The figure suddenly realized he’d seen this man before. The night they both gave Yannis the slaver a well-earned beating.
Alora’s niece ignored the alpha’s derogatory slur and his threat alike. Her disregard seemed to rile him further, and the figure prepared to leap when the Darakaian alpha brought the tip of his kopar to her throat.
“Now, Lady Boreal.”
She blinked a few times, withdrawing from the Sight. Unconcerned, she swatted the blade away with the back of her hand and untied the veil covering her mouth.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful, Lord Darakai?” she said dryly. “Those rampant emotions of yours are rarely of any value.”
The al’Haidren to Darakai? What business does the son of Nyack Kasim have in Marketown this time of night? the figure mused, stunned by his appearance in the alley.
He had always wondered what became of the child. The brutish result standing on the cobblestones was less than shocking, though the way Nyack’s son had protected that cross-caste’s body from a slaver…that compassion was very like his mother. Perhaps their son had inherited something of hers after all.
“Do you honestly think anyone would believe your innocence?” the young Kasim spat in a harsh whisper. “A lone y’siti next to a cross-caste corpse…it only proves your reputation as the twisted, heartless witch—”
Ignoring his slander, she began a verbal assessment of the body, raising her voice above the other al’Haidren’s. “Look—incisions were made along the wrists, neck, and ankles. Whoever did this was educated in human anatomy. That much is evident. Here, do you see?” Alora’s niece pointed to a wound on the right arm. “Each cut was cleaned thoroughly. They killed her, drained her, cleaned her, and left the body for us to find…like a rag doll.”
“I said, step back!” Kasim’s kopar pointed toward the wall. “This isn’t a game, Witch.”
“Whatever gave you the impression it was, Lord Darakai?” She bent her nose to the cut and inhaled deeply, as the figure had done with the body in Arune.
“What the Depths are you doing!” Kasim yelled, stepping back in fear.
Jerking away, she covered her mouth. The figure shifted uncomfortably. She smelled it—the depravity, the lingering wrongness where the corpse had been touched. Tension curled his thoughts. The girl was another victim, like the young woman in Arune, but this time, the killer had been deliberate—careful, even, as with the boy discovered in the bay.
“Wait.” Suddenly less concerned with Alora’s niece, the southern al’Haidren bent to look closer. “I know that dress—the style, I mean. Uni, yeah, that…she’s one of Salma’s girls.”
He cupped his chin and studied the lacerations. As Kasim reached to sweep a clump of hair off the wound across the neck, her hand shot out and grabbed his arm.
“Don’t touch it,” Alora’s niece warned, wide-eyed. “It has been defiled. Something’s not right.”
“Nothing about this is right,” he snapped, ripping his forearm out of her grasp. “You speak of Darakai like we’re the animals, but look at this! Look what the northmen do to their own children! Depths, the girl probably didn’t even live to see her own Ascension. Now she never will.”
“Boreal has no part in this wickedness!” Alora’s niece bared her teeth. “Our blood is precious. We never waste it. It’s Darakaians who crave bloodshed in their lust for power, not my kinsmen.”
“The Boreali drained the color from your eye.” Kasim shook his head violently. Evidently, he’d heard, and believed, one of the more ridiculous rumors about her people. “They blinded you from your own savagery.”
“You claimed you know the girl’s mistress,” she said, considering the other al’Haidren. She nodded, appearing to make a decision. “You will take me to her at once.”
Alora’s niece rose on her heels, secured the linen veil across her face, and waited expectantly.
“Tonight, Lord Darakai.”
“The only place I’m taking you is a dungeon, for whatever you’ve done to this poor girl,” Kasim asserted, visibly unsettled by the body at his feet.
The figure bent over the roof slats, intrigued. It was extraordinary behavior—a Darakaian caring for the fate of yet another cross-caste, especially of Boreali lineage.
“Those wounds were cleaned, but the corpse is covered in refuse. Had I any part in her death, the evidence would be on my person, which it is clearly not.” She stalked past Kasim in the direction he’d originally come. “We are speaking to her mistress tonight.”
“Ano. No, we are not. This body belongs to Bastiion. These deaths fall under the pryde’s investigation. And Boreali participation is not welcome,” he snarled.
“Neither is your own, apparently,” she shot back. “I heard this investigation was taken from your pryde. But I have a feeling you will seek out her mistress regardless, and when you do, I expect to be there.”
“I found you stalking the streets of Marketown, unescorted, at the scene of the crime.” Kasim’s son started toward her. “I’m within my rights to take you in on that alone.”
“Lord Darakai, I may not know what exactly lies in that crate, but it’s obvious you’ve gone to great lengths to avoid trafficked areas with it in tow.” She crossed her arms and stopped just short of his chin. “There are a number of goods prohibited by our allies, goods which come in bottles just like those in your care. I wonder what our prince would say about that? His beloved friend, a common criminal.”
Alora didn’t give her niece nearly enough credit, the figure decided. Were she to ease her strict governance, she might see the cleverness of her Luscia. It was one of the few traits the al’Haidren had inherited from her aunt; a quality Alora had not displayed so brazenly since their youth.
An ache panged through his chest at the memory.
“Then we are at an impasse.” Kasim glared down his nose at her, a creature his superior in so many ways, then sighed with disgust. “If I take you with me, we go my way. No arguments. None.”
She stared at him for a moment before giving a stiff nod. “Wem. Agreed.”
“Good, because you aren’t going to like it,” he muttered under his breath with a smirk, and knelt to pick up the crate.
“I am more than capable of discretion. You’ve no cause for concern,” she replied defiantly to his back.
“I have to sneak Boreal’s self-righteous al’Haidren into a house of ill repute. That’s plenty of cause for concern.” He grinned into the darkness and headed deeper into the alley, calling back, “I better see you holding two wraiths at dawn.”
The figure thrust his arm in the air and awaited the bite of Amaranth’s talons as they clutched his sleeve. It was time his mistress learned of the rebellious pattern her niece was weaving, and the young Darakaian who held her by one very dangerous thread.
TWENTY-ONE
Luscia
Luscia fidgeted with the scarf, careful not to disturb the fine layer of cacao paste darkening her hairline and thick brows. She wrapped her hair tightly in the silky material, as Unitarian women of the lower classes often did with their own. Tucking the loose blonde strands underneath, she arranged the tail of the scarf so that it cascaded over the scar tissue carved into the left side of her neck.
“Depths, aren’t you finished yet?” her escort demanded for the second time.
“Disguising me as a cross-caste scullery maid was your idea, Lord Darakai,” Luscia bit out, picking up the dress she’d borrowed from Mila and eyeing it apprehensively. “Shtàka,” she swore. “As you frequently remind me, I’m to follow your lead without complaint.”
To avoid suspicion, they’d waited three nights since finding the corpse. She tried not to dwell on that evening, though the waiting provided ample opportunity to do so. The more Luscia pondered the series of bizarre events, the more unsettled she became. It wasn’t the first occasion she’d felt eyes on her
back during a hunt through Bastiion, but it was the first night she’d heard the whispers, and the only since. The trail of voices had hummed indecipherable secrets and teased her into that alley, departing once she entered it.
Luscia’s mother had heard voices, too. They’d made Eoine laugh, and cry.
Still, the whispers weren’t the most troubling incident that night. It was for Boreal’s Haidrens to choose when to use their gift of Sight. But the Sight, of its own accord, had summoned Luscia to seek behind the veil and into the Other. While in its captivity, that otherness had revealed a cloud of fractured lumin about the corpse. Those threads had shuddered away from the defiled flesh and pooled around Luscia instead, like they were fleeing something dark indeed.
Fiddling with the stitching of the borrowed garment, Luscia suppressed an itch of alarm creeping down her spine. The benefit of Kasim’s delay was that it had allowed Luscia time to procure the items needed for her transformation, although neither she nor Mila had accounted for their variance in size. Imitating the majority of women at court, Mila had the appetite of a sparrow, the evidence of which was painfully obvious as Luscia stepped into the slim clothing. The attendant’s taut, linen dress cinched tightly at her waist, causing Luscia’s breasts to practically spill out over top.
“This is why we don’t starve ourselves like the yancy women, Mila,” Luscia grumbled, shoving her biceps through the narrow sleeves.
“What are you going on about?”
Squatting, Luscia stashed her far more practical gear under a stray wooden pallet and stepped around the corner in the vacant alley, praying the likes of Zaethan Kasim would not notice how her bodice quite literally busted at the seams.
By the way his bright eyes flicked up and lingered where they didn’t belong, he most certainly did.
“Finally.” He coughed, clearing his throat, and stomped away.
Wrapping her arms around her torso, Luscia gingerly followed.
In awkward silence, Luscia trailed him through the dancing streetlights of Marketown’s busy district. Even approaching midnight, it was teeming with traffic. Eventually Kasim stopped in front of an embellished red door fixed between shabby brickwork and heavily curtained windows, which did little to trap the revelry within.
Seizing the handle, he hesitated and muttered, “Do try to pretend you like me, otherwise we might as well turn around right now.”
Luscia’s eyes rolled skeptically. “And why is that?”
“Because there’s only one reason an al’Haidren would bring his maid to a place like this,” he said in a dark tone.
Luscia stiffened at the sudden pressure of his fingertips on the small of her back. Leading her into a haze of smoke and laughter, he didn’t remove his hand. Though the rowdy banter of drunken men occupied the tavern, exotic rhythms blurred their thunder. As Kasim steered her through cracked archways to a lengthy, crowded bar, feminine giggles lilted above the noise. Lingering by each gambling table were women dressed akin to the dead cross-caste. Angling their bodies and encircling players, they fawned over the men as they wagered coin in desperate games of pride and chance—yancy, sentry, and lower classes alike.
If Boreal’s Clann Darragh could see the hovel his daughter had just entered…
Luscia swallowed hard.
Beyond the farthest table, a woman emerged from behind a split tapestry with a sentry in tow. Her tawny Unitarian skin was pinked with a flush that spread across her exposed neck and shoulders. The night-caller batted her tinted lashes as she languidly skimmed a fallen sleeve higher and bid the sentry goodnight.
Luscia knew of such transactions, naturally, but had never witnessed one unfold. Suddenly, she felt altogether too exposed. An unnamed anger hardened her jaw as she stiffly took a seat on the stool beside the other al’Haidren.
“Try harder, Lady Boreal.” Kasim’s hot breath brushed her ear as he instructed her through his teeth. “Your pious notions are starting to show.”
“I am trying.” Luscia forced a rigid grin.
“Tell that to your face.” He spun away and addressed the solemn barkeep. “The Crown Special.”
The Unitarian paused in his task, shared an edgy look with Kasim, and left his post.
“You seem familiar with the service menu,” Luscia commented quietly, attempting to appear at ease while she scanned the large room for its exits. Two public, two concealed. “I’m curious—how often does a Darakaian alpha buy his women?”
“As often as he likes. Darakaians don’t hide their dealings. We don’t slink in the shadows like cockroaches and infect a city we’re not wanted in, like y’si—”
“Shamàli, shamàli.” An intoxicated sentry bumped into Kasim, nearly displacing him off his stool. “Di yaya,” he slurred. Licking his bottom lip, he jutted his chin in Luscia’s direction. “Ni yeye ràtomdai na wewe?”
“Uni zà,” the al’Haidren barked, startling Luscia when he reached over and gripped her thigh possessively.
“Eh, eh…uni, Alpha Zà.” The Darakaian sentry threw his hands up and stumbled as he eased back into the crowd.
“Remove your hand,” Luscia hissed.
“Just playing the part.” Kasim sneered and withdrew his palm, wiping it discreetly against his pantleg.
Luscia watched the drunkard trip over a chair as he approached another grouping. “What did he ask you?”
“If I claimed rights to you—a courtesy, of sorts.” He shrugged, hopping off his stool when the barkeep reappeared and mutely pointed to a staircase along the opposite wall.
“A courtesy!” she sputtered, darting after Kasim as he cut between the betting tables. Luscia swatted prying fingers as she passed through the crowd of intoxicated men.
“Uni, a courtesy.” He climbed the steps, glancing over his shoulder. “You should be pleased I said yes—some men like to share.”
Luscia’s fists tightened around Phalen’s radials. She calmed herself with the knowledge that they were sharp enough to take out Zaethan Kasim, should his next comment justify doing so.
At the top the landing, he swept a drape aside and halted at the sight of a wall of muscle.
“Ràoko. Delightful.” He glanced up to the massive cross-caste. The wordless guard stood a head taller than Kasim, who himself surpassed six feet. “With your excellent conversational skills, who could stay away?”
For a moment, Luscia thought Kasim was about to be struck in the mouth, and found herself disappointed when he wasn’t.
Ràoko retreated to a makeshift office at the end of a musky hallway. Not large, it housed a snug sitting area and a single desk, where a woman sat hunched over stacks of paper and clusters of coin. Her flock of wild, lustrous curls shone in the lantern-light when she peered up at them.
“Back so soon, Jaha?” the woman inquired breathily, despite the constrictive corset around her middle. “To what do I owe this rare pleasure?”
Rising from the desk, her shapely hips swayed as she moved to greet Kasim. The woman gently pulled him toward her by the neck and placed a fleeting kiss along his upper jaw. Up close, delicate fissures around her eyes indicated that she was older than her figure suggested. More interesting was the distinct contrast between her Unitarian complexion and pronounced southern features. The Veiled Lady was operated by a cross-caste.
Cross-castes seldom owned much of anything, much less an enterprise of this magnitude. It was unheard of, particularly for a cross-caste who would gather and market individuals like herself for profit.
“Ah, what have you brought me? A gift?” Luscia shifted uncomfortably when the woman walked a semi-circle to appraise his guest, chuckling in her assessment. “Had I known your preference was so…unusual, I could’ve offered one more seasoned from my own house, Jaha. You don’t need to raid your palace kitchens for it, yeah?”
“Not necessary, Salma,” Kasim interjected at Luscia’s scowl, moti
oning to the divan and pair of satin armchairs. “But in a way, that is why we’ve come.”
“And who, exactly,” the woman took a seat, leaning over the small table, “is ‘we’?”
Out the corner of her eye, Luscia waited for his go-ahead, honoring their agreement. At his nod, she unraveled the scarf imprisoning her distinctively northern hair.
“I didn’t bring you a kitchen maid,” he explained. “We need to ask you about the girl, Salma. The cross-caste they found, yeah? And unfortunately, this is a conversation the al’Haidren to Boreal insisted she be present for.”
The brothel matron blinked repeatedly as her full lips separated. After a moment, her playful smirk returned.
“Cacao paste…uni. Rather sly, Lady al’Haidren.” One black brow lifted at the residue on Luscia’s scarf. “And wise. You were right to disguise her, Jaha. She would not be well received by my guests.”
“Agreed. Now—the girl, Salma. She was one of yours, uni?” Kasim sat forward, cupping one fist in the other. “I need to know who she was, her friends, who visited her. There’ve been no leads in our investigation thus far. Your tavern may provide us with the first clues.”
The sultry madam reclined in her armchair, crossing her legs slowly, and glanced between them. Luscia heard her breathing grow shallow as her eyes narrowed at some internal debate.
“Bolaeva.” Luscia’s voice cracked. “Please, help us find who is behind these atrocities. For all of Boreal, I beg you, please help us.”
Several minutes passed before Salma answered.
“Her name is—was—Wren. The girl only came to us last year. No family.”
“Little songbird,” Luscia murmured the meaning behind the northern name. “But how did she end up here, in a…” She trailed off, too embarrassed to continue.
“…a whorehouse, Lady al’Haidren?” the madam pointedly finished. She laughed without humor. “In my experience, it is never the high and mighty who protect the cross-caste or the breakaway. Ano, it is the underworld. Even our Unitarian king refused to grant us a voice in the Ethnicam.” Salma swept a mass of curls to the side and tilted her head. “I know what you are thinking—looking down on us, our family, yeah? What you do not realize, my lady, is I can only provide my family with food, shelter, protection, whatever they need because I am willing to feed Bastiion’s wolves—” Two fingers pointed to the tavern underfoot. “—what they hunger.”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 20