“Here, this room is free,” Lorraine announced, stopping at the end of the hall and turning the knob. “The bathing chamber for servants is at the other end of the hall on the left. Do you have any belongings?”
Quinn patted her satchel, flipping it open to show her the couple of books. “What you see is all I have,” she answered, pushing it back against her side.
Lorraine frowned. “Hmmm. Well, I’ll take you in and while you’re cleaning off, I’ll bring you a gown to sleep in.”
Quinn shook her head. “Don’t bother. I don’t wear dresses. Something like what I’m wearing will work fine. I can sleep in a pair of trousers as easily as I can fight in them.”
“Fight?” Lorraine looked taken aback for a moment, but she quickly masked it. “I see,” she said. “Well, then to the bathing chamber, I suppose.”
Quinn nodded and followed her to a separate room at the end of the hall. Inside, there was a large pool of murky water with columns rising alongside it. “The water will be cold,” Lorraine warned her. “Lord Fierté usually has fire crystals set in the base of the columns to warm it this time of year, but they haven’t yet been replaced.”
“A cold bath is better than no bath,” Quinn replied as she began removing her dusty clothes. She let them drop on the smooth tiled floor beside her and turned for the stairs leading down into the main tub when she heard Lorraine’s low gasp. Quinn stiffened knowing that it was the crisscrossing scars on her back that gave the other woman pause.
Ignoring the audience, Quinn headed for the pool and began her descent into the icy depths. Closing her eyes, she dove forward letting water engulf her completely. Submerged enough to fully clean herself for the first time in years, Quinn kicked off the bottom of the pool and went a few feet out. When the burning in her lungs intensified to an uncomfortable crescendo, she came up for air with a loud gasp. Slicking back her hair, Quinn turned her gaze to Lorraine, who stared after her—eyes full of curiosity and wariness.
“I’ll be back with new clothes and some food.”
Quinn nodded and watched the woman back out of the room before she leaned back and stared at the ceiling. She floated there in the murky water for several quiet moments before spotting a wedge of soap forgotten along the side of the pool. Quinn swam towards it, propping both arms against the side as she came to a stop. She grasped the soap between her wet fingers, sniffing the thick, hard bar. It had been a long time since she’d been able to use soap to bathe. Over ten years to be exact. She brought the bar to her nose again and inhaled deeply. It smelled like rosemary and sage.
Lathering it between her fingers, Quinn quickly washed away the dirt from her travels and then washed her hair as well. By the time she was done and had rinsed all of the suds away, only a small bit of the chunk remained. She placed it back on the edge of the pool and glanced behind her at the echo of a door shutting. Lorraine was back—and she held a tray of food in one hand and a bundle of clothes in the other, a clean towel draped over one arm.
“Lord Fierté requests that you eat and rest while you can. You will be leaving again in a few hours.”
Quinn highly doubted that. The man didn’t request anything of anyone. He demanded, even when he had no right. She chose not to voice any particular opinions as she pushed away from the ledge and swam back to the steps.
Quinn groaned against the stiff aching of her muscles as she trudged up the stairs, water running from her skin in streams, hair thick and unruly as it plastered itself to her back. Lorraine set the tray of food down and handed over the towel. Quinn quickly dried and reached for the clothes, donning the new fabric. The trousers were a bit tight over her hips, but the rest fit relatively well. She wasn’t going to complain.
“Where’d you find these on such short notice?” Quinn asked.
“Yan, our groundskeeper, has a teenage son. He kindly lent them to me,” Lorraine replied.
Quinn nodded. “Well, Yan’s son has my thanks, then.”
Lorraine gestured to the tray. “Please eat, and then you may stay in the room I showed you earlier. Someone will wake you when it’s time to go.”
Quinn debated on forgoing food altogether in favor of more sleep, but she knew she’d need her energy later. Besides, what she saw on the tray had her salivating.
Day old bread, a hunk of cheese, and jams with neatly sliced fruit. Quinn tore into it with little finesse, scarfing down the delicious meal in mere minutes. Lorraine stood by and when Quinn lifted her head, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her new tunic, she paused, noting the other woman’s horrified stare.
“What?” Quinn asked.
“We will have to work on your manners,” Lorraine said, blinking. “They’re appalling.”
Quinn shrugged. “I’ve hardly eaten in three days.”
Lorraine shook her head and reached for the empty tray. “Go rest. You will be moving again soon,” she commanded.
Quinn didn’t need to be told twice. As Lorraine left the bathing area, Quinn did as well, snatching her satchel up from beside the pool and retracing her steps to the room Lorraine had shown her before. She turned the handle and the door swung open easily, its hinges creaking. In the corner, there was a bed big enough to fit one body—and a small one at that. Quinn didn’t care. A bed was a bed. She fell face first into the mattress and was asleep within moments.
Rest, however, was a long way away.
The clanging of chains echoed in the near distance. The soft, constant drip of liquid brought Quinn’s consciousness rising to the surface. Opening her eyes, Quinn sat up and froze.
Stone pillars surrounded her. Ice beneath her. A blast of frosty air whispered along her naked spine. Slowly, mechanically, Quinn rose to her feet and turned in a circle taking in the familiar temple. It was a place she hadn’t seen in years, not since before she’d been sold.
Soft growls made her frown and without thinking, she turned. The sight that greeted her lunged into her chest, gripped her cold, black heart and squeezed. Outwardly, Quinn showed no reaction. Her eyes remained transfixed on the girl bound in chains, naked. Blood soaked the girl’s fingernails and dripped from her silver hair, now stained red.
The girl tilted her head back. Two small black horns protruded from the top.
Someone—a man—moved forward, laying over the girl and she growled again. The chains rattled and Quinn turned her head. Someone lay dead not far beyond the small light that illuminated the scene. In fact, there were many someone’s—all men. All dead.
“Stop.” The girl choked out. Her voice was hoarse, raw—shredded from endless screaming. Quinn felt a skitter of something violent ripple through her. A desire, a need to help this girl, though she couldn’t figure out why.
The man that hovered above her was pale-skinned and silver-haired. But the girl … she was different. While her hair was like moonlight, her skin was a rich smoky gray. The man moved against her—but the girl didn’t cry, didn’t scream.
Quinn was frozen in place, unable to move. She could feel it from where she stood. The harsh frenzy of her fury rising. The man atop her had fear running through him so palpable, so thick, Quinn could practically taste the vileness of it on her tongue, like sweat and mold.
Even for fear, though, something was off.
Something was different.
The chains rattled again, and the man froze. Then he was reeling back—away from the girl. Stumbling. Naked. Bleeding. Broken. He choked, his lips parting as blood poured from his neck. The girl’s mouth was painted red. The color messily smeared over her lips, dripping in thick, sticky streams from her chin onto the skin between her breasts.
The choking man fell dead, but at the very same moment, one of the corpses rose from the shadows and moved forward.
Chains rattled.
“Stop.”
She pleaded, but the reanimated corpse did not yield.
He moved forward, positioning himself over her, situating himself between her thighs. She struggled as much as the chains would
allow, but it stopped nothing.
Without so much as a response, he entered her.
“Stop.”
Quinn felt it then. A new fear—sharper and deeper and more ingrained than any of the corpses, like being bathed in ice and blood. It washed over Quinn, sending her to her knees.
She kept her eyes open and the girl looked up, finally meeting Quinn’s stare. Something familiar reached her.
What … who …
“Stop,” the girl begged. “Stop.”
They did not stop.
They never stopped.
That’s what the girl was afraid of.
She was afraid that no matter how many times she killed them, these men would reanimate. They would come for her again and again, forcing themselves between her legs over and over, until sick pleasure found them—only to reanimate moments later.
For each she killed, another took its place.
Never tiring.
Never truly dying.
Never stopping.
When Quinn was shaken awake, she almost punched Lorraine as she stood over her. Startled, the older woman jerked back before Quinn’s fist could make contact. Panting, sweating, and blinking furiously into the small room, Quinn tried to catch her breath. Sweat soaked her new tunic, dampening her skin and making the fabric cling to her aching muscles.
“It’s time to go,” Lorraine said, stepping back, eyeing her warily.
Quinn scrubbed a hand down her face and nodded. Lorraine took another step towards the door and with a last look hurried into the hallway, leaving the door ajar. Quinn swung her legs over the side of the bed and rested her head in her hands.
It took several minutes to realize that black tendrils of fear were twining around her wrists like the girl’s shackles, moving and buzzing against her skin as if preparing for a feeding frenzy. Whatever that dream—that nightmare—had been, it had awakened something inside her. Something that would not go back to sleep.
Sweet Torments
“Not all pain was painful, just as not all torture was physical. Sometimes the real torment came wrapped in a package so delectable that its mere presence was sweet agony.”
— Lazarus Fierté, nobleman, master manipulator, definite murderer
Lazarus hadn’t slept well in years, but ever since he’d found Quinn, being awake was just as restless. The dark magic that lurked within her called to him, whispering the sweetest, most deadly of promises. The ride to Shallowyn had been its own form of torture, having her so close that he could touch, that he had to touch her—and yet so far because he wouldn’t do more than that. He refused to, though she fascinated him.
Quinn had her sanity. Mostly.
When emotions ran high, she had slips, much as he did. Hers were less controlled and they occurred more often, but they were not nearly as deadly as his own. At least, for the likes of him they weren’t. Not yet. He could manage her powers where they currently were. She was still young enough and coming into them that he had time before she reached her ascent into what she would be.
He could see it now as he stared out into the sun sinking below the horizon, the horse under him clomping over the uneven road.
She would be glorious when she reached her full potential, and Lazarus had every intention of being the one to guide her there. He planned to be the one to harness that dark fire he knew grew within her.
If only the growing need inside him would settle. The desire to fuck or to kill was becoming a tad … overwhelming. Taking out the assassins had taken the edge off, but after riding all day and night with his body pressed against her … he shook his head. Lazarus was right back where he started, with a buzzing awareness of her that he couldn’t seem to relieve himself of.
The damn girl—useful as she would be—was far too fascinating for her own good.
When people interested him, they either wound up dead or tied to his house for life.
Quinn had no desire to stay on and was inherently distrustful. She wasn’t naïve enough for her loyalty to be bought easily.
His fingers tightened around the reins, and the horse came to an abrupt stop.
“Everything alright?” Draeven asked him.
Lazarus looked to his left-hand man and closest friend as he said, “We should camp.”
Draeven nodded once, his sand colored hair turning gray as the light was extinguished from the sky. “Then we camp.”
They turned away from the trodden path and led their small entourage into the woods, going just far enough they wouldn’t be seen by anyone that might pass them by on the roads. Lazarus dismounted, ignoring the sharp wave of awareness that ran through him when Quinn slid off her horse and groaned loudly.
The sound stirred something in him, and he didn’t like it.
“Who is she?” Draeven asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
“No one,” Lazarus answered. He pulled his sleeping mat from the saddle. They had been in too much of a hurry when they left Shallowyn to bother with tents. The set up and takedown wouldn’t be worth it this time of year anyway. The burden of gear would just slow them down. A few weeks from now, when they were in the Cisean mountains and still heading north they might need more, but not now. Not when Quinn couldn’t even ride on her own.
“Alright, Lazarus,” Draeven sighed. “Then what is she?”
“A vassal,” he answered.
“You get a letter from an old man and stay in Dumas a month looking for this girl—who I’ve never seen before—and in the time you find her, you hear from Claudius and get attacked on the way home.” Draeven paused, the doubt he didn’t want to show evident. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it,” Lazarus replied.
“At least tell me why she was so important that you brought her on this trip,” Draeven said, tying his own horse to a tree. “Untrained and unprepared,” he added, his violet eyes narrowing on Lazarus before flicking back to Quinn for a brief moment.
“She can translate N’skaran,” Lazarus said. “I’ll need that soon.” It wasn’t lying. Not really. She could speak it, and with how reclusive the N’skari tribes were, he would have a hard time finding another N’skaran in Norcasta that could do the job he would have her do. It wasn’t the actual reason he brought her, though. Not even close.
“Is that all?” Draeven asked, his jaw tense as he returned his gaze to Lazarus.
“What are you getting at?” he replied curtly.
“She can barely ride a horse, and she’ll slow us down. Lorraine told me she has scars on her back from lashings, which means she could also be a runaway slave for all we know.” Draeven lowered his voice a fraction when Quinn turned and stared very pointedly at the two men as though she knew they were speaking about her. It was eerie, the way she moved unapologetically through the world. Never once had she lowered her eyes in submission to him, as many others would have on instinct. Even now she stared while Lorraine scolded her for it. Quinn gave a muttered dismissal under her breath that only served to frustrate her older companion.
“She’s not a slave,” Lazarus answered, loud enough for her to hear, before turning for the woods to continue this conversation in private. Draeven followed after, still not letting up.
“Are you sure of it?” his second asked.
“Quite,” Lazarus replied. “I had to take her to Driselda to have seventeen brands removed.”
“Myori’s wrath,” Draeven cursed. “Either way, N’skara is one of the last stops, and while they’re rare, they aren’t so rare you couldn’t have found someone by then. So, what is she? Because ever since you got back with her, something has been off with you.” He paused, his eyes drifting to the girl behind him. Lazarus was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t the only one drawn to her darkness. “Is she what I think she is?”
“And what is that?” Lazarus asked, a darker note filling his tone. He glanced back at Quinn who was no longer watching him and instead began setting up her own sleep roll, purposefully ignoring Lorraine as she t
ried to explain something.
“Is she like you?” Draeven asked at last. Both men stood there watching the young woman go about her business. Only brief whispers of the darkness inside stirred in the air around her, but it was enough to drive Lazarus insane. A taste of her power, but no more.
“No,” he answered. “Not quite.”
Draeven blinked, slowly turning towards Lazarus again. “Not quite?”
“She’s a fear twister.”
“Gods help us,” Draeven swore. He lowered his head into his hand and took a deep breath. “Now I understand why you’re being so guarded about this.” He knew that he meant it and that even Draeven knew how rare a find she truly was.
“She’s one of the strongest Maji I’ve ever encountered, and she hasn’t even reached her ascent,” Lazarus said. “I need to have her tested, of course, and she needs to begin training. I watched her conjure an illusion over all of Dumas and send a quarter of the city into panicked frenzy.”
Draeven shook his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
“With her trained and by your side, you think the noble houses of Norcasta won’t rise against you when Claudius dies,” Draeven surmised and Lazarus nodded. “You’re not wrong. If she truly is that strong, then you would cement your seat without dissolution … but there are problems with this plan, Laz—”
“She’s signed a contract. I own her for five years,” Lazarus interrupted.
“And what about after her time is up?” Draven asked. “What if you train her—and that’s assuming that you’ll even be able to—how do you know that she won’t get addicted to the power and move against you?” His points were logical and valid. Lazarus had already considered them.
“I don’t,” Lazarus replied. “I have no guarantees she won’t flip at the end of it, but if that happens, I’ll deal with her when we come to that. Five years is a long time, Draeven. Long enough to earn her loyalty and discern if she’s going to be a problem.” He hoped so, anyway, not that he would tell Draeven of his doubts. The man was still getting used to the idea. Lazarus needed to take this slowly, with all parties, if he wanted to see the outcome he desired.
Fortune Favors the Cruel Page 7