blasphemy did her best to do her job and also linger close to those who carried themselves as important. But it was by accident when her elbow skimmed across the back of a tall man in a sleek tuxedo. He had perfect hair, a compelling voice, and a dynamic presence. He turned around.

  Leviathan Braintree. The groom himself!

  She gulped and steeled herself for a reprimand, her chin and eyes up and unyielding. And that’s when he offered her a killer smile. Though he was perhaps twice her age, he was still breathtaking. There was no better way to describe him. But he was as handsome as he was terrifying for some reason.

  She wasn’t typically scared of anyone.

  In a battle between her eyes and instincts, she knew which one to trust.

  He plucked the last champagne flute off her tray and crooned, “Why, thank you.” Then he set down his empty. His gaze swept down her features, never quite dipping into the realm of inappropriate. But still, she had been measured and as a result, felt small. And figured out.

  He suspects something. . .

  She nodded her head out of habit. He gave her a conclusive—and clearly fake—smile. She made a sharp turn into the hallway that led to the kitchen, suppressing the urge to run. And he returned to the men in his company without missing a beat.

  Blasphemy couldn’t hide for long, though. The party was still in its prime. Serenity snapped her fingers, suggesting that everyone make haste, and she had her Fallow captives restock the tray.

  “How’s the night going?” she asked them conversationally while Serenity was distracted. Blasphemy’s life hadn’t been a far stretch from Fallowhood, and she felt a sense of camaraderie with them that few people would understand.

  The glances they exchanged seemed to consist of fear, surprise, and part hope.

  “We’re not supposed to answer,” one of them spoke up in little more than a whisper. “But—”

  “That’s enough chit chat!” Serenity plopped the heavy tray she acquired from somewhere else in Blasphemy’s hand and dragged her back into the swing of things with her cat claws cuffed around her arm.

  By this time, Blasphemy had had enough. Of Serenity. Of smiling, nodding, and bowing in submission. Plus, her back ached and her high heels were giving her blisters. It was getting late as well. She had been on the docks at five a.m. and would have to return there at the same time the next morning. So, when she spotted a young man at the top of the palatial staircase, snapping and then raising a finger to get her attention, she began her ascent with an audible sigh.

  His hands swooped in for two flutes before her final step. He tipped one glass high and downed the whole serving of champagne, swaying in the process. About her age and definitely too handsome for his own good, like the best of the Braintrees were known to be, he was also more than just wasted. His hair and bowtie were both sloppy and his tuxedo shirt was untucked. His blue eyes looked almost purple from being so bloodshot. And no one was ever that eager to drink like that unless they didn’t give a damn about the repercussions.

  “You want?” he offered her the second flute, his words slurred.

  The unexpected and inappropriate show of manners in his condition made her bite back a smile. “I can’t. Sorry. On the job.”

  “Screw the job!” he said, wobbling closer.

  Blasphemy set the tray on her shoulder, preparing herself for a rapid departure. “As much as I’d like to. . .”

  “Aha! I knew it! You despise us!”

  She lowered a foot down on the first step. “Have a good night.”

  “Wait,” he called after her as she turned away. “Can’t you give a lowly Braintree a minute of your time?” She continued stepping down. “What about a name?” He came down the first step. Glancing back, she was worried he’d take a tumble in his effort to follow her. “I’m Caleb, number sixteen. And no, that’s not important.”

  If he fell, it would undoubtedly be her fault. She’d lose her paycheck, her job at the Wharf, or worse. The whole “disappearing” thing for someone of her status had to be more than just a hunch.

  She stopped, not sure what to do. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Come here. Please? I want to ask you something? Come on! I’m not going to bother you,” he said with added emphasis, as if that was the reason she was hesitating.

  This time, her instincts convinced her to listen. This boy was
a disaster waiting to happen and it was possible he would tell her why.

  She put on her exasperated face and climbed back to the top of the stairs. Banging dirty glasses together as he pushed them aside, Caleb made room on a nearby bistro table for her to set down her tray. He removed an extra champagne flute and she accepted it from him. He insisted they clink their glasses together. She took a tiny sip and then he led the way to the balcony’s banister.

  There were only a few people on the second floor, doing what they were doing, looking down at the party over the ledge. But the foyer it surrounded was gargantuan, so it was safe to say that no one was within hearing range. They were almost out of seeing range too. It wouldn’t be easy to recognize that she was a server and he was a guest.

  “Look!” he said, sweeping his hand over everything and nothing in particular. “Wha’d’ya think?”

  Fresh garland and holly from their Christmas Heritage festivities still lined the Compound. Candles flickered in glass orbs and tiny white lights decorated the live spruce trees and white columns. All light seemed to sparkle through the crystal and ice sculptures.

  Did he want her to appreciate the grandeur . . . or filter out the hypocrisy and corruption?

  “Of what now exactly?”

  “The wedding! Isn’t it fantastic? Most expensive one yet! And in this dreadful place, that’s saying something!” he exclaimed, so caustic and over the top. Looking around, she did become concerned that someone would hear him. “He’s so proud. And isn’t she so beautiful?”

  He hunched over, setting his elbows on the banister. His disenchanted eyes were pointed in the direction of the toast that Solomon was giving—the man who started it all and turned a dynasty into an empire—and he took his sweet time reminding everyone of that. But Caleb’s focus seemed inward.

  “The bride?” He nodded without blinking or sharpening his gaze, and she didn’t miss the tremble in his lower lip. “Yeah, she’s all right, I guess.” Blasphemy gave the young bride a thorough evaluation for the first time that night. Laila. The name suited her. She didn’t seem dynamic in terms of personality but appeared lovely by Braintree standards—pale, delicate . . . obedient and grateful. “Why do you ask? And what’s with the sarcasm?”

  She should have said that with less bite, because, when she glanced over to gauge his reaction, the mask he put on for the occasion essentially tore apart and crumbled. “She was supposed to marry . . . me,” he admitted softly. “I met her at school. We were . . . happy. And then I brought her home. I loved her, and . . . and when I sought permission, I didn’t get it. They . . . they’re . . . like vultures! The whole miserable lot of them. But it was him! He . . . he stole her!”

  “Who did?”

  “My father!”

  She didn’t see that one coming.

  “You’d probably marry him too!” he then accused, shooting upright.

  She chuckled. “I’d rather be Fallow.”

  “Ha! Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure!” she snapped. And she startled him, something neither of them had been prepared for. Ladies in Braintree company weren’t supposed to do that and she didn’t think he’d shrink so easily. “I’d like to make my own way in this world. If that’s punishable by Fallowhood, then fine, I’ll take it. It’s better than being the twenty-something-eth wife of someone who’s proven that he puts himself first. Even in front of his own children,” she finished, the sympathy making its way into her tone.

  “But . . . but . . . who could say no to him? He’s Leviathan. He gets what he wants. Anything he wants. You think that’s fucked up. . . ?”

  The F-word, uttered by the kin of the Redeemer.

  “The first night’s always the worst,” he blathered on. “She has no idea what to expect. They call it sacred union. But it’s more like breaking in. He’s not at all what he seems once he’s behind closed doors.”

  He took a dry gulp. The emotion seemed to get caught up in his throat. He tried to wash it down with the rest of his glass of champagne, the second one he finished in her presence. Then he pinched his eyes shut, subduing the drunken sway, as if that would somehow bring clarity to his situation or make the pain go away.

  Meanwhile, her gaze blurred over the men below, their many wives, and then it found Leviathan’s mouth. Pretty white lights glinted off his even whiter teeth. A killer smile. . .

  “I believe you.”

  Her words secured his gaze. And perhaps a smidge of amusement made the corner of his mouth twitch. “There’s a first!”

  “I’m dead serious. But. . .” She shook her head, completely confounded. “Why are you telling me all this? You don’t know who I am.”

  “I’ve been watching you.” He blushed with the admission. Then he was quick to lean back on the banister, his waffling eyes zooming in and fading to dark at the sight of his father, now giving his toast. And he was a crowd pleaser. Always the right joke for any occasion. “You looked at my father like you saw right through the façade. He knew it, too. I can tell you’re sharp. And observant. You’re looking for flaws. And, well, you’re in the right fucking place.”

  Just then, Serenity stepped beyond the pillars and archway. As she squinted through the dim white lighting, her nose crinkled, as if she was sniffing out staff idleness.

  Blasphemy ducked down, swearing under her breath. She was almost spotted. “That’s my cue. I gotta go. Thanks for the break. And the champagne.”

  Still full for the most part, she set down her glass on the carpet by the banister before it was discovered in her hand. Then, staying low, she darted over to the bistro table, collecting her tray. She hardened her expression so that she’d appear focused, extremely busy, and not guilty of any wrongdoing.

  While she made her way over to the stairs, Caleb called out to her. “Wait! Can you at least tell me your name?”

  “You don’t need to know my name. I hope to be a somebody, but right now. . .”

  “That means we have something in common. Please? Can I see you again? I like talking to you. I already feel better about the whole thing.”

  He was someone who had a story to tell. He’d be an invaluable source, and it didn’t seem like he’d mind if she shared with the world the bitterness of his truth. But, Braintree or not, she’d be using him. And that wasn’t right. He was so honest with her, and wounded already, and inconsolably lonely, despite his huge family. Why else would he be so desperate to confide in someone . . . anyone who would listen?

  Based on what little she had divulged about herself, didn’t he realize that he shouldn’t trust her?

  But he did. And that was just . . . sad.

  “Rita,” she informed him, against her better judgement. “Be here in an hour. I’ll find you.”

  He smiled, like she gave him an inkling of confidence back.

  And right then and there, she had a feeling he’d be the worst mistake she’d ever make.

  Chapter 21

  Law

  Where am I?

  Law’s eyes were watery and uncooperative. His mind was equally foggy, if not more so.

  A white ceiling? A modest, crystal chandelier he knew he had seen before. And a desk.

  Am I on the floor?

  Then it came together for him like a sharp stab. The doctor. His poor attempts to get a conversation started. She was exceedingly busy. He was having an off moment. Many, in fact. She set up the bag for his blood donation in her office . . . since she had no other private place to put him.

  After she hurried out of the room—and it would undoubtedly be a while before he’d even cross her mind again—he felt woozy and then. . .

  Forcing himself to a sitting position was a mistake. His whole head was throbbing. That was nothing new. But there was also acute pain at his temple that suggested his brain was about to leak out. He grasped for the spot.

  When he lowered his fingertips, the blood shouldn’t have come as a shock. But still, the sight of it . . . more of it . . . made him wish
he could return to the place he disappeared to for however long.

  The footsteps were yet another reason to panic. He was trying to help, and also sought to impress a certain someone, and it backfired, dismally. He was now a problem, not a solution, and he couldn’t hide the disaster in time even if he had the strength to. The needle tore out of his arm and there was blood on the carpet, on him, on his clothes.

  “Are you all right?”

  Dr. B. E. Breckenridge. A woman. Attractive . . . in a disorienting way. Probably about his age, and so far ahead of him in terms of success . . . it would be laughable to some . . . lamentable to him. And he stumbled upon her, almost literally. His words behaved that way and his feet practically failed him too. All of this, the day after one of the darkest days of his life, a day he swore off love forever. It wasn’t for him. And he thought it never would be.

  What were the odds? Really? A million to one?

  Her voice crept up quick. And so did her . . . everything else. Her hands were on his. Her face was mere inches away.

  He jolted into a shudder, visibly, and painfully so, when his eyes collided with hers. But her scrutiny immediately drifted to his temple. And his gaze dropped to her . . . chest. Despite being concealed underneath a lab coat and turtleneck, they had poise and merit. Even just a glance was a grave error in judgement, assuming he had any of that left.

  He pinched his eyes shut. Better late than never. But still, the damage was done and his imagination wasn’t his to control.

  “Looks like you passed out,” she noted upon helping him back into his chair. “And the corner of the desk broke your fall.”

  She swiped a clean tissue over the edge, confirming her theory. Tossing it into the bin, she then kneeled before him, amused. Better than angry, which was probably what he deserved. He should have warned her that he felt like shit before she stuck the needle in his arm.

  From seemingly out of nowhere, she pulled out an antiseptic, a cotton swab, and was dabbing at what must have been a pretty sizable cut on the side of his head. And he couldn’t hold back the flinch. She was moving fast and he had trouble keeping the involuntary reactions to himself.