by C. M. Lind
She smiled, tracing her fingers along the letters.
Perhaps the book wasn’t as old as she had guessed. Maybe she was losing her instinct about such things. She couldn’t wait. She paged through the chapter on her own family, until the book plopped open to a page with a small portrait in the bottom corner: a young woman the spitting image of Soli.
It was her mother.
Soli’s mother, Thora, was the last of the Fhoren bloodline at the time of the tome’s creation, born to a woman who had fourteen miscarriages before her strong, beautiful daughter was born. Thora couldn’t have been more than twelve in the picture, but it might as well have been Soli staring at herself. The two had stormy green eyes. It was how her mother had always described them, and the artist captured them faithfully.
Soli laughed, running her fingers over the portrait, imagining her young mother sitting still long enough for the thing to be drawn. Wondering if, like herself, her mother preferred action over poise. Did she squirm? Did she protest?
She felt as if she was a voyeur, looking into a window to a house that no longer existed, catching a view that wasn’t real.
She flipped the pages back to the beginning of the chapter, insistent on reading what she already knew, but the pages kept plopping back to the image of her mother. It was as if someone had left the book open to such a page for far too long. The binding was loose, and Soli wondered if the page was going to fall out.
But who would have left the book sitting open?
She jumped at the knocks on her door. With a sigh she smiled, setting the book to the side.
Finally, she thought, Randolph returned to her. She leapt off the bed, hurrying to the door. She needed to tell him the truth about her, what happened to her face. He had told her his secret, and it was only fair to tell him hers. There was so much to tell, she wasn’t even sure where to start.
She put her hand on the lock, and, seconds away from unlatching it, she paused. There had only been two knocks at the door—not three.
She pulled her hand back from the still secured lock, eyeing it like an enemy in wait. “Who is it?”
“I have brought you something,” said Jae.
She stepped back from the door.
“Could you open up?” Jae asked with the certainty of a statement. “I am afraid I might spill.”
“I’m not well,” she forced a cough for effect. “Please leave it outside.”
“And let it go cold?” He chuckled. “I think not. Now open up.”
Soli cleared her throat. “I can’t.”
She could hear his heavy, exaggerated sigh through the door. “It is medicine to help you recover.” His voice went stern. “Now open up.”
Soli had retreated to her bed, and she was pulling her bag out from underneath. “I’m too ill. I can’t!”
The doorknob turned, but the door did not open. “Come on now. I am being kind.”
She threw open the top of her bag, grabbing the box within. “I’m afraid I’ll heave all over you if you come in.”
Her hands were shaking.
The knob rattled, and the door throbbed with the pressure of Jae’s body leaning against it, but the lock and hinges held.
She heard a loud, hot exhale. “My jewel,” he sing-songed. “You must be better for the party. Do you not want to be better?”
The box was on the bed, and her hands opened it. Her axes were within, shining in anticipation. “I do,” she said, tacking on a small cough on the end.
“Let me help you feel good, then.” The knob turned again, and she could hear his nails playfully running along the outside of the door.
“I’ll be better,” she said.
“Do you promise?”
“I’ll be myself by then.” She grabbed an axe and turned to face the door. The handle kept turning in vain. “I promise.”
His words were sudden and demanding. “Do you?” He slammed the door and the knob rattled.
Soli did not jump at the outburst, and she brought the axe up, ready to throw it if he made it through her door. If he barged in, she was ready to do whatever she had to. She might die by Avelinian “justice” in the end, but the real tragedy would have been to not put up a fight against Jae. “I do.” She smiled, clutching the handle of the axe. “I promise.”
There was a loud scratch at the door as he zipped his nails up it with a flourish. “That is twice you have promised me. If you lie, I’ll have to reprimand you personally.”
The knob stilled.
“Do get some rest, my jewel. I have big plans for you.”
Chapter 55
“Perfect!” said Aimee.
Vitoria flicked her eyes at her through the mirror. The old woman’s smile was beaming brighter than her eyes. “It will do.” She fastened the last pearl button, of thirty, that ran up the front of her satin dress. It was the deep red color of black currant wine, and only the pearls up her front and on her long sleeves broke up the darkness.
Aimee disappeared from the mirror’s view. “Darling, you’re irresistible!”
Perfect with a thick layer of makeup, she thought. Vitoria raised her perfectly plucked and shaped brow. “I thought I was supposed to fit in with whores?”
Aimee returned with a wig of cherry-red curls in hand. “Come on now.” She laughed. “They’re the expensive kind.”
Vitoria undid the last button at her chest, wondering if that would make her look more suitable to the job at hand. She sighed as she inspected herself in the mirror. All it had done was make her looked disheveled, as if she had just spent several minutes in a closet with an indecisive client.
Aimee lowered the wig onto Vitoria’s head. “Odette picked it all out for you, darling. Trust her judgement.”
The curls bobbed about as they settled around her face. “I look ridiculous.” Her freckled, dry skin, naturally pale lips, and thin face contrasted with the glamour of the hair and gown, and the combination made her feel like a clown.
She blew a wayward coil out of her eyes from the corner of her mouth. It danced away for a few seconds, but it returned where it was before with a wobble.
Never before had she felt so disgustingly out of place. The only other time she had made such an effort of beauty was her wedding day. She stole a pale yellow sundress from a clothesline and a feathered hair pin from a pawn shop. That hadn’t ended well for her then, and she doubted anything good would come from her wearing a dress again.
The image of James, naked and perfect resting on his bed, played in her mind before it was replaced by Ulrich, bare underneath her.
“For the last time, you look perfect!” Aimee playfully chastised.
“Then I can take it off.” Vitoria pulled the wig free, tossing it to the table at their side.
“You can if you wish.” Aimee snatched it from the table to return it to its stand.
Vitoria unsnapped the buttons at lightning speed. “You wanted to see if it fits? It fits.”
“You certainly put it off long enough.”
“I still have two days.”
“No, darling. You had one day to fix the dress if it needed it. In two days you’ll be wearing it and flashing that dazzling smile I know you are capable of.” Aimee hugged Vitoria’s shoulder, shining her own teeth.
Vitoria mimicked it, glaring at Aimee through the mirror.
“There it is.” Aimee squeezed her. “He’ll be powerless.”
“I don’t care if he’s powerless.” Her brain was back to James. She recalled him tied to the bed, professing his love. With a shudder, she pulled herself from Aimee’s grasp, and she began to peel the tight satin from her body, rolling it down into a rumpled heap. “He’ll be dead.” Once she was alone with the infamously foolish and randy Jae Reinout, it would not prove to be any trouble to kill him—getting away with it would prove to be the real challenge.
The assassins were fools, she thought, to fail in the contract. To be driven out of the city by a buffoon. She smiled, thinking of how afraid Conyers w
as of the boogeyman, Saemund. A ghost that she concluded was merely a fairy tale. If he did exist, she reasoned, then surely he’d have killed her by then.
“You know that is what I mean!” Aimee teased her with a crossed brow as she bent to claim the gown.
Vitoria looked at her naked self in the mirror. She was slender. She had always been so, but she suddenly thought of herself as hard, as if every muscle in her was a hard coil of iron running under her pale skin. She wondered where she had gotten that from since her mother was always soft, and she had curves upon curves. Her mother was the type of woman that men would lose their minds over. A “real money-maker” was what the madam had called her.
Vitoria barely saw anything of her mother in her own reflection anymore. Every year seemed to steal more of her away—and her stay at The Cliffs did so doubly.
“Cover up,” said Aimee. The gown was slung in the crook of her arm. “It’s cold down here.”
It wasn’t cold at all, and Queensport was in its warmest months, but Aimee always worried about others.
Vitoria smirked at her, and, for the first time in years, she caught herself thinking dangerously alien thoughts: that perhaps her life wasn’t so bad—at least for a moment.
She had Aimee, and she gave Vitoria the closest thing to love that she could recall. She had made her peace over Conyers. Thanks to Ulrich, she knew he was a lost cause—no better than his useless, arrogant, traitorous brother. And Ulrich? The man who had finally given her some glimmer of truth? Allowed her to share her dark thoughts and desires? The smile dropped from her face. She was able to take one night to herself before it was all over.
“Soon enough now.” Aimee hung the gown on a wooden hanger, taking her time to mind the pearl buttons. “And you’ll finally be free to do whatever you wish, darling. We’re almost there.”
Vitoria nodded, kneeling to grab her tunic and breeches from the floor. “I know.”
“Just make sure to be careful—”
“Don’t worry.” Vitoria pulled the tunic over her head. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done.”
“I’m not worrying,” said Aimee, heading up the stairs, the gown held high in her hands to prevent it from touching the stairs. “I know you’ll do splendidly.”
Vitoria grabbed her breeches. A flash of gold clinked onto the floor and began to roll under the mirror. Vitoria lunged at it, seizing it while her head shot back to the stairs.
Aimee was already up it—out of earshot and view of the thing.
She clutched it. She held her breath as she listened to make sure that Aimee wasn’t returning, and when she heard the familiar clanging of the front door opening, she breathed.
She unfurled her fingers, and resting in her palm was a single golden band. It was her ring, but it was also James’. She had given it to him all those years ago only for her to snatch it back from him the night she visited.
With one hand, she pulled her pants on, and then she stuffed it into her pocket, where it had been residing ever since she stole it back from him.
Chapter 56
Someone was tugging at his hair. It was playful, just enough to make him groan and bat at the person’s hand, which he did several times, always rolling over to get comfortable again, shoving his face into the warm, but cheap, rough blankets. But no matter how much Randolph turned and swatted he couldn’t seem to.
It wasn’t until he heard a feminine, sultry giggle and felt what was definitely a hand pressed upon his groin, that he panicked.
Randolph shot up, his fuzzy eyes opening in pain. The room was barely lit by a few sunbeams that managed to creep through the papered-over window in the corner of the room. The place smelled like sour sweat, stale beer, old soot, and unchecked mold. The bed he was rolling out of was wet with what he hoped was beer.
He slammed, hard, onto the floor. There was no armor to break his fall, just his naked flesh colliding with cold stone. Overcome with vertigo, he pressed his head against the side of the bed.
He felt the fingers again, warm and soft, on his neck, attempting to rub the stiffness away.
Randolph let the hand linger for a few seconds, but another giggle made him pull away. That time it wasn’t sultry. It was a sweet, clarion laugh that made him press his eyelids tight and push his palms into them.
There was more than one woman in that bed.
“Shit,” he croaked, his throat dry and rough.
What time was it, he wondered, or what day?
One of the women stroked his hair while he thought.
After seeing Saemund, he didn’t know what to do. Should he tell Balfour about the scheme, admit to being a complete moron, and hope he wouldn’t go down with Jae? Should he warn the guards about the justifiably murderous Vitoria and let them kill her? Or, worse, should he let them take her back to The Cliffs? Should he forcibly cancel the party and insist Jae leave for his southern winter estate? Should he follow some Northern law and either killed Jae himself, which would mean he would be soon to follow suit, or let Vitoria have her way with him, which also would mean that he’d be next on her list?
He didn’t want to decide. He didn’t want to figure anything out. Independent choice, he decided, was not part of his job. Only a fool would ever let Randolph decide on anything of importance.
What had he done in the face of such uncertainty? Apparently, he became a sixteen year-old boy again. He went to Skullsplitters like he had always done in the past when things had gotten tough. It had been years since he’d been there, but their guarantee still rang true.
“Leave you wrecked by morning.” He coughed a small laugh. His eyes burned, his body ached, and he felt young and stupid all over again.
He blew air. Once a soldier always a soldier, he supposed.
“What are we doing today?” asked the sultry voiced vixen.
Randolph’s hands dropped to his lap, and he turned to her, blinking several times. The woman was far too beautiful for him, and he didn’t even want to think about how much he owed her—or the other one. His eyes felt like glue had been poured in them. “How long have we been here?”
The sultry voiced woman leaned over the bed, pushing her plump lips onto his cheeks, leaving a big, loud, wet kiss. “Three days for me.”
Randolph felt like he needed to vomit.
“Two for me!” piped the other woman who was splayed out on the bed, and Randolph could only make out her dainty, painted toes hanging over the edge.
Randolph ran a hand over the scruff of his face. “Sounds about right.”
He hoped to all the gods listening that the women weren’t like Eager Emilee, or else he’d be bankrupt from tonics and salves all over again. He’d never had such a bender in the past. A soldier’s wages bought him two nights at a time, at most, but with his Reinout wages, he easily could spend a week at a time in such a state.
He burped, and a rush of sour ran up his throat. He leaned over, spitting onto the stone floor. Instinctively, he ran his tongue over his teeth, but he gagged, spitting again. His teeth were fuzzy, and the sour taste was mixed with smoke.
He spat a few more times, but his mouth was painfully dry. “What did we do?”
The two women giggled behind him.
The one lying on the bed waggled her toes. “What didn’t we do?” she teased.
Randolph was seriously considering the possibility that she was far younger than he would have liked to ever know.
“You bought us all sorts of fun things!” purred the sultry one into his ear.
“Drinks and food! I tried snails for the first time!”
The sultry one ran her wet, hot tongue down the lobe of his ear. “And fenweed.”
Randolph jerked his head away, feeling no appetite for such things.
She sighed as if he had hurt her.
“No need for that,” he said. “I think I’ve had my fill of fun.” He burped again, marvelously managing to keep the rancid contents of his stomach in.
“But you’ve been so
nice to us!” the young, sweet one said. “Don’t you want—”
“No!” Randolph cut her off. “No, no, no!” He looked under the bed, fishing his hands underneath. They caught cloth and he pulled it out. “I’m good.”
He pulled out the cloth. It was a red lacey… thing. “Oh.” He shoved it back under the bed and sent his fingers looking for something else.
“You promised us fun today,” whined the girl on the bed.
“You know,” he said, hooking a piece of fabric with his pinky, “I feel all ‘funned’ out.”
The sultry one put her hand on Randolph’s shoulder. “But—”
Out came Randolph’s pants from under the bed. “How much do I owe you?” He cut her off, keeping his eyes away from her. He might have been suffering from the worst hangover of his life, but he knew he was only human, and judging by the woman’s tongue work on his ear, she’d have him in the bed with nothing but a glance.
“Owe us for what?” asked the girl, sitting up with a jump.
Sitting on his knees, Randolph kept his eyes on his pants. There was no need to tempt fate by looking at either of them. He checked his pockets, but no coin was left—not surprising,
The other woman shushed her.
Randolph, a man wise to the ways of pickpockets, had hand-sewn emergency coin inside of the band of his trousers. He ripped it open with his thick, hard nails, and within was his secret stash: 4 palladium petals. It was the highest currency in Aveline. He had been keeping it for emergencies, and he was pretty sure this counted as one.
“Well,” said the sultry one, running her fingers down his neck. “You’d also have to pay us for today, since you already told us we’d be required.”
Randolph grabbed all the coins from his pants.
The younger one tried to interject, but the other one kept talking. “And for all the services rendered, it will be quite a bill. It was far more than what the usual customer’s request. First there was the—”
Randolph threw the coins at the woman, and then he slapped her hand away from him. “I didn’t ask for a play-by-play. Now get out.”