Hath No Fury

by Melanie R. Meadors

  She glanced back at the unconscious, naked man. Sleeping with him had been a distasteful means to an end, but she had done far worse things to achieve her goals. After the first rough encounter that took her innocence, Kestel learned to step away inside her mind to a safe distance as her body went through the motions. She had better things to think about, like vengeance.

  Kestel stopped to glance in the large mirror that hung on the wall across from the bed. Leon Hastings liked to watch his conquests, voyeur and victimizer wrapped up in one. Kestel moved so that she blocked the sight of him with her body and ran a hand through her dark red hair, assuring the curls fell just so. She bit her bottom lip, making it plump and reddened, then smoothed her hands over the satin that clung to her curves. If she encountered anyone in the hallway, they would see nothing but a courtesan, just another of the elder Hastings’s conquests. Men would pay no attention to anything except the rise of her breasts and the slant of her hips, and women would not bother to give her a second glance, merely happy that Hastings found an outlet for his debauchery that did not include them. They would all see what they wanted to see, and Kestel herself—the woman who was more than the sum of her beauty and body—would be invisible, as she liked it.

  Moving silently, Kestel slipped out of the bedroom. Getting inside the manor house had been the whole purpose of the tryst. She found Hastings no more repulsive than any of her other clients, bored and lecherous rich men who needed to prove to themselves that their youth had not fled. Yet Hastings offered Kestel something far more valuable than the diamond trinket she would break apart and sell for weapons, potions, and spells. He was one of the final pieces in a puzzle Kestel had been working on for nearly a decade, and now that he had granted her safe passage inside the house, Kestel intended to put the opportunity to good use.

  The old lech had been more helpful than he knew, vainly showing off his manor as he attempted to impress the courtesan whose affections he had pursued for months. Fate had given Kestel a beautiful face, a sumptuous body, and a mind as sharp as the blade hidden beneath her robe. She’d taken those assets and clawed her way into the Donderath court as the most sought-after courtesan in the kingdom, and she included King Merrill himself among her many lovers. The secrets she’d learned she parlayed into influence or on occasion sold as a spy. One rich man’s bed at a time, she gained the information to exact her revenge.

  Plied by brandy and Kestel’s flattery, Duke Hastings had regaled her with stories of his ancestors’ glorious exploits, as well as his own long-faded military honors. Her rapt attention and a hand on his arm had been all it took to loosen the duke’s tongue, making it easy for her to turn the conversation to his son, Damian.

  Kestel’s lip curled as she remembered the duke’s obvious pride as he spoke about Damian. She’d hung on the duke’s every word as he spilled the details she had gone to his bed to discover. He’d even pointed out the door that led to Damian’s chambers, though he was quick to add that his son was in Castle Reach right now, possibly at Quillarth Castle, busy with important tasks. Papa’s pride and joy.

  Now Kestel found her way back to Damian’s rooms without incident and easily picked the lock. She let herself inside, closed the door behind her, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Here in his private rooms, she could pick up his scent, a mixture of sweat, cloves, and brandy. It sickened her. She found a lantern, lit it, and shuttered all but one pane to allow her to see without attracting attention.

  An oil portrait hung over the mantel, and Kestel stopped to get a better look at her quarry. Damian Hastings was now a man in his forties, but the portrait showed him much younger, just in his early twenties. That’s what he looked like, when it happened.

  The figure in the portrait looked down on the room with patrician entitlement, a scion of wealth and privilege. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, wheat-blond hair, and grey, cold eyes made him handsome, but no compassion tempered his demeanor. Age and dissolution made it difficult to see the resemblance to his father. The older man’s profile was lost in jowls and bags beneath his eyes from overindulgence, and the last time Kestel had spotted Damian, he looked well on his way to the same fate.

  Not that he’ll live that long.

  She tore herself away from the portrait and moved farther into the room, seeking the objects she needed. A comb on Damian’s dressing table provided a few strands of hair, which she tucked into a silk pouch. She cut a small corner from the hem of a well-worn shirt, and plucked a few bristles from his shaving brush. Together with his father’s blood, these items from the son would be all she needed to draw the younger Hastings to his death. Kestel smiled, the first time she felt truly happy in a long time. Soon, very soon, she would have what she’d desired for so long.

  Kestel blew out the lantern, replaced it where she found it, and let herself out of Damian’s room. As she rounded the corner into the next hallway, a servant looked up, startled to encounter anyone at this time of night.

  “Can I be of service?” he asked. Kestel noticed that the customary honorific “M’lady” would not be forthcoming for a paid companion of the lord, not even from one of the servants. Kestel ignored the slight, smiling in the secret knowledge of what was to come.

  “I didn’t want to wake Lord Hastings,” she replied, making damn sure her tone reminded the servant that paid or not, she had the ear of his master and shared his bed. “I can’t fall asleep. I’d like a brandy.”

  If the servant thought to question, he thought better of it. She did not have to answer to him.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Shall I bring it to m’lord’s rooms?”

  Kestel nodded. “I’ll wait just inside the door. Knock softly. He’s sleeping well, and I don’t want to disturb him.” If the witch who sold her the potion told the truth, Hastings would sleep through cannon fire for a few more candlemarks, but the lie made a convenient excuse.

  “As you wish.”

  Kestel watched the servant disappear, then made her way back to Hasting’s rooms. She replaced her knife in its sheath and hid the silken pouch in the hidden pocket of her skirt, patting it once in satisfaction. So close. After all this time, so close.

  When a soft rap came at the door, Kestel was waiting. “Do you require anything else?” the servant asked, extending a silver tray holding a goblet of brandy.

  Kestel took the goblet with an enigmatic smile. “No. I have everything I need.”

  “ARE YOU CERTAIN THIS WILL work?” Kestel eyed the witch appraisingly. For her part, the witch had the good sense to flinch.

  “Yes, m’lady. I’ve warded the room he always takes at the Rooster and Pig when he comes into Castle Reach to drink and gamble.” Surana held up a hand to forestall argument. “No one saw me. I know what I’m doing,” she added with a dour look.

  “Once he’s within the warding, the spell will activate on his blood,” Surana went on. “It won’t trigger to anyone else. You’ll be able to enter the room, but he won’t be able to leave. No one will hear what goes on inside until his death breaks the spell.”

  A slow smile touched Kestel’s lips. “You do good work.”

  “And you keep me alive to do more of it,” the witch replied. “We work well together.”

  With any other witch—and Castle Reach had many—the chance of betrayal would have forced Kestel to cover her tracks. She and Surana had history, old bonds that traced from when neither of them yet wielded the influence they had today. Two young girls, hungry and alone, trying to keep body and soul together in the city’s rough neighborhoods. Their shared sins long ago became too numerous and too entangled for either to attempt to leverage that knowledge against the other. And in the years that passed, both Kestel and Surana had gained the skills and hard edge that enabled them to use the talents they possessed to make their mark in the world.

  “You’re certain he’s the one?” The tone in Surana’s voice made it clear that she understood the gravity of the situation.

  Kestel nodded. “H
e has the mark. It’s him.”

  Surana withdrew a cloth-wrapped parcel from her bag. She handed the item to Kestel balanced across her palms. “I bathed the blade in spelled water that held the items you brought me,” she said as Kestel took the parcel from her and reverently peeled back the coverings to expose the spelled knife. “Don’t make a habit of this: dark magic like this is going to take me a while to recover from.”

  Kestel’s brow quirked up and she looked at Surana, worried. Surana shook her head. “You’ve been after this son of a bitch for a long time. It was worth it. My gift to you—like I promised all those years ago.”

  I’d give you his head on a pike, if I could, Surana had said. A pledge of undying friendship from one young girl to another, on a night they’d huddled in a cold deserted building too hungry to move and too frightened to venture out.

  I’ll slit her throat for you, someday, Kestel had returned. Kestel had already made good on her part of the bargain, long ago. Ridding the world of Surana’s drunken, abusive mother had been Kestel’s first kill.

  Surana’s sad smile suggested that she knew the turn Kestel’s thoughts had taken. “Worth it,” she said. “Just make it count.” A cold glint came into her eyes. “And enjoy it.”

  Kestel embraced Surana and watched her friend walk away. The further she was from the Rooster and Pig tonight, the better. Kestel had every intention of surviving the night’s work, but had no illusions about the likelihood of the events transpiring without a hitch. Killing a nobleman’s son would earn her the noose if she were caught. Then I just better not get caught.

  Kestel paid her informants well for their tips and their silence. She’d gained a dangerous reputation even in the city’s roughest sections. Damian Hastings was a slave to his habits, and tonight he would come into the city to oversee his father’s business dealings during the day, then bet and drink all night. Kestel would be waiting.

  She paced the small room. Engraham, the owner of the Rooster and Pig, kept a large room for regular lodgers, and a few other discreet rooms for the wastrel nobles who came to gamble in the hidden room beneath the tavern where fortunes were gained and lost. Most people knew the Rooster and Pig for its excellent bitterbeer, but in the upper circles of society, the tavern was most popular for its illicit games of chance and clap-free whores. Damian Hastings was an ardent patron, though luck was against him as often as not.

  Tonight, though he did not know it yet, Hastings’s luck had turned.

  Kestel’s heartbeat quickened as she thought about what she was planning to do. So many years, leading up to this. And if I succeed, when it’s done and he’s dead, what then? What purpose do I have, once vengeance is satisfied?

  She had no answer for that question. Serving as a courtesan to the rich and powerful meant she no longer went hungry or cold. Her patrons kept her comfortably ensconced in a private apartment not far from Quillarth Castle, and their money assured she dressed and ate every bit as well as her noble clientele. The trifles and gifts they bestowed paid for protection, or were carefully hidden away should emergency strike. Being a wealthy man’s companion paid well, a means to an end. Kestel regretted nothing.

  When Damian entered the room and closed the door behind him, Kestel was waiting, just outside the reach of the lantern’s light.

  “Who’s there? Show yourself!” Damian remained sober enough to realize another presence in the room could mean nothing good. But when he turned to open the door, the knob remained stubbornly immobile.

  “You can’t leave,” Kestel said, sashaying out of the shadows.

  Damian began to pound on the door, shouting for assistance.

  “They can’t hear you.” She waited for him to spend himself, crying out until his voice grew rough, slamming his fist against the door.

  When Damian turned to face her, his rum-bleary eyes held fear and uncertainty. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “Show me your wrist,” she demanded, letting her knife glint in the lamplight.

  Damian raised his arm and turned it so that the falcon tattoo showed clearly. “My father’s a duke. You can rob me, but you’ll pay for it.” He gathered his wits and drew himself up, as if reminding himself not to show weakness to an inferior. Drink gave him courage; privilege made him belligerent.

  “I’m here to kill you,” Kestel replied. Now that the moment she’d been waiting for was finally here, Kestel felt nothing. No elation, no sense of triumph, just a deep, aching cold.

  “I’m worth more alive,” Damian countered. “My father would pay a ransom.”

  “You’re worth more to me dead.” Kestel stopped beyond Hastings’s reach, knowing that even weak animals became dangerous when cornered. “Don’t you want to know why?”

  Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Did I bed you and then move on?” His expression grew patronizing. “Darlin’, I’m sorry if you expected more, but you really should have known better.”

  Once, his comments would have made fire surge through Kestel’s blood. Now, all that remained was ice. “Fifteen years ago. You raped a woman in the alley behind this tavern, a serving girl. Bring anything to mind?”

  Damian licked his lips nervously. “Not really. There’ve been so many—”

  “She bit you, and cut you with a piece of glass.”

  A nasty glint came into Damian’s eyes. “That little wildcat? Oh yes, I remember her. Left me with a scar,” he said, moving his right wrist to reveal the faint remainder of a bite mark. “Taught her a lesson real good.” He looked Kestel over, his expression torn between appraisal and a leer. “Was she your mama? You look like her. Bet you’re a wildcat, too.”

  “She didn’t want your attention. She wasn’t yours to take. And she never recovered from the beating you gave her.”

  Damian shrugged. “She was no one of consequence. Just another slattern. Like mother, like daughter.”

  Kestel knew Damian intended to bait her into making a rash move. He outweighed her, and his fondness for rough company had no doubt taught him how to fight dirty. Kestel smiled, confident in Surana’s magic.

  “She was of consequence to me.” Kestel lunged forward, slicing down across Damian’s chest with the spelled knife, scoring a cut deep enough to slash through his clothing and open a bloody furrow across his ribs.

  “You bloody whore!” Damian roared and started toward her, only to freeze, eyes widening and hands clutching his chest.

  “Do you feel it?” Kestel stepped back, well out of his reach, as Damian fell to his knees. His breath hitched and his face paled as the magic coursed through his veins.

  “What did you do to me?”

  “I wanted you to feel what my mother felt that night.” Kestel’s calm, quiet voice held the promise of violence. “Fear. Helplessness. Impotent rage.”

  Damian’s body shook as the spell’s grip tightened. His breaths came in short, hard pants, and sweat glistened on his forehead.

  “You choked her. Held her down and kept your hand on her throat while you forced her. Hit her when she fought you. Cut her. Took what you wanted and strangled her with your own hands, then pulled up your pants and walked away like you’d just taken a piss. I saw you. I saw it all, but I was too young to do anything about it—then.”

  “You filthy bitch, I’ll kill you for this!”

  “No, you won’t. The spell is fatal. No one can hear us, no one will come to help. Just like no one came to help my mother.” Watching Damian suffer fulfilled a long-held goal, but Kestel knew it could never restore what had been taken that night.

  “You’re going to kill me over a serving wench?” The incredulity in Damian’s eyes might have been laughable if the reasoning behind it had not cut so deeply.

  “No, I’m putting down a rabid dog who killed the most important person in my world.”

  The tremors that shook Damian’s body grew more violent as the poison progressed. Blood leaked sluggishly from the chest wound, staining his silk shirt and dripping down onto the floor. His skin was flu
shed and clammy, and the faint blue tinge to his lips told Kestel vengeance would not be far off.

  “We could have struck a bargain. I could have made you rich.”

  “I didn’t want a bargain. Or your money. I saw you kill her. And all I’ve ever wanted since that night is to see you dead by my hand.”

  Damian fell forward onto his hands and knees, retching up bile. He fell face down into his vomit, eyes rolling back as the tremors grew worse until convulsions racked his body, arching his back and drawing the muscles of his face into a rictus grin.

  Kestel watched, disappointed at the cold emptiness of her victory. She harbored no illusions that her mother would be proud, either of the murder or of who and what Kestel had become to achieve her goal. But as she watched Damian struggle for his last breaths, saw the fear in his eyes as the light in them faded, the small girl who watched her mother’s death from the shadows of a stinking alley finally stopped being afraid. Kestel wrapped her arms around herself, reassuring what remained of that young child, promising that she would keep her safe forever. Vengeance wouldn’t bring her mother back, but it did mean one fewer monster lived to repeat the crime.

  When she was certain Damian was dead, Kestel wiped her knife on his pants and sheathed the blade. She broke the warding and slipped out the back door into the night, shaking off the feeling she was being watched.

  KESTEL PACED IN HER APARTMENT, restless and on edge. Killing Damian marked the pinnacle of her life’s work, the realization of the dream that had spurred her on night after cold and terrifying night. Wanting him dead, needing revenge, had given her life purpose, and absolved her in her mind’s eye of the sacrifices and sins necessary to achieve her goal.