by C. M. Lind
Chapter 57
After Saemund lost Dotard’s scent, he frantically looked wherever he could think of. Saemund had spent days roving the streets, his nose in the air, searching for the faintest whiff of him.
But the sickly scent of Dotard was gone. Maddeningly and impossibly gone. It had been days without rest or food that Saemund had looked for him.
Worm had been easy. He laid in pieces, mashed through a run-off grate, while the infuriating Dotard refused to be found.
The sun was half-gone, and pink and orange trailed behind it.
Saemund was out of time.
The little lordling would be dead the next day by the woman’s hand, and Dotard was clearly gone. He’d been smarter than Saemund had thought, and he surely was already on the way back to his master to tattle on Saemund.
His jaw clenched, and his chest grew tight.
Saemund had seen what happened to failures. No doubt his master would see Saemund, his once greatest achievement, as his biggest failure. His biggest insult. He’d take it extremely personally.
Saemund rubbed his chest. The misery he felt would be no comparison to what awaited him at the hand of his former master, Netos.
Countless times Saemund had sheared meat from the bones of his victims, but they were always dead before he started. Netos would not allow him such a luxury, and with his foul magics he could make it last longer than Saemund ever could.
And, Saemund reasoned, that was if he got off easy. He had no idea what Netos could actually do, but he had heard whispers about Netos emptying a person of what made them. Completely taking away will and thought, destroying their core.
Saemund had only recently felt as if he had awoken, and he wasn’t ready to let anyone take away his own thoughts.
He didn’t have a choice.
The woman would kill the lordling tomorrow, and soon enough Dotard would reach Netos.
He turned on his heel, heading back to where he had gone countless nights before.
It was a gamble, but he saw no other options.
* * *
Several times he pounded on the door.
He would not be ignored. He pounded again, and finally he heard the slow steps of the old witch hobbling to the door.
“We’re closed!” she shouted, steps away from the door. “Come back in the morning.”
“Let me in!” he shouted. “I have to talk to her!”
“Ulrich?” she asked. He heard her step closer to the door. “Why are you here?”
“Let me in!” he shouted again. He was painfully aware that he could have slammed the door down with his fists, but the last bits of self-control that he had left curtailed him.
There was a few seconds of silence.
“She’s not here.”
“Don’t lie!” Saemund suppressed a snicker. “She is here. Let me in.”
“Come back in a couple days—”
“We both know what is happening tomorrow!” He growled through mashed teeth. “So let me in.”
The door unlatched, and the string of metal clanked as she pulled open the door.
He pushed his way in, looking around. No sign of her, but he could smell she was there.
“There is no need to shout about it! The whole neighborhood will know!” She slammed the door shut, latching the lock.
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs.”
He lunged ahead, but Aimee stopped him, stepping in front of him. “Calm down, and I’ll fetch her!”
“It’s important!” he insisted.
“You look like you’re half-dead. Sit.” She waved a hand to the cluster of chairs in front of the unlit fire. “I’ll fetch you something to drink.”
Saemund swallowed, and it felt like sand was in his throat. His empty stomach contracted at the thought of anything filling it.
“Sit,” she ordered, giving him a slight push towards the chairs.
“You’ll get her?” He eyed the chair.
“If she hasn’t already heard your fuss, yes.” She pointed again.
Saemund walked over and sat down. He had to calm down, he mentally repeated. The woman would never listen to him if she thought him mad.
But he felt mad. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and folded his hands upon his lap.
He heard the old woman walk, the wooden floor creaking with her steps, and she called for the woman. Silence above, as the old witch’s hesitant steps teetered away.
Saemund took another breath. He hadn’t thought of what he would say to her. What would she say to him? It occurred to him, in that moment, that she might very well just simply kill him.
The thought was not the worst outcome he imagined.
The old woman returned, and a tray of things rattled in her hand.
Another deep breath, and Saemund felt his hands begin to steady. He opened his eyes and exhaled. He was Saemund, after all, the best of his kind. The creature men feared. A ghost in shadows. He could handle one woman, he told himself—a woman he had already outsmarted. Stalked. Seduced.
Creaks from upstairs awoke while the old witch set the tray down next to him. A copper kettle, two clay cups, a miniature wooden spoon, and a small tin bowl of sugar were on it.
“She comes at her own pace; you should know that by now.” The old woman chuckled as she poured hot, steaming tea into the two cups.
Saemund grabbed one of the cups before the other was filled, and he tossed it back, drinking the whole thing in three large gulps.
“Be careful,” she warned, but it was too late. He had finished by the time she had spoken. “It’s very hot,” she said with a sigh, filling his cup another time.
“Bitter,” he added. “Not very hot.” The liquid teased his stomach, and the drink had the same effect of tossing a single drop of water into parched sand.
“It’s bitter because I didn’t count on company tonight. It’s how I like it.”
“It’s fine.” Saemund’s eyes followed the creak from upstairs, which was becoming closer and closer, down the stairs and moments away.
“Now don’t upset her. She needs to stay focused.” She set the kettle down just as the woman entered the room.
She glared at him as she entered the room, keeping her distance from him. “What are you doing here?”
Saemund’s body practically jumped from the chair; the only thing that kept him seated was his own fatigue mixed with a last shred of self-control. “I need to talk to you!”
She raised a brow at him, eyeing him like he was suspect. “Well, I don’t need to talk to you.”
“Vitoria!” the old woman reprimanded. “Do not be so rude!”
“I finished talking to him a few nights ago,” her brow dropped, “so if that is what he wishes to talk about, I have nothing left to say.”
The old woman’s mouth fell open, and a hand went over her heart. “Vitoria!”
“What?” she asked the old woman with a flat tone and a condescendingly raised brow.
The old woman huffed. “Then for sure you can spare a few moments to talk to Ulrich!”
“Oh,” she mused, “I’m pretty sure we’ve spared enough time for each other lately.”
“No wonder he looks mad!” The old woman put a hand on her hip, and the other on Saemund’s shoulder.
“I’m not here,” paused Saemund, swallowing, “about that.”
Although it was hard for him to think of anything but that since she brought it up.
“You,” the old woman snapped her fingers at the woman. “Have a seat and talk to the poor boy.”
“I will if he tells me what he wants first.”
“Gods above, Vi! He’s Ulrich! You can’t toss him out when you’ve used him up! Now, have a seat!” She pointed at the chair.
The woman took a few steps closer, and, as Saemund watched her body move closer to him, he was keenly aware that strange hunger had returned again within him. He cleared his throat and turned to take the cup of tea to his right.
“So
what is it, Ulrich?” She stood behind the chair, her hands upon the back of it, clutching it like a shield.
Saemund took the cup of tea and sipped, appearing completely in control of himself. “It’s about tomorrow.”
She raised a brow at him. “Oh. Is it?”
The old woman put a cube of sugar into the other cup and stirred it with the small wooden spoon.
“Yes.” He took another timid sip, but the tea filled his mouth with a foul, sour sharpness he found he could not tolerate on such an empty stomach—even with how parched he was.
“What is it about tomorrow then?” She eyed the cup that the old woman presented to her, as if she knew better than to accept.
“Well,” said Saemund, glancing at the cubed sugar on the tray. “They know you’re going to kill Lord Jae Reinout at his Jubilee.”
The old woman turned to him, mouth open again, disbelief in her old eyes.
The woman did nothing but blink at him, while an impish smile crept upon her face. “Is that so?” She held back a laugh.
“And,” Saemund added, feeling absolutely happy with himself as he grabbed two sugar cubes, “they know exactly what you look like.” He smiled at her as he dropped the two cubes into his tea, briefly mixing them in with his pinky.
“And how would they know this?” asked the woman, practically crushing the chair beneath her fingers.
“Vitoria,” said the witch.
She put her hand up to silence the old woman. “Let our sweet, innocent Ulrich answer.”
The old woman stepped away from Saemund, setting the suddenly unwanted cup of tea on the tray as she did so.
Saemund took another sip of his tea; he found it improved but not as well as it could have been. “Someone has been spying on you, and now they know.” He snagged another cube of sugar. His mouth watered in anticipation as he dropped it into his cup.
“Vitoria,” said the witch.
Life drained from the woman’s face. “Conyers?”
“Not for this instance, but without a doubt he spies on you for other reasons.” He took another sip, and his starved stomach happily rumbled at the warm sugar—desperate for any calories.
The old woman was at the woman’s side, pulling at her elbow to gain her attention. “Vitoria!”
“Sylvaine?” she guessed.
“Once again, the same line of thought. I’m sure he spies on you for Conyers, but not in this case.”
The old woman grabbed her shoulder. “Vitoria!”
The woman looked at her then back to Saemund. “I suppose that leaves only you left.”
Saemund drained the cup before he carefully set it on the tray, making not even the faintest of sounds. “Yes, but it’s not what you think.”
Her hands let go of the chair.
“Vitoria!” The old woman shook her again.
She looked back at the old woman who was nodding not at Saemund but at the tray.
The woman lowered her head, but still kept her eyes upon him. A few seconds of silence passed before she took a deep breath. “Ulrich doesn’t eat sugar.” She swallowed as hard as if she had eaten stones whole. “So why the fuck do you look like Ulrich?”
Saemund glanced at the empty cup then back to the woman. “I kept,” he cocked his head, unsure how to best phrase it, “parts of him.”
The woman’s mouth went slack. She crumpled her brow. “Parts?”
Saemund nodded. “Only the parts I needed.”
“Gods above,” said the old woman.
The woman nodded slowly. “I see.”
“Vitoria?” The witch lowered her hand to the woman’s back.
She jerked the old woman’s hand free as she raised her head up, glaring at Saemund. “How long?”
“Long enough.” Saemund folded his hands in his lap. “I think you know—if you really ask yourself.”
She scowled at him, her lip curling. She shook her head.
He was off the chair, his finger reprimanding her. “Don’t you dare lie and say you didn’t know!” His nostrils flared. His chin was held high, and his face contorted in petulant rage. “You never liked him the way you like me!” He slammed his hand to his chest, hard enough to make the old woman gasp. “Admit it, you don’t care he’s dead!”
Her finger was pointed back at him, stabbing him in small pulses. “I don’t like you!”
“Yes,” he nodded his head, red and strained, at her several times. “I know you do!”
She shook her head again. “I should kill you.” Her jaw jutted out as she spoke slowly and hotly: “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t!” He laughed, spit flying from his mouth. “You and I are the same! I saw that in you, and you saw that in me.”
She laughed right back at him. “One regrettable pity fuck and you think you know me?”
“No, I’ve watched you, and I know you. I know you better than anyone else!”
“Why are you telling us this?” asked the old woman, water in her eyes.
“Because of you!” With great adoration, he put his hands out to his woman. “It does not matter what I have done—only what I will do!”
“You are mad,” the woman spat at him.
Saemund laughed again.
“What are you going to do?” asked the old woman.
“That is up to you,” he looked right at the woman. Her eyes looked blue in the light. Blue the color of a starless, moonless night.
“I should kill you.”
“You could try,” said Saemund, licking his dry, cracked lips. “But I have a better proposition.”
“I don’t want anything from a liar.”
It was true. He had lied to her, but he had to. “Say I am yours,” he said as he walked a few paces towards her.
She spat; it landed in front of his toes, which did not stop his advance. “You sick, twisted fuck.”
The old woman leaned in to whisper to the woman. “You should kill him.” She wiped a tear from her cheek.
Saemund dropped to his knee in front of her. “If I am yours then no one need stop you tomorrow.”
She glanced between him and the old woman, her lips slightly moving as if having a secret conversation.
“I could even help you if you say I am yours.” Saemund licked his lips again and swallowed. “If you say you are my master—my mistress.”
He waited for the words, staring at her unsteady lips. Her words, he hoped, would take away the pain in his body, removing the invisible hook from his ribs burrowing deeper into him. The simple words would, no doubt, quiet his mind and allow him some peace—some respite from the haunting hallucinations he suffered from every time he slept.
Her words would take away the vast void inside him. The unquenchable ache he felt but could never satiate.
“Go,” she said. “Just get out.”
He felt the stab again, as if he was being fileted. He grabbed her hands, shaking his head; he couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t let her let him go.
She wretched them free, leaving him a crumpled mess on the floor. “Leave!” she screamed at him.
So Saemund did as he was told.
Chapter 58
It was pathetic to Vitoria just how easy it had always been for her to sneak into the temple. The place may have once been a fortress, but the priests surely hadn’t treated it as such for a long while. She was the only soul in the inner ward. The night was still, offering no masking sound to cover her with. That did not matter to Vitoria, for she was barely taking any caution with her steps or her voice, quietly mumbling as she dropped over the wall onto the grass below.
The voice hadn’t stopped its nattering since Ulrich came:
Find him where he rests and snap his neck!
Treat him as you would any other traitor.
He lied and used you up, just like all the others!
No, she corrected herself. Not Ulrich. Something else—something much different.
She had to stop calling him Ulrich. He wasn’t Ulrich. Ulrich had been dea
d for a long while, and she had never wanted to fuck Ulrich—but she had wanted to fuck that thing. She had never even asked it its name.
The image of James’ battered body flashed into her mind. A gift from the epicene voice within, who was no longer content to merely communicate with words.
It was looting her memories, twisting them to be used to its own purposes. Vitoria couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be until it started to create its own memories. Flashing her with images that never happened. Replaying conversations what never occurred. Feeling the imaginary. Deceiving her.
James’ body slipped away, and it was replaced with the naked form of Ulrich—but not Ulrich. It was the imposter, underneath her. Every muscle strained while she rocked on top of him. His nails digging into her hips, excitedly scratching flesh away, leaving small beads of blood. The sounds he had made were as if he had never been with another.
As she approached the tree, the crows within cawed. Whether they were welcoming her or raising the alarm, she couldn’t be sure, and she didn’t care either way. Let them alert the priests. Have them flood the yard, lanterns in hand. She’d be gone before they ever knew she was there.
Although she would have loved to see their faces after she would tell them she fucked one of their own under their holiest of sites.
She should have been thinking about the real Ulrich, but she wasn’t. Her mind was fixated on the imposter. She replayed conversations with him over and over again. Every gesture on his part, every smile, every question he asked her—every detail was replayed. Even the way he felt, his skin against hers. She should have known.
Nothing but another liar.
He took what he needed from you like a thief!
Strangely, she didn’t feel that way. The voice had gotten it wrong. Perhaps it had been she who had taken from him? She threw the flap of canvas burlap bag at her side open.
She had known. The thing masquerading as Ulrich had been right. It had told her not to lie, not to say she didn’t know. She had known, so she only had herself to blame.
Out of the bag she pulled a pair of long, thick leather gloves, rubbed with layers of wax.
When a friend dies, people should be sad, she reasoned. She should have been sad. She should have been filled with wrath and done as Aimee told her to do: she should have killed him.