The Wolves of New Bristol (Lila Randolph Book 3)

by Wren Weston

“I’ve seen her name on your palm nearly every day,” Tristan pressed. “She’s even started calling me now.”

  “So block her ID.”

  “She wants to see you. I think she wants to help.”

  “I don’t need her help.” Lila stood and slipped into Tristan’s shirt from the night before.

  “Maybe you do. Maybe you should consider it.”

  “When she has one of her so-called visions about Reaper’s partner, then I’ll consider it. That’s the only useful thing she can offer me right now.”

  “I don’t think that’s the kind of help she’s offering.”

  “I told you. I don’t need help, not from her.”

  “Lila—”

  “I need a shower.”

  Lila turned to go. The bed creaked. Tristan grabbed her arm once more. “If you don’t want that kind of help, fine. But if something happens at breakfast, if your mother tries anything, I want you to go to the oracle’s compound. I don’t care if you’re an outsider. That woman owes you. She owes both of us.”

  Lila slipped from his grasp. “My mother won’t send her blood squad after me, Tristan. I didn’t mess up that badly.”

  She left the bedroom, easing into the dark apartment beyond before sliding into the bathroom and switching on the light. The sudden, apathetic brightness burned her eyes, and the tile chilled the soles of her feet. She closed the door with a quick little snick, careful not to wake Dixon in the room next door. She strode quickly to the shower and turned on the water. A loud growl thundered down the pipes, then faded as the plumbing shuddered to life.

  As the water rushed and warmed, Lila bent over the cracked sink and stared at her image in the mirror. Her vacation had taken away the dark circles under her eyes, but her dreams had left their mark upon them. They’d grown darker, grown harder, grown…

  Different.

  She turned away from the mirror and ran her fingers through her curls. Stepping into the shower, she warmed herself underneath the water and reached for her shampoo, perched beside Tristan’s as if it had lived there all along.

  As if she had lived there all along.

  A month ago, she wouldn’t have believed that a bottle of shampoo could freak her out so completely. But highborns didn’t live with one another, and they never focused on one lover.

  Being with Tristan in the shop?

  Only the poorer classes did such things.

  At some point, she’d stopped caring, only understanding that she didn’t want to slip into anyone else’s bed. Tristan had gotten under her skin, and she didn’t know what to do about it. Maybe she didn’t even want to do anything about it. It didn’t help that she’d enjoyed every minute of her time with Tristan, at least when she wasn’t panicking. Panicking about him, her blackmailer, the eventual loss of her job and place among the highborn, about everything she’d worked for her entire life turning to shit.

  She stepped out of the shower and blew her hair dry quickly. Then she returned to Tristan’s room, dropping her damp towel before his watchful eyes. She pulled on a pair of scratchy black trousers, a long-sleeved gray t-shirt, and a black sweater—servant’s clothes, for colors weren’t allowed among the workborn unless you had a contract with a highborn family. A pair of cheap, worn boots completed the look. She tucked her boot knife into a sheath near her calf.

  She shoved her mesh hood in her front pocket, something she’d need as soon as she stepped outside the apartment, for few of Tristan’s people knew her face or her identity. So far they’d stayed quiet, but Lila didn’t want to risk any more of them finding out.

  Just another risk. Just one more thing that could result in exile.

  She stared at her canvas bag in the corner of Tristan’s bedroom, filled with a few other similar outfits and toiletries. She wondered if she should even bother taking it along.

  Where would she go after her mother kicked her out?

  Would she flee to Burgundy like so many exiled highborns, just in case her blackmailer leaked her story? The country refused extradition orders. She’d be safe there. Then again, perhaps she’d stay in New Bristol, continuing this thing with Tristan until it eventually faded, staying until her blackmailer got her arrested.

  She deserved the arrest, didn’t she?

  Perhaps not for her hack, but what had happened in the warehouse.

  “Leave it,” Tristan said, following her gaze. His fingers trailed down her back, soft against the knit of her sweater. His arms closed around her waist.

  She snuggled back into his warmth, stealing a few more precious moments. “I should take it with me.”

  “Should is one of the most insidious and hateful words in the English language,” he said, kissing her neck. “You can always take it back to the compound later. It will be fine here.”

  “I have to go.”

  “I know.”

  She gave him a long kiss. Then she picked up her satchel and left the damn bag behind.

  Chapter 2

  Lila plopped into the driver’s seat of her Cruz sedan and shoved a pair of false license plates into her satchel. They’d kept her off her matron’s radar for the last two weeks. She’d known her mother’s spies would be out, looking for the hole she’d crawled into.

  But no one had found it, nor had they found the car she’d taken.

  She turned the heater up to full blast, a balm against the chill, then twirled the radio dial to a jazz station. A mournful trumpet called out in long, solemn notes as she backed from her spot in the parking garage and drove away from Shippers Lane. Dirt and mud and cigarette butts filled the gutters. The occasional plastic bag and scrap of paper flitted across the streets in the dim, waking morning.

  Smoky diners, pawn shops, and cracked apartments soon merged into the well-lit cafés, bookstores, and boutiques of the better sort of poorer classes. Lowborns, those citizens of New Bristol who ran at least one business, owned many of them. Perhaps more than one, cramming each store into a little complex, mimicking the highborn estates.

  Lila rushed through a green light and lifted her eyes to the skyline. Above the grit of the workborn and the lowborn loomed the twelve highborn estates with their sprawling mansions and skyscrapers, far taller than any lowborn would ever be allowed to build, no matter how rich they’d become over the generations.

  Now that the Wilson family had fallen to the Randolphs, their tower would topple. It watched over the city like a scornful monarch, gripping her crumbling throne while the peasants swung axes at her door.

  New Bristol had swung harder and harder with every passing day. Celeste Wilson and her son would soon hang, serving as an example to anyone who might do business with the Holy Roman Empire, the twin kingdoms of Italy and Germany. The pair’s arrests had cast the rest of the Wilson family to the poorer classes. Those who could not afford to purchase their marks from the Randolph family would work as slaves. Those who could pay would take jobs as workborn wherever they could find them, even if it meant traveling out of state.

  At season’s end, the New Bristol High Council of Judges would announce Suji Park as the next highborn matron. The family would then wall itself off from the poorer classes, erect a similar tower in their compound, and replace the Wilsons as highborn.

  Such was the newest verse of the same old song.

  Lila stopped before the southern gate of her family’s compound, her engine running as a saxophone trilled on. The mansions of the fifteen heirs peeked over the stone wall of the estate, dwarfed by a crowd of maples. Toward the center, Wolf Tower loomed tallest of all the buildings in New Bristol, a glass marvel that glittered as the sun rose. Other skyscrapers and office buildings surrounded it, containing the executive offices, administration personnel, and management for all Randolph holdings throughout Saxony.

  A lone saxophone drifted into an announcer’s smooth baritone. “That, of course, was the Robb
y Walsh classic ‘Rainy Moon.’ In the studio this morning, we have General Ancrum and General De Silva to discuss the Slave Freedom Bill, a piece of legislation rumored to be bouncing around the halls of Bullstow. Ladies, good—”

  Lila switched off the radio as Sergeant Nolan knocked upon her window, her blackcoat waving in the chilly wind. Behind Nolan, the door to the gatehouse hung ajar. Her rookie leaned against the glass with curious eyes. The surface steamed with every breath.

  “Morning, chief,” Nolan said, touching the brim of her cap. “Nice to see you back.”

  “Nice to be back, sergeant.”

  “We missed you in the security office. Commander Sutton ordered us to spend two hours at the gun range this week. I suspect Sergeant Jenkins has her ear.”

  “Hrmmm…” Lila replied. Commander Sutton had complete control over the New Bristol estate unless Lila overruled her decisions. But Lila rarely did that, for she had nearly a dozen other compounds to oversee throughout Saxony.

  Sutton would have made the requirement even if Lila had not been on vacation. “Perhaps she should order something similar for the gym. As I recall, some of you barely passed your fitness tests last quarter. I’ll be sure to pass on your suggestion.”

  Sergeant Nolan frowned as her rookie pressed the button to open the gate.

  Lila hit the gas.

  “Hey, pull-ups are hard!” Nolan shouted as Lila drove past, snaking down the asphalt lane that cut through the compound. She passed the lush lawns, the forest groves, and the gravel paths that crisscrossed the estate. The crimson roses had just begun to open, peeking over the fading summer blooms that lined each path.

  Lila stopped at the end of Villanueva Lane and parked in front of a fountain. Four bronze wolves strained in each direction, threatening to bite and shred anyone who came near. The great house loomed behind it with a similar attitude, for the architect had built the neoclassical monstrosity for apprehension rather than wonder.

  Lila disembarked and marched to the front door. A footman opened it as she approached, his crimson breeches and coat pressed to stiffness.

  She pulled her motorcycle jacket more tightly around her, declining to take it off. He’d see too clearly what she wore beneath and report it to the chairwoman. Instead, she quickly jogged upstairs, past the silver Randolph coat of arms. Dozens of paintings surrounded it, all of the Randolph family over the last three centuries.

  Fashion hadn’t changed that much since then, at least for the highborn.

  Lila pulled open the door to her bedroom, a bedroom filled with furniture carved in ebony: a massive desk with a dozen secret nooks, a bed with a thick headboard, a bedside table, a dresser, and a coffee table. Black leather covered her desk chair and a heavy couch. Bursts of Randolph crimson peeked from the pillows, bedclothes, and velvet drapes.

  Quickly, she took off her servant’s clothes and slid open the secret compartment in her closet with a muffled scrape. The clothes fit easily inside, and she shoved the panel closed again with a dull thunk.

  Hangers scratched against the metal bar in her closet as she sifted through her casual highborn clothes. Tailors had cut them in Randolph crimson, stitching the family’s coat of arms on the breast. She settled on a high-necked blouse and a pair of black woolen trousers, similar enough to her militia uniform for comfort, different enough to signal that she remained on vacation. Cramming her trouser legs into a pair of knee-high leather boots, Lila looked herself over in a mirror.

  She was ready to meet her mother.

  Or, at least, she looked like it.

  The doorknob jiggled in the silence. Alex peeked in, her blonde hair twisted in a knot, her black skirt and white shirt pressed and unwrinkled. She seemed like a highborn pretending to be a slave, a highborn wearing a costume.

  “Ms. Wilson?” Lila asked as her old friend hopped inside and closed the door quietly.

  Alex bowed. “Chief Randolph.”

  Lila inclined her head at the awkward formality. She supposed she deserved it. After all, she’d helped Bullstow arrest Alex’s mother and brother, and the pair would be executed soon.

  Her friend had seethed before Lila left on vacation, and though they’d since talked, they’d likely never be friends again, at least not like before.

  Alex’s counseling sessions and anger management classes might help them get through the rough patch, a court-ordered consequence of her arrest for assault. At some point in the next six months, Alex would surely bring up Lila’s name. Perhaps the counselor would remind Alex about how much they’d been through together and how much their friendship meant.

  Of course, the therapist would more likely remind Alex that she was now a slave and would always be a slave, and that she should accept it and start acting like one.

  Slaves did not presume friendship with the highborn.

  “You didn’t tell me that you were coming back this morning,” Alex said, pursing her lips. “It’s the middle of the week.”

  “My mother summoned me for breakfast.”

  Alex raised a brow. “Did she say why?”

  “No, do you know something?”

  Alex shook her head. “Not exactly, but Jewel stayed in her room all last night with Senator Dubois. I could hear her crying the whole time, and she paged Isabel every five seconds. Your mother drifted in and out as well. They all went to bed around two in the morning. I don’t know what it was about. Ms. O’Malley wouldn’t let me come upstairs.”

  Jewel’s fiancé had stayed overnight in the great house, rather than Bullstow? That wasn’t rare, nor was her sister’s tears, but why would the chairwoman visit them so late?

  “I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks.” Perhaps the chairwoman hadn’t called her back to discuss her blackmailer after all. Perhaps her sister was in trouble. How ironic that her mother might soon request Lila’s services to save the family, the very same services that might get her exiled.

  “I didn’t even know you were going away, Lila. I missed you.” Alex hugged her as though they hadn’t seen one another in years.

  The soft notes of perfume filled Lila’s nose.

  Honeysuckle.

  Alex’s scent had changed.

  It felt like everything had changed. Lila had hoped things might be less weird between the two of them after some time apart, but it hadn’t changed a thing.

  Well, except for maybe one.

  “I’ve missed you as well,” Lila said as she finally pulled away. “Alex.”

  Her old friend smiled at the return of her first name. “I’d better go help Chef with breakfast.”

  Without another word, Alex peeked into the hallway, then slipped out the door.

  Lila twirled her sapphire ring and gave one last look at her bedroom, wondering if it would still belong to her when she returned. She could pay a decorator to recreate it in a new house somewhere. She had plenty of money in her accounts. Perhaps she’d take Alex with her and run away to Burgundy.

  Perhaps her friend would forgive her.

  She’d taken one step closer, at least.

  Lila shook her head at the beautiful, impractical dream and jogged downstairs. She found her mother in the morning room, a room surrounded on three sides by glass and the backyard gardens. Usually spectacular in the spring, much of the color now came from the crimson maple trees and evergreens surrounding the great house.

  The chairwoman sat at a table laden with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and blackberries. Pewter pitchers of milk and orange juice loomed over the meal. An open bottle of Gregorie perched in the middle.

  “Come, Lila,” her mother said tiredly, beckoning her with one twitch of a finger. Her crimson dress and silvercoat flowed about her in a wispy pile of fabric. Matching boots completed the look. She’d arranged her silver hair so that it hung straight around her face, nearly hiding her crow’s feet and the fine line
s in her forehead, all made deeper by her pensive expression. Dark circles marred the skin under her eyes, a rare look for the chairwoman. “Do you know why I’ve summoned you here this morning?”

  Lila stepped into the room and rested her hands upon a chair back, the seat upholstered in crimson and gold. “I suppose that Jewel needs my assistance with something.”

  Her mother stiffened at Jewel’s name and sipped her orange juice. “You always seem to know more than you let on.”

  Two weeks ago the statement would have been true. Lila usually knew a great deal about what went on in the compound. Though her mother’s spy network was impossible to best, Lila had learned from a master. She’d made an art of indulging the workborn on every Randolph compound throughout Saxony and bribing several key relations in each location. She also exploited WolfNet to her advantage.

  She’d heard no news about Jewel, though, except from Alex.

  The chairwoman cleared her throat. “Your sister has decided to marry.”

  “Marry the senator?”

  “Senator Dubois. He has a name and a title. Do not be impolite.”

  “Yes, Senator Louis Oliver Masson-Dubois. I know his name and title,” Lila said, finally falling into a seat beside her mother.

  Lila rubbed at her eyes. All this time, she’d obsessed over taking other lovers, just so she wouldn’t get too attached to Tristan, and Jewel had been thinking of marriage? “I can’t believe you’re worried about politeness at a time like this. Marriage, Mother? Are we workborn, or are we highborn?”

  “Highborns marry,” the chairwoman replied grumpily.

  Lila shot her a look.

  “Occasionally we marry. It’s becoming more common.”

  Lila reached for a dish of blackberries and popped one in her mouth. “Surely you’ve counseled her against this. She’s prime. She needs an heir. How will she do that if she couples exclusively with a man as unproven as Senator Dubois? I like him immensely, Mother, I really do, but he’s had several seasons to get the job done. He’s failed time and time again.”

  The chairwoman pursed her lips and cast her eyes down at the table.