Release

by A. M. Sexton

Seeing the direction of my gaze, Jenko said, “They’ll all be trying to get out that way. The ones with yachts, anyway.”

  I nodded. Yes, but even if they managed to get through one of the two gates, the tattoos on their faces would mean their death.

  “This way.” Jenko led us across the street and north, away from the temple to a row of low, squat buildings built against the base of the wall. He stopped at the sixth door, pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

  “What is this place?” I asked as he led us inside.

  “Technically, it’s my house, although he only granted it to me as part of his cover.” He closed the door behind us. On this side, there were nearly as many deadbolts as on the alley door of the temple, and he quickly slid them all home before leading us deeper into the small house, leaving all the lights off as we went.

  We entered a small bedroom. He opened a narrow door at the back of the room and began tossing things out of the way. “He’s had a way out planned for years,” he said as he tossed shoes and clothes aside. “He never trusted the Council.”

  It struck me how much of Donato’s personal business this man knew. He knew about me and about Ayo. He knew Donato’s escape plan. He undoubtedly knew about the slave trade. It sent a chill up my spine. I was putting my life in his hands, but I knew nothing about him.

  Once the floor inside was clear, he pulled the carpet up to reveal a trapdoor set into the floor. He stood aside to motion us through. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  I went down the rough, dirt steps with Ayo still holding my hand. Jenko came last, closing the trapdoor behind us. A second after it banged shut, a lantern flared to life in Jenko’s hand, blindingly bright after so much darkness. He motioned us down the tunnel. Keep going.

  The tunnel was tight, brushing my head as I walked. There was only enough room to walk single file, and both of my elbows bumped the wall if I wasn’t careful. Having the light on didn’t help. If anything, it only accentuated how little room we had. And it seemed to go on forever. I knew we were going under the wall, but it felt as if we must have gone miles into the lower city already. Panic threatened to bloom in my chest. I had to fight to keep my breathing steady.

  But finally, the end of the tunnel loomed up out of the darkness: a rough, dirt wall, and a simple wooden ladder. I wanted to let Jenko move into the lead, but there was no room for us to shift positions. I climbed the ladder, but looked down for guidance before pushing up on the trap door above me.

  “Should I be worried about what’s on the other side?”

  Jenko shook his head. “I expect it to be deserted.”

  I pushed. Nothing happened at first, so I stepped higher on the ladder, hunching my shoulder underneath the door, and used my legs as leverage to push up. Wood scraped wood as whatever was sitting on the door slid aside, and then we were stepping up into a dark, smelly kitchen.

  Actually, “smelly” didn’t begin to describe it.

  I covered my face with my hand instinctively as I moved aside to allow Ayo to come up behind me. The room was dark, but enough light fell through the windows to show me a countertop strewn with dirty dishes. Flies buzzed around them. Jenko lowered the wick of the lantern and set it aside. “This was Elias’ house,” he said with obvious distaste.

  “Was?”

  “He’d dead,” he said flatly. “The Council assumed it was him who leaked the info about the prisoners.”

  I winced. I had no reason to like Elias, but this placed his death squarely upon my shoulders. “It wasn’t him.”

  “I figured as much.” But there was no judgment in his voice. Working for Donato had obviously taught him to hide his feelings well. Or it had taught him that morals were for the weak.

  I turned to look at Ayo. It was too dark for me to read his expression, but when he saw me looking, he reached out to take my hand. In his other, he clutched his small bag. Four years, and yet it seemed the bulk of his possessions could fit inside a pillowcase.

  At least he has that much, I thought. My own belongings were back at Talia’s. They were probably lost to me forever. At least I’d thought to bring my money.

  And at least I had him. At least his death wasn’t on my conscience, too.

  Elias’ front door brought us within a block of the locked gate of the upper harbor. Even here, away from the battle, the noise was deafening. The few people we saw were rushing to the south, probably toward either the temple or the gate. Behind us, I could hear the battle raging within the walls of the upper city. The mob yelling, scared women screaming, crashes that could have been anything, and, beneath it all, a dull roar which I couldn’t identify at first. I turned to look, and what I saw took my breath away.

  The upper city was in flames. They danced over the white wall, painting the western sky red. They hadn’t spread everywhere yet. They seemed to be concentrated closer to the wall. The upper peak of the hill was still dark. But it was only a matter of time.

  I thought of La Fontaine. I thought of the upside down sky.

  I thought of Donato.

  But there was no time for grief. Or relief.

  The flames wouldn’t be contained. At some point, they’d cross the wall. Whether through a breached gate, or spread by wind to the thatched roofs of the third and fourth quadrant, the fire would have its way with the city.

  We ran up the street, although we were moving against the crowd. It didn’t matter. Without tattoos on our faces, they had no reason to stop us. We made it to the gate, and Jenko fumbled for his keys.

  “Can you get us through?” a voice asked from the shadows.

  Jenko turned quickly, flicking on his lantern in order to see. There, at the side of the gate, huddled behind the bushes, was a woman. She bore the tattoos of aristocracy on her right cheek. They glistened beneath the sheen of her tears. Behind her were two children. Neither could have been more than six or seven years old.

  “We made it out, but I can’t get through. The harbormaster isn’t here.”

  “He’s dead,” Jenko said.

  “Oh.” She took a step towards us. “But you have a key? Will you let us through?” She took another step toward us, but then she got a better look, and stopped cold. It confused me for a moment, but then I understood. Tonight, anybody without the blue tattoos was her enemy. Her fingers went to her trembling lips. She backed up, toward her children, obviously ready to grab them and bolt.

  “We’ll let you through,” I said.

  Jenko had already turned back to the gate, and a moment later, we were stumbling through, rushing down the ramp. The woman came behind us, sobbing quietly. At the end of the first ramp, she went left. We continued onward to the Miredhel.

  Jenko went first, quickly up the ladder. He was already climbing to the driver’s loft by the time Ayo stepped onto the ladder. He went slowly, and I waited until he was on board before starting up after him. The boat rocked as I climbed the ladder. I remembered Donato’s hand on my back as he’d said, “Don’t be frightened, pet. One foot at a time.” I swallowed the lump that threatened to form in my throat.

  Later. I could think about Donato later.

  The engine roared to life, and we moved toward the open sea. Behind us, the flames moved up the hill. They also moved down, past the white wall, into the lower city. The noise and the heat and the bright, angry light seemed to scald my skin and my lungs. Davlova was burning, exactly as Lalo had dreamed. The fire would tear through the trenches. It wouldn’t care who was pureborn, or who was pure of heart. It would destroy everything. How many would die tonight because of me?

  I wondered if Lalo was safe. I thought of Frey and Anzhéla and Lorenzo. Had they made it out?

  How many of my friends still lived?

  I had no way of knowing.

  And the flames showed no signs of abating. As we moved farther into the open sea, the magnitude of the destruction became clear. The city was a horrifying beacon against the black horizon. The sea reflected its fury. I looked up, hoping to fin
d solace in the sky, but there were no stars in sight.

  Maybe Donato had taken them with him.

  I bit back a sob. A soft touch on my arm brought me back to the boat. It was Ayo. He was shaking visibly, trying to hold himself together, watching me with his strange eyes.

  “Where is he?” he whispered. “Misha, tell me. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. Nearly choked on the words. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh,” he said, his voice so small, so tiny and weak, that I couldn’t tell if he was in shock, or if he was relieved, or if he cared at all.

  But then he moved into my arms. He buried his face in my chest. We held each other tight.

  And we cried.

  I couldn’t be sure what was behind his tears. Confusion, maybe? Or relief? But mine were born of grief. The man I loved was dead, by my own hand. The only home I’d ever known was burning because of me. So much death and terror and pain. So much destruction.

  And yet here, trembling in my arms, was proof that it hadn’t been in vain.

  I buried my face in Ayo’s soft curls. I held him as our tears finally ran dry. Whatever had caused them didn’t matter. The only thing that counted was what we’d both gained:

  Release.

  About the Author

  A.M. Sexton (who also writes gay romance as Marie Sexton) is a typical soccer mom. She has a fondness for wine and cheese, an addiction to coffee, and occasionally bleeds orange and blue. She lives in Colorado with her husband, their daughter, her dog, and one very stupid cat.

  Website/Blog:

  http://mariesexton.net/

  Facebook:

  http://www.facebook.com/MarieSexton.author/

  Twitter:

  http://twitter.com/MarieSexton/

  Email:

  msexton.author@gmail.com

  If you enjoyed Release, you might also enjoy

  Song of Oestend

  by Marie Sexton

  Turn the page for a free preview.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Aren had heard of the wraiths, of course. Everyone had.

  The thing was, nobody believed the stories were real. Not where he came from, anyway.

  But on his first night in the town of Milton, as the wind howled outside and beat against the shuttered windows of his room, Aren Montrell lay awake and trembling in his bed. He began to remember every story he’d ever heard about the wraiths.

  Every nanny—and probably every parent, too, although Aren wouldn’t know about that—told stories of children found cold and lifeless in the morning because some spiteful adult had left the window open after tucking the kids into bed. It was said that wraiths came on the darkest of nights, stealing the breath from any person fool enough not to be inside, behind closed doors. Even back home, across the sea, in the bustling cities of Lanstead, many houses had signs of protection over their front doors. Still, Aren had never had reason to believe the stories were true. He’d always believed the signs were more decorative than anything. But he’d quickly discovered upon his arrival in Oestend that every building had the signs, not just over the front door, but over every door, and the windows as well. Even the barn where weary travellers boarded their horses had been warded against the wraiths.

  He’d seen the way the hostel-keeper and his wife had systematically checked each and every window in each and every room. He’d made note of the double bars on both the front and back doors. Then, as he was finishing his dinner, the wife had stopped next to him. Her hand on his shoulder was rough and callused and her face was grim. “Don’t open your window once the generator goes on,” she’d said. “I don’t care how hot you get.”

  Aren wasn’t even sure what she meant by the word ‘generator’, but she’d moved on then, before Aren could ask questions. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin when the generator had kicked on a few minutes later—not that he would have known that was what it was if the woman hadn’t warned him. It made a nagging, low-pitched drone that Aren didn’t so much hear as feel, low in the base of his skull. He found it nerve-racking, but it was obvious the locals were used to it. He’d gone to his room feeling less than confident.

  Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here, to the pitiful, dusty edge of the world. But after the incident at the university, running to Oestend had seemed so logical. So obvious. A suddenly sympathetic Professor Sheldon had helped Aren secure a job at one of the large ranches on the Oestend prairie. At the time, Aren had thought Sheldon had done it out of pity. Now, as he faced the realisation that this was a life he did not know how to live, Aren began to also realise he’d been duped. No doubt Sheldon and Professor Dean Birmingham, the man Aren had thought of as his lover for the past four years, were laughing together over their brandy, pleased they’d manage to rid themselves of him.

  “Fuck you,” Aren said. His voice was loud in the small room. He sounded strong, and it gave him courage. “Fuck you!” he said again, louder this time, feeling more sure of himself. “I’m not scared.”

  He jumped as somebody pounded on the wall of his room. Not one of the wraiths that may or may not have been outside in the wind. It came from the room next to Aren’s. “People trying to sleep in here!” the man on the other side of the wall yelled.

  Aren couldn’t believe anybody could sleep through the buzz of the generator and the racket of the wind and yet be kept awake by somebody talking, but he didn’t want to cause trouble, so he resolved to stop cussing at people who were halfway across the world. Still, his outburst had given him the strength he needed to examine his situation rationally.

  There was no point in being scared. If there really were wraiths in Oestend, it was obvious the locals knew how to handle them. The man who’d hired him had directed him to this particular hostel for the night. Presumably he wouldn’t have sent Aren to a place that was known for allowing its tenants to be killed in their sleep. Although the shutters on windows rattled, they seemed solid enough, and Aren would have bet his last coin there was a warding sign over the window as well. He had to trust those things would be enough to keep him safe.

  He pulled the blanket over his head and snuggled down under the covers. At least the bed was soft and the sheets were clean. Tomorrow, a man from the ranch would arrive to take him to his new home. Whatever this backwater land wanted to throw at him, Aren was sure he was ready.

  ***

  He was right on most counts. He was ready for the dust. He was ready for the wind. He was ready for the two-day trip to the ranch.

  What he wasn’t ready for was Deacon.

  Deacon was the man who arrived to take Aren to the BarChi Ranch. Deacon had come into town the night before, but had apparently elected to spend the night elsewhere—in the stables or at the whorehouse or at another inn, Aren didn’t know, and didn’t care. Deacon arrived at the hostel the next morning driving a wooden wagon drawn by a pair of sturdy draught horses.

  The first thing Aren noticed about him was the deep colour of his skin. Back on the continent, skin-tones ran from white to pink to golden, but one rarely saw anybody darker than the sun could make them. Deacon, on the other hand, had skin that was a rich, dark reddish-brown. He wore a straw cowboy hat, and his pitch-black hair hung in a queue down his back. Aren supposed him to be around thirty years old. He was tall and broad and muscular and rough and everything Aren might have expected from a man who’d spent his entire life doing hard labour on a remote Oestend ranch. He was exactly the kind of man who usually managed to make Aren feel small and insignificant simply by being there. He looked at Aren’s pile of luggage with barely disguised amusement.

  “You got an awful lot of stuff,” he said, turning his mocking gaze onto Aren. “What’s in all those?”

  Deacon’s scrutiny made him uncomfortable. Aren tried to smooth his light brown hair down—it had grown out longer than he’d ever had it, which was still short by Oestend standards. It was too short to pull into a queue like Deacon’s, and though Aren tried to keep it straight, it seemed
determined to form soft curls around his ears. He had a hard enough time getting men to take him seriously because of his small stature. Having hair that curled like a girl’s wasn’t going to help.

  “Well?” Deacon asked, still waiting for an answer. “What’s in the bags?”

  Aren forced himself to stop fidgeting, although he couldn’t quite meet Deacon’s eyes. “My clothes. Books. Art supplies.”

  “Art supplies?” Deacon asked, as if the words held no meaning for him.

  “Yes,” Aren said, and for some reason, Deacon’s absurd question gave him the strength he needed to stand up straight and face the rough cowboy in front of him. “Canvas and paint.”

  Deacon’s eyebrows went up, and although he didn’t laugh, it was clear he wanted to. “Good thing. Barn’s needed a new coat of paint for a while now.”

  Aren felt his cheeks turning red, and he hid it by turning to pick up the nearest suitcase. It had seemed perfectly reasonable to bring his art supplies with him, especially since he feared both paint and canvas might be hard to come by on the ranch. It bothered him that Deacon had managed to make him feel foolish for it. The fact that he’d done it within moments of meeting him only made it sting more.

  One by one, he loaded his many suitcases into the wagon. He could feel Deacon’s gaze upon him the entire time. He moved quickly because he knew they had other things to do in town before they left. When his last bag was in the wagon, he turned to face Deacon again, ready for the mockery he’d seen in Deacon’s eyes before. He was surprised to see Deacon was no longer laughing at him. He was watching him appraisingly, and Aren thought he even saw a hint of approval in his dark eyes.

  “Would have done that for you, you know,” he said.

  Then why didn’t you? Of course, if he’d wanted help, he could have asked, but this was obviously a world where physical strength earned more respect than education or refinement. Aren hated to give other men a reason to think he was weak. Just because he wasn’t made of muscle like Deacon didn’t mean he couldn’t handle his own luggage. A familiar feeling of angry rebellion bloomed in Aren’s chest. “I’m not helpless,” he snapped.