by Wren Weston
How did it make sense that she’d said less but felt more?
Oracle’s wrath, at least she hadn’t given up her family for him. At least she knew how it would have turned out.
It didn’t help her to breathe, though.
Tristan patted Katia’s back. “We call her Hood. She has worked with us in the past. Now she’s working with us again, at least for today.”
“I like the name Hood. It’s very…descriptive.”
Lila did not answer.
“We should get going if we’re going to make it to my mother’s on time,” Katia said. “I need to get home early so I can take a shower. I forgot my dress last night in the rush.”
“Okay. Go get your things.”
Katia gave Tristan a little peck on the forehead and a lingering caress on the cheek, then returned to his bedroom.
Or was it their bedroom?
“I apologize, but I have a prior engagement.” Tristan gathered his coat and palm, circling the room as though he’d forgotten something.
He spied it in the corner. A wrapped box, large enough to fit two oranges inside.
Katia returned with her boots and a large purse. “It was lovely to meet you, Hood.”
“Same to you,” Lila fumbled.
The door to the apartment closed behind them.
Lila did not remove her hood.
Dixon tugged it off, sighing at the mess he found there. The red eyes. The blood from where she’d bitten her lip.
His arms stirred, as though he might embrace her, but Lila pushed him away. “Don’t. Just don’t. I can’t.”
I didn’t know she would be here. I would have told you if I’d known.
“Why would it matter? It’s none of my business. It’s fine, Dixon. I’m fine.”
No, you’re not.
Lila picked up the first file, wiping at her eyes before tears could take root, the words swimming into blurry dots.
She needed to work.
She would work.
The words solidified at last.
Dixon awkwardly gripped his notepad, waiting for her to speak.
“Is there anything useful in these transcripts? In the videos?”
He shook his head.
“Anything interesting?”
Yes. Read them and see if you agree.
Lila slipped her laptop from her satchel. While it booted up, she opened the transcript and skimmed the first page, noting the merc’s name. Ezio Fiore. “I have a few ideas about how we might find the mole, but it will be up to you and Tristan to complete my work. Despite what your brother and the oracle believe, I will not be leaving Bullstow unless it’s in a coffin or by armed escort to the auction house.”
Lila held up her arm to stop Dixon as he slid closer. “I’m serious. The committee will at least give me a slave’s term tomorrow, and a rather long one at that. My father has probably been working to secure such an outcome. I’m not going to be in a position to help anyone.”
I’ll break you out.
Lila gripped the papers in her lap, the plastic folder cutting into her fingers. The words she’d wanted to hear so desperately from Tristan had come from another man. “Please, Dixon. Don’t put yourself in danger for me.”
He lifted his pencil, but Lila shook her head. “Just listen, okay? This mole in the compound? It stands to reason that the person is trusted. I don’t think we’re talking about a simple spy from the empire. Oracles read body language like I read code. If you wanted to infect an oracle’s compound, who would be the best person to send? Who would be the most malleable? The most trusted?”
A child?
“Exactly. I need a computer, the most powerful one in the shop.”
Dixon stood up and jogged downstairs.
While he retrieved a computer, Lila used a fake ID to access the Allied Land’s missing persons databases, running a search for all missing children in the last two decades. She filtered out those kids who had been found and those who had been taken by relatives. She still ended up with five thousand hits—five thousand children who might have been stolen and turned against their own country, programmed by the empire.
She hacked into the empire’s database next, running the same query and saving the three thousand hits she received. While Dixon set up the computer in the corner, she searched for Roman orphans. It resulted in a comparatively smaller data set, but at least every hit included a picture.
After she logged out, she dug into her luggage and withdrew a star drive, using it to install age progression software on the shop’s computer. She quickly coded a program to pull each child’s photograph from the files, run a dozen possible age progressions, and drop the results into a folder, labeled with the child’s name. The altered photographs would be an educated guess for how each child might look, calculated by varying body weight, hair styles, hair colors, facial hair, and other factors.
“This might take a couple of days to complete,” she explained as she sat back down on the couch. “After it’s done, you’ll need to compare the photos to everyone who has been inside the oracle’s compound in the last ten years. You might get lucky.”
Dixon taped a note to the monitor. Do not touch.
Her laptop’s screen flashed. Connell had sent her the list.
Ignoring it, she snatched up the transcript for Ezio’s first interrogation. The bulk of the oracle’s questions had to do with the source of the information they’d received for their job. Ezio claimed it had come from the Italian government, filtered down to their commander and his lieutenants, many of whom Lila had killed.
She shifted on the seat, not wanting to think about the death she’d dealt.
After reading through more transcripts, she and Dixon ate a late dinner, feasting on takeout burgers and fries from Bob’s Burger Mart. Afterward, Lila snatched up another batch of transcripts, scanning each line of text, looking for something to latch on to, some clue she could investigate.
Her thoughts soon wandered. She recalled the feeling of Tristan’s soft, worn sheets against her back. His tongue as it slid into her mouth. The twitch of his fingers working at her slit. His cock filling her. The sound of his moans as he came. She’d thought herself special at the time, but now she had to accept the truth. She’d only been a hole he’d filled, and now he’d moved on to another.
Tristan and Katia had been having sex in that bed the night before, perhaps that morning, with Tristan likely doing the same things to Katia that he’d done with her. Perhaps he’d said the same things too, claiming to be in love, claiming to need her, claiming to want her and only—
Dixon tapped her laptop screen. Thirsty?
Lila felt it come upon her at last, the thick wall she’d built threatening to break inside her, snapped so easily by Dixon’s finger upon a small plastic screen.
She got to her feet quickly and stopped at the door to Tristan’s room, almost entering out of habit. Her boots shuffled on the threshold.
She didn’t belong there. She’d never belong there again. Some other woman filled her place now. A better one, if Tristan’s easy mood and lack of whiskey were any indication.
Dixon followed her to Tristan’s door and grabbed her hand, gently pulling her toward his room. He asked no questions. If he had, he might have torn her down with one careless word.
Perhaps this tightness, this engulfing and suffocating cloud, was some measure of how Tristan had felt when she’d left with La Roux the night of the Closing Ball.
If he’d even been telling the truth about his feelings.
Dixon pulled her into bed, holding her for a long time, lending her his solidity, his warmth, his care and attention. She needed it greatly for she had no idea what would happen at her trial. And in a world where she usually knew everything that would happen before it did, the uncertainty scared her to death.
Chapter 3
Lila woke beside a softly snoring Dixon, the stubble on his neck ticking her forehead, one heavy arm flopped around her hip. He twitched as her eyelashes fluttered against his bare chest, then stretched like a purring cat under the blankets. The mattress creaked. His muscles tightened and shook as he arched his back and yawned. The little nub of his tongue flattened against the bottom of his mouth.
Morning, he mouthed, smacking his lips.
Morning, she mouthed back, rubbing at her eyes. Everything came back to her in a rush: her impending trial, the fact that she might very well be tossed into slavery in a few hours, her ex-lover’s new girlfriend—Katia, the young, pretty, pleasant blonde.
Out of habit, Lila snapped up her palm on the bedside table.
No messages blinked back at her.
As chief of her family’s compounds and an heir, she’d always had dozens of messages waiting for her attention when she woke, penned by her militia subordinates or her spies. She had pressing matters to attend to the very second she rolled out of bed. But she no longer controlled her militia, and her spies had stopped contacting her when she could no longer pay their salaries. The chairwomen and primes on the High Council of Judges had also stopped messaging her, just like the senators of Bullstow. Back at the cottage, it had felt like a vacation. Now that she’d returned to New Bristol, it made her feel…
Lonely.
The feeling had grown since the day before.
Dixon lurched beside her. Papers rustled, and she heard the scratching of a pencil. He nudged her shoulder and held up his notepad.
Nervous? he’d scrawled.
“Yes.” Lila was glad she hadn’t succumbed to tears the night before. It wouldn’t do any good to show up before the disciplinary committee with swollen eyes, looking like an upset child who had dropped her ice cream on the street.
I’m coming with you.
Lila’s eyes bugged out. “You can’t come. If anyone sees your neck, they’ll—”
I’m a grown-ass man who can do what he pleases, and you’re one of my best friends. I’ll do what I want.
Lila reread the word best, not wanting to argue, knowing it made her selfish not to try. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to Dixon, but his was the only smiling face she’d seen in nearly a month.
Besides, it had been a while since she’d had a best friend.
Gods, she hoped he wasn’t just saying it to make her feel better on her last day of freedom. Perhaps he was lying; perhaps he just wanted something from her, just like the oracle. She needed to stop trusting her instincts.
She sat up and settled her feet on the cold wooden floor. “I don’t think you should go, Dixon. It might be dangerous. The Holguín family might come to gloat.”
The Holguíns don’t want to remind the protestors that they exist. The workborn might burn down another property. Trust me. The Holguíns will stay far away from Bullstow.
Lila slipped out of bed at last, wincing at her wrinkled t-shirt and trousers. She’d gotten a bit sweaty under so many layers, pressed against Dixon’s volcanic heat. But it was a nice change from the frigid cabin she’d stayed in for nearly a month.
Dixon hadn’t seemed to mind.
Rummaging through her bag, she picked out some clothes and toiletries and headed for the shower. For a moment, she was reminded of her vacation, those two brief weeks she’d spent in the apartment before her mother had decreed she was to become prime. She’d spent her days combing over data, trying to find La Roux, not that she’d even known who the Baron was at that point. At night, she’d climbed happily into bed with Tristan. In the mornings, she’d padded into the bathroom, snatching up her shampoo bottle that lived beside Tristan’s.
Now a new shampoo bottle lived in its place. A different brand for a different woman. A younger woman. One who probably didn’t challenge him so often, one who likely didn’t argue so much, one who could take him home to meet her mother.
Lila took off her clothes in the cold room, stepping past the chipped counter and the cracked sink. After a quick shower, she donned black trousers and a cream-colored top. Even if she wanted to wear the crimson colors of the Randolphs, she couldn’t. She hadn’t brought any of her old clothes with her when she moved out of the family compound.
Leaving her hair to air dry, she returned her things to her bag and ventured out of the bathroom. Dixon stood at the stove, spatula scraping against metal as he stirred something vaguely yellow and red. A cutting board filled with tomato ends, green onion tips, and cracked eggshells littered its surface.
The scrambled eggs might not have looked as pretty as Chef’s, but they certainly smelled delicious. She sat on the barstool while Dixon pulled the pan from the stovetop and spooned two portions onto waiting plates. The toaster clicked, ejecting a few pieces of toast. He added them to the mix, taking out a pad of butter from the refrigerator.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
Dixon waggled his eyebrows and sat beside her at the counter.
Lila’s legs swung back and forth as they ate. She stole several long looks at the closed door to Tristan’s room. He hadn’t even bothered to come out and see her off.
Her hunger waned.
Before Lila could finish her breakfast, Dixon ate his last bite, set his plate in the sink, and strode to the bathroom. Water rushed through the pipes as he showered. Moments after the water stopped, a razor smacked against the edge of the sink. When the door opened again, the smell of aftershave filled the room.
Dixon was strangely absent, though. A wizard had transformed him into someone new. He’d put color aside for once, donning black trousers and a gray sweater. A light black scarf hung around his neck. He’d traded his dark red boots for black ones. Only his green shamrock bracelet revealed his character, but even that disappeared as he tucked it into the pocket of his workborn clothes.
It felt as if Dixon had lost something.
He approached the counter and shoved her plate closer, motioning for her to eat a few more bites.
“I can’t. It’s very good, but I…”
Dixon patted her cheek. He picked up her plate, covered it with plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator. While the pair cleaned the kitchen, Lila cast her eyes toward Tristan’s door, giving it longer and longer looks, wondering if Tristan would come out at all.
Dixon caught her at it, and she looked away. “I suppose he’s very tired.”
Dixon stared as well. Brow furrowed, he stalked toward the door, shaking off Lila’s halfhearted attempt to hold him back. She swallowed hard as he opened it, not sure whether to be happy or frustrated or nervous.
But Dixon didn’t move. He just scratched his head.
Not able to bear it, Lila trudged to his side and peeked over his shoulder.
Tristan hadn’t even come home.
It really was over between them. Their relationship, their friendship, everything. She might be sentenced to death in a few hours, and he couldn’t be bothered to see her off, much less offer a few words of encouragement.
So much for love.
Lila donned her mesh hood before Dixon could turn back around. She threw on her gray leather coat, snatched up her bag of clothes, and jutted her chin toward the still-running computer. “Don’t forget to check when you get back. It won’t be finished, but you keep your eye on it. Once it’s done, take it to the oracle. She and Connell can go through the photos. I suspect that what’s in those files will give you all some answers.”
Us. It will give us answers. He scrawled the words over an entire page, then smacked her in the shoulder with the notepad. Shoving it into his pocket, he offered her a smile she couldn’t return.
The pair jogged downstairs into the empty garage. Shirley hadn’t emerged for her cup of coffee yet, nor had her assistants turned up to start the day. Dixon unhooked a set of keys from a peg
near the woman’s workbench, the metal rattling as he hopped into a Cruz truck. The lock popped dully, and Lila climbed inside.
She slipped off her hood a block away from the shop.
They drove to Bullstow in silence. Dixon couldn’t write while he drove, and Lila couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. Her throat had been glued shut, and her fists tightened like a newborn babe’s.
She shook them out, unwilling to wallow or give in to nerves. Snatching up her brush, she swept her hair into a bun and fixed it with a few pins. Her back popped as she craned her neck and slipped the brush back into her bag.
She wouldn’t need it or its contents in a few hours.
Where would her property go? Would it be turned over to her matron? Would Beatrice Randolph even accept her daughter’s things?
Lila knew one thing her mother would accept. She’d take the bag filled with hard drives and gadgets, the one sitting in Dixon’s room for safekeeping. If she could find someone to crack the encryption, she’d find a way to make money off her daughter’s programs.
The truck rounded the corner onto Leclerc Street. A crowd of protestors marched before Bullstow’s gate, their signs held high above their heads, already chanting at half past eight in the morning. They’d likely been shouting for weeks, and their throats held the proof of it. No More Highborn Games had been written on several signs, as well as Mother Justice Mocks the Workborn on others. Some Lila couldn’t read because the bearers kept thrusting them up and down too quickly in time with their shouts.
Their worn, drab clothes marked them as poor workborn. They peered into the Cruz truck as Dixon pulled past, checking for the same. Those eyes softened at the lack of color inside, and they quickly grew bored and shuffled back to the gate. Signs bounced into the air once more, and the group continued their chants, no doubt expecting Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph to show up in a flash of crimson and an Adessi roadster, flanked by a dozen blackcoats in oversized trucks.
The protesters weren’t the only ones who had gathered and expected such finery. Photographers and bored paparazzi leaned upon their vehicles nearby, cameras and telephoto lenses resting on the hoods, breakfast tacos in hand. They munched, expelling clouds of fog between slurps of coffee and tea. Though the press knew it was illegal to run a picture of her—for she had never officially taken up her position as an heir and had not yet been found guilty of any crime—nothing stopped them from taking a few pictures and setting them aside for later.