Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  Teia glanced at the floor. “I’ve defended him long enough.”

  It was the same tone she’d used last night when she asked if he kept lyrium in his case. “There are things that don’t add up—beyond the lyrium,” he said.

  “You mean how he didn’t look half dead today?”

  “That, and that there was something going on between him, Lera, and Giuli. The way they were acting … Is he, I mean, was he…” Viago cleared the embarrassment from his throat. “Was he the faithful sort?”

  “The faithful sort?” Teia stalked toward him, a mischievous grin on her face.

  “You know when you were…”

  “When we were…?”

  Viago frowned. She’s going to make me say it.

  “You two have a history.”

  Teia continued her advance. “I have history with a lot of people.”

  “I’m well aware.” The words came out harsher than he intended.

  Teia’s brows rose. “Does that bother you?”

  It was a leading question. Viago knew he should laugh it off, but he couldn’t help himself. “Only if I’m a footnote.”

  Teia stopped cold. Doubt curdled in Viago’s stomach. He opened his mouth to backtrack, when she reached out to brush the line of his jaw. It was only a whisper of flesh against flesh, but to Viago, it might as well have been a punch to the gut. It had been so long since he had allowed someone to touch him. To get close. He was breathless.

  “That’s entirely up to you.” Teia’s hand dropped, but her phantom touch lingered on his skin. “As to your original question, yes, he was ‘the faithful sort.’ I thought we decided these weren’t crimes of passion.”

  Viago shrugged. “We’re Antivan. Passion comes in many forms. If the killer’s been nursing a grudge, this could be the opportunity they’ve been waiting for.”

  Teia bit her bottom lip—she was nervous. “There’s still too much speculation. Caterina won’t budge until we have proof. And it’s not like Dante’s going to admit to anything.”

  “Not without a little push,” Viago said with a smirk. He crossed the room to his desk and opened his case of poisons.

  “Not another one of your concoctions, Vi,” Teia groaned. “You can’t have a vial for everything.”

  “I can certainly strive to,” Viago whispered as his gloved fingers perused the glass cylinders. He settled on one that contained a rose-colored ointment and a handwritten label that read: Pillow Talk.

  He held the vial up to Teia. “This is an influencer. It causes a warm, languid feeling in the stomach that spreads throughout the body. It makes the person believe they can say or do anything—that they’re safe. Even Dante won’t be able to resist. Especially if it’s given by an old friend.”

  Teia side-eyed him and grabbed the vial. “Interesting name. Why didn’t we use this in Ventus?”

  “It turns a greenish tint in candlelight. A reaction from the varghest blood. When it’s mixed with gurgut…” Observing Teia’s wrinkled nose, he decided to keep the rest of the serum’s ingredients to himself. “I couldn’t risk it with the Qunari, but it’s a worth a try with Dante—if you’re willing.”

  Teia twirled the cylinder between the soft pad of her thumb and pointer finger. “How is it administered?”

  “Anywhere on the skin. Hands, arms—”

  “Lips?”

  “Yes,” Viago admitted reluctantly.

  “I assume you have some sort of safety measure to keep me from falling under its effects.”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Then we can do it my way.”

  “Meaning?”

  Teia all but batted her eyelashes at him. “Meaning an influencer can only do so much. If we want the whole truth, it’ll have to be coaxed.”

  “The serum is very effective.”

  “So am I.”

  Jealousy nipped at Viago’s heels. In Ventus, he’d seen how Teia “coaxed” unsuspecting marks. Even the staunchest Qunari Karasten eventually swayed to her tune. They’d lose themselves in her large eyes, the feel of her lips, and never see the knife coming for the soft spot between their ribs. Teia was a master at playing men like strings. Even now, he felt the pluck of her fingers—she wanted a reaction.

  He wouldn’t give it to her.

  “Sit.”

  He’d been referring to the green chair, but Teia plopped herself on the bed. Viago bit down his frustration and selected a different vial that contained a clear ointment. Holding the glass cylinder in a tight fist, he met Teia next to the bed, making sure to keep himself at arm’s-length.

  “This will create a protective film,” he explained. “I’ll apply it first, then the serum.”

  Teia shook her hair from her face and shoulders. “Ready when you are.”

  Viago tried to keep his pulse steady as he tapped a dollop of the ointment into his gloved palm. He was going to touch her lips. Lips that will be kissing someone else, he reminded himself. But even that wasn’t enough to stop his heart from pounding in anticipation.

  After taking a deep breath through his nose, Viago dipped his thumb into the salve and stepped closer to Teia. He lightly cupped her face to give himself just enough support to rub the ointment across her bottom lip.

  This close to her, the room was uncomfortably warm. He was painfully aware of the soft pressure of Teia’s inner thigh against his leg, of the faint smell of coffee and cinnamon on her breath. The fullness of her lips—the way they folded and moved under his thumb—was mesmerizing.

  When he finished, Teia reached up to inspect his handiwork. Viago gently caught her by the wrist.

  “Wait for it to dry.” His voice was thick. He could hear his heartbeat banging against each syllable.

  Teia let out a breath mingled with laughter. “You’re as authoritative in the bedroom as I imagined you’d be.”

  Viago inwardly congratulated himself for waiting a full ten seconds before asking, “You’ve imagined me?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Again, Viago felt like a lute string. With every challenge, Teia twisted the pegs, tuning him, until she found what she wanted. Which is what, exactly? he asked himself, not daring to listen to the number of answers that bubbled to the surface of his mind.

  “It’s dry,” he whispered, not answering her question.

  Popping the cork of Pillow Talk, Viago shook the vial downward until he could scoop a healthy amount onto his fingertips.

  “Now the serum. Once applied, avoid licking your lips. Or touching them, obviously.”

  Teia’s eyes sparkled. “Obviously.”

  “Ready?” he asked himself more than her.

  She nodded and lifted her chin to give him better access. Steeling his resolve, Viago once again leaned in.

  He’d hoped the second time would be easier, but the ache in the pit of his stomach only gnawed harder. His grip on her jaw tightened slightly to steady his trembling hands. If Teia noticed, she kept her face neutral, her eyes never leaving his.

  It would be so easy to kiss her—to finally discover if her mouth was as soft as he had imagined. Because, of course, he had imagined. So many times. In so many ways. And he hated himself for it. When it came to Teia, he was as weak as any other mark—a lamb to slaughter.

  As if she could feel the sudden rush of shame within him, Teia brought her hands up to rest on Viago’s hips, holding him in place. His thumb stilled as he realized her breath was short. Her pupils dilated.

  Before he could stop himself, Viago nuzzled his forehead against hers, his nose brushing her cheek. Teia’s hands snaked up his chest to run through his hair. She tugged him forward. He braced himself on one arm, while the other curled around the small of her back. Panting cheek to cheek, their bodies moved together in an entangled, rhythmic motion.

  He was just about to wipe the serum off Teia’s lips when they heard an uneven gait outside the door.

  Step, thump, step. Step, thump, step.

  Both froze.

 
A cane. Viago groaned inwardly. Caterina. Come to see if I’m being a good little prisoner.

  His mind raced. If Caterina found Teia inside his room, she would also be considered a suspect. Very slowly, he positioned his gloved palm over Teia’s mouth. Their eyes locked in understanding. She took one quiet inhale before holding her breath.

  “It’s rude to lurk,” Viago called.

  “You’ll forgive me if I’m beyond caring,” Caterina snapped back, her voice muffled through the door.

  “Has something happened?”

  “No. All’s quiet for now.” She sounded weary.

  Viago thought about defending himself, then decided it would be better to wait until Teia had new information from Dante. Just the thought of the other man was like a cold shower.

  “If you’re satisfied, I’m going back to my book.”

  “Yes, yes,” she mumbled.

  He waited until he was sure Caterina was out of earshot, then dropped his hand from Teia’s mouth. They shared an awkward, shaky glance, before he rolled away and Teia got to her feet.

  “I’ll be off, then,” she whispered.

  Viago nodded, unable to meet her gaze.

  Teia slunk out the door, as quiet as she came.

  * * *

  Standing outside her ex-lover’s room, Teia tried to quell the violent drumming within her. Normally, she didn’t need to come down from a physical encounter. Seduction—like any form of manipulation—was about control. She could enjoy herself, but Teia always made sure to hold the upper hand. Viago had shattered that control without so much as a kiss.

  Pressing her palms against her feverish cheeks, Teia willed Vi from her mind. If she was going to convince Dante to divulge his secrets, she couldn’t be thinking of another man. Serum or not, he’d see through her.

  Pulse steady, she rapped lightly on the door. “It’s me.”

  There was a shuffling of movement before the door unlatched and Teia was pulled inside.

  Dante’s room was dark. Teia blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust. The curtains were closed. Only a single candle was lit in the corner—she made a note to steer clear of it. A spare cravat hung from the chair back in front of the vanity and a jacket had been carelessly thrown to the floor. Dante was used to people picking up after him.

  And taking care of his personal hygiene, Teia judged from the shadow growing on his jaw.

  “I knew you’d come.” Dante’s lopsided grin was almost boyish despite his shoulders spanning the width of a bull’s.

  “Did you, now?” Teia replied, cozying up to him.

  Dante stared down at her, astonished. Considering how their relationship had ended, she couldn’t blame him. Instinctively, her eyes darted to his right shoulder, where she knew a cross-shaped scar marred his otherwise perfect skin. A parting gift.

  “I hoped.” Dante’s voice wavered, and for a moment, Teia a twinge of guilt.

  Then she remembered the way he’d lumbered toward her with a broken bottle, screaming for lyrium, and that feeling faded away.

  “I didn’t do this, Teia,” Dante insisted. “It’s Bol—”

  “Shhh … We’ll get to that.” Lifting herself on her toes, Teia tucked an errant lock of hair behind his ear. “But first—” She pressed her serum-coated lips against his.

  Dante stumbled back. Black pupils flooded his blue irises. Teia knew she shouldn’t be surprised by the influencer’s potency—Viago’s concoctions had never failed before—but the speed in which the drug took effect was impressive.

  “Come,” Teia cooed and led him to the bed. He followed, drugged and docile. After propping Dante up against a mountain of pillows, she curled beside him. “Tell me about Lera.”

  Dante listlessly ran his fingers through her hair. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

  I wasn’t. I’m not, she thought.

  “I couldn’t wait any longer,” Dante continued. “It was a good match. For both our houses.”

  Teia perked up. “Match? You were—”

  “Engaged. In secret.” Dante’s head lulled back on the pile of pillows. “Had to be. Caterina would never approve. United, Lera and I could overrule her. Neither of us want to go to war with the Qunari. We hoped to be married before the summit, but certain conditions had to be met.”

  “Conditions?”

  “Lera and I were partners,” Dante explained. “Not in love, but in business. And good business thrives on stability. Scandal would not be tolerated. Which meant I had to give up lyrium and Lera had to give up Giuli.”

  A scorned lover—of course, Teia thought, remembering Giuli’s uncharacteristic outburst at dinner. Her resentment toward Dante and her insistence on his guilt suddenly made sense. “I don’t suppose Giuli took that well.”

  “Her only consolation was that Lera promised her Bolivar’s seat at the table. The man’s bleeding coin. He hasn’t personally fulfilled a contract in years.”

  “And yet,” Teia challenged, “you think he’s behind the murders. That he’s setting you up.”

  Dante sighed. “Bolivar has a contact in the Carta. In exchange for covering his gambling debts, he supplied me lyrium straight from the Orzammar. It’s pure. Not like the watered-down cazza the templars get.”

  Which means it’s more dangerous, you idiot. Teia fought the urge to slap him. As long as he was spilling goods like a slashed purse, she could keep her disapproval to herself.

  “When Lera and I became engaged, I had to renege on our deal.”

  “Without explanation?”

  “I told him I was getting clean. That he should do the same.”

  Teia wished she could’ve been a fly on the wall for that conversation. “Giuli said she saw you and Lera arguing.”

  “About you.” He reached up to caress her cheek. “Lera said our arrangement extended to you as well. I assured her you wouldn’t have me.” A hint of life flickered in his dazed eyes. “I guess I was wrong.”

  Teia smiled to keep from gagging. “What happened next?”

  “I lost my temper. The withdrawal … it was bad that day. But I swear, I didn’t touch her. I’ve haven’t—not since…” He trailed off and Teia knew he was remembering their last night together. “We argued,” he stated finally. “She left. The next time I saw her, she was dead.”

  Teia scanned his face for signs of deception. She’d told Viago that Dante had been “the faithful sort,” and in the bedroom, that was true. But he was still an assassin—and an addict. He was no stranger to lying.

  “Your hands aren’t shaking now,” Teia said, lacing her fingers with his. “You took lyrium, didn’t you?”

  Dante’s face twisted with shame. “I didn’t want to. But when I returned to my room after dinner—after Lera—a box was sitting on my desk.”

  “A lyrium kit just appeared in your room?” Teia asked skeptically.

  “Bolivar must’ve placed it there,” he insisted. “I didn’t care. I just took it. The shaking. The headaches. I had to make it stop.”

  “And did it?” Even through the influencer’s haze, Dante must’ve sensed Teia was slipping away. He tried to hold her close, but she sat upright. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I don’t know. I blacked out,” he admitted. “Woke up in a pool of my own vomit. That’s never happened before.”

  If not for the influencer, Teia wasn’t sure she would’ve believed him. “Vi said you’re the one who found Giuli.”

  “Vi,” Dante spat. “Pretentious bastard. I don’t know how you can stand him.”

  “Well, he’s never come at me with a bottle.”

  Dante flinched. The air was oppressive like an infirmary tent in summer. “You should’ve killed me. I deserved it.”

  “Men rarely get what they deserve,” Teia muttered, eager to change the subject.

  “They do when you’re involved.” He reached over to give her hand a tentative squeeze. “You specialize in the killing of cruel men.”

  It wasn’t something Teia set out to do, but cru
el men seemed drawn to her. She didn’t mind. They made for easy coin and a good night’s rest.

  “You’re not cruel, Dante.”

  “Just weak.” He quickly brushed a tear from his cheek. Another sign the influencer was working. Teia had never seen Dante cry before.

  She could’ve comforted him, but the words died exhausted in her throat. “What happened with Giuli?”

  “I don’t know. I wanted to apologize for—well, you saw—and talk things through. But she was dead. Throat slit. My dagger on the floor.”

  Teia snapped to attention. “What do you mean your dagger? There was no dagger.”

  “I took it. Threw it in the lake, when Emil and I searched the island.”

  “He didn’t see you?”

  “We split up to cover more ground.” Dante stared up at the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “I think I killed her.”

  Dread chilled her bones, but Teia remained calm and still. “Do you still have the lyrium kit?”

  Dante pointed toward the nightstand. She slid off the bed to retrieve it. He’d hidden the wooden box under a handkerchief. She grabbed both.

  “Teia,” Dante called through the darkness. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know,” she said, then slammed the side of her hand into his neck, knocking him out cold.

  * * *

  From the architecture to the food, Antivan culture was a celebration of romance and the freedom of expression. The typical Antivan craved passion—spontaneity.

  Viago was not a typical Antivan.

  He liked facts—checklists, numbers, precise measurements. Heart palpitations, clammy hands, tight pants—Viago did not like these things. In fact, he would go so far as to say he hated them. Mild curiosity was his favorite mood. What Teia had elicited in him was akin to an internal natural disaster.

  By the time she returned, he’d nearly torn the rug in his room from pacing.

  “I’ve got something for you,” Teia practically sang, handing him a box wrapped in a brightly patterned handkerchief. “A lyrium kit. Dante claimed he found it in his room.”

  “Convenient for an addict.”

  Viago took the box to his desk and removed its contents one by one, setting them up in a neat line.