by Jay Kristoff
“I’m sure.”
“… i wonder if—”
“I know what I’m doing.”
But sleep arrived before the boy did.
Mia woke somewhere in the evernight’s dark, eyes fluttering open from a dreamless rest. How long had she slumbered? What time could it b—
There it came again. A gentle sound that woke her butterflies.
Knock, knock.
She rolled out of bed, throwing a silken robe over her slip. Heart pounding against her ribs. Cold stone beneath bare feet. She reached the door, hands unsteady as she twisted the key and opened it a crack. And there she saw him, just a silhouette in the dark, saltlocks framing the hidden contours of his face.
Lips dry, she stepped aside without a word. He looked up and down the hallway, hovering at the threshold. For him to be caught outside his room after ninebells would mean torture at the weaver’s hands. But he knew what would happen if he entered. They both knew. A breath that seemed to last forever, watching him through her lashes. And at last, quiet as her sigh, he stepped inside.
She touched the arkemical lamp on her table, waiting for the heat of her hand to spark the light inside. It flickered, a warm sepia glow blooming in the glass. He was behind her, she could feel him. Feel his shadow. Feel his fear at being here. His hunger. And holding her breath, she turned and looked at his face.
A picture, just as she’d known he’d be. The ink was gone, the draketooth scars vanished, a smooth, flawless tan beneath. Cheeks more defined, the hollows around his eyes filled. The kind of handsome a girl might raise an army for, slay a god or daemon for. This girl, at least.
“The weaver knows her work,” Mia said.
Tric looked at his feet, avoiding her gaze. She smiled to see him abashed.
“How does it feel?”
“Not bad,” he shrugged. “I mean, it hurt like fire and iron, but after, not so bad.”
“Do you miss them? The marks?”
“She let me keep them.”
The boy motioned to a small glass phial on a leather thong around his throat. Mia saw it was filled with dark, gleaming liquid.
“Is that…?”
He nodded. “All that remains of my grandfather’s handiwork.”
Reaching out to touch it, Mia trailed one finger down his collar to the skin beneath. She saw the pulse at his neck quickening. Turned away to hide her smile.
“Drink?”
He nodded wordlessly. She busied herself with the clay cups, the bottle she’d lifted during one of her early forays in search of trinkets for Mouser’s list. Though the whiskey wasn’t worth any marks in the Shahiid’s contest, Mercurio had taught her to always swipe a good label when she saw it.
She poured two shots, offered Tric a cup. He clinked it against her own, knocked it back without pause. Mia poured another, one for herself. “Sit?”
The boy looked around the room, down at the stool tucked beneath her dresser.
“There’s only one chair,” he said.
Turning away, Mia slipped her robe slowly off her shoulders. Letting it fall in a crumpled heap on the floor as she crawled onto her bed, reveling in the feel of his eyes on her body. She placed the bottle on the nightstand, reclined among the pillows, legs stretched out before her, whiskey in hand. Waiting.
He walked toward the bed, feet soundless on the stone. Moving like a wolf, head lowered and breathing her in. Mia knew he must be able smell her want. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. Her mouth dry as the desert beyond the walls. She sipped the goldwine again, savoring the smoky burn down her throat. Tric sat on the mattress edge, unable to tear his eyes from her. Tension crackling between them, curling the edge of her lips. She could feel it thrumming in her fingertips. Pulsing beneath her skin. Desire. Her for him. Him for her. Nothing and no one between.
He knocked back his drink with a wince. She watched the light play on his lips as he swallowed, the deep troughs at his throat, the strong, flawless line of his jaw.
“Another?”
He nodded. Mute. She pushed herself up slowly, felt the strap of her slip fall off one shoulder. Sitting up cross-legged, the silk bunched around her hips. Filling with a dark delight as she saw his eyes run over her body, down to the shadow between her legs. She rose up on all fours, prowled across the furs, eyes locked on his. Reaching for the cup in his hand, fingertips circling the lip, onto his wrist. Up the smooth swell of his bare arm, watching his skin prickle, listening to his breath catch. Her face just inches from his.
She wasn’t sure who moved first. Her or him. Only that they came together with a crash, her eyes closed, her mouth finding his as if she’d always known the way. Warm skin and warmer lips. Strong hands and hard muscle. His fingers wrapped in her hair. Her nails clawing his skin. His mouth crushed to hers, tasting the whiskey on his tongue. She tugged off his shirt, fumbled with his belt. He clutched a handful of her slip, tore it from her body as if she’d never need it again.
She pushed him onto his back, lifted herself up on all fours, straddling his face. Wanting to taste him as he tasted her. His mouth left a burning a trail up her inner thighs, hands roaming her naked skin and making her shiver. With a gasp, she managed to tug his britches down around his knees, felt his fingers parting her folds as she took him in her mouth. Groaning around his length, she felt his tongue flickering against her, whispering pleas, lost in the shadows above her head. His fingers, O, Daughters, his smooth, burning heat against her tongue. His mouth against her swollen bud, gasping as she pumped her fist, rolled her tongue around his crown, all the way down to his hilt. Needing more. Needing all.
Dragging herself up, she twisted in place, pushing him back down as he lunged after her, eyes bright with lust. Climbing atop him, she took him in her hand, near drunk with need. Stroking him hard as he groaned, pressing him against her. He lunged upward, taking her breast in his mouth, hands on her hips, urging her down. But she resisted for one more endless moment, freezing in place above him. Locking her gaze with his. An inch and forever away from the fall.
But finally, ever so slowly she sank down, down, looking deep into his eyes, pain and pleasure all entwined, breath strangled in her lungs, unable even to gasp. Goddess, he was so hard. Her head fell back, lashes fluttering, long tresses clutched in his fist as his tongue moved from one breast to another, as she rocked her hips, spine arched, nails clawing his back. Moving as one now, his teeth at her throat. Hissing. Pleading.
He slipped his hand between them, down between her legs. Working gently with his fingertips, rolling them in circles, the heat inside growing hotter and brighter and fiercer until there was only the flame, blinding behind her eyes as her every muscle clenched and she screamed silently into his hair. He crashed and burned inside her, his eyes growing wide and his whole body shaking as she rocked back and forth atop him. She looked into his eyes, knowing he stood right at the edge, begging her to let him fall. And in the split-second before his end she pulled herself off him, finished him with her hand, gasping as he spurted across her belly and breasts, whispering her name.
Limp and breathless, they collapsed in a sweating heap upon the bed.
Silence reigned in the shivering dark. The shadows in the room swaying and rolling in the aftermath. Books had toppled from their shelves, strewn spread-eagled and dog-eared across the floor. The dresser doors were flung open, her stool upturned, the room in chaos. But Tric gathered her up in his arms and kissed her brow, and just for a single, tiny moment, Mia let herself go. Shut her eyes and forgot. Listening to his heart against his ribs, feeling the warm glow recede, a smile on her lips.
She lay there for an age. Pressed against his skin, cheek to his chest. Her hair was strewn across him like a blanket, gossamer black like the shadows all around. And there in the now-still black, she whispered.
“I paid that sweetboy far too much.”
She waited for his reply. Moments stretching into minutes. Finally raising her head and realizing he was dead to the world, gentle
breath slipping through parted lips.
Mia smiled, shook her head. Leaning over, she kissed him, long and gentle. Wrapping her arms around him and closing her eyes with a contended sigh and falling, at last, into sleep.
And as she drifted away, the shadows began to move again.
Slowly at first.
Rippling.
Writhing.
Coalescing finally into a ribbon-thin shape, perched now at the foot of the bed.
A not-cat, staring at the girl with its not-eyes. Waiting patiently, as it always did. For the dreams to come. For the chance to rend and tear the terrors that arrived to haunt her every nevernight since it had felt her call. Every nevernight thereafter, perched beside her as she slept. Growing strong and ever stronger with each mouthful.
The thing called Mister Kindly waited. A patience learned over eons. A silence like the grave. Soon now. Any moment she’d begin to whimper. Whisper for him. What would she dream of tonight? The ones who came to drown her? Her father’s legs kicking, face purpling, guh guh guh? The Philosopher’s Stone and the horrors she’d found within, fourteen years old and lost in the dark?
No matter.
They all tasted the same.
Any moment now, the nightmares would come.
Any.
Moment.
Now.
But for the first time since forever, the nightmares never arrived.
The girl was not afraid.
And there in the empty dark, the not-cat tilted its head.
Narrowed its not-eyes.
And it was not pleased.
Mia opened her eyes. Sat up in bed. Smiling as she realized Tric was still beside her, naked and glorious in the arkemical gloom, saltlocks strewn across the pillow.
There it was again. The sound that had woken her.
Knock, knock.
Tric stirred, frowned in his sleep. Mia touched his cheek and he opened his eyes, realizing at last where he was and sitting bolt upright with a soft hiss.
“Black Mother, I fell asleep?”
“Shhh. Someone’s at the door.”
Mia crawled out of bed. Searching among the chaos for her robe, smiling as she felt Tric’s eyes on her body. Slinging the black silk about her shoulders, she crept to the threshold just as another knock sounded.
“Corvere,” a voice hissed.
“Ash?” Mia twisted her key, opened the door a crack and peered out. Wondering why Ash hadn’t just picked the lock like she usually did. She saw the girl waiting beyond, blue eyes wide in the dark. “What is time is it?”
“Almost mornbells.” The girl pushed past Mia and into her bedroom, black stormclouds gathered over head. “One of the Hands just told me. Fucking Jessamine, that slippery littl—”
It was only once she was inside she noticed the disarray. The clothes and books strewn across the floor. And, O, yes, the naked Dweymeri boy sitting in Mia’s bed.
“Ah,” Ash said.
Tric waved hello.
Ash glanced at Mia, a little abashed. “Sorry, Corvere.”
Mia shut the door so no one else who happened by could see Tric in her bed. If anyone told the Revered Mother he’d been out after curfew …
“You fancy telling me what this is this about?”
Ashlinn said nothing. Lips parted, struggling for the words.
“What?” Mia searched her eyes. “What’s happened?”
“Mia…”
“Fucksakes, Ash, what is it?”
The girl shook her head.
Softly sighed.
“Lotti’s dead.”
CHAPTER 26
HUNDRED
The Hall of Truths smelled different that morn. Among the rot and fresh flowers. Dried herbs and acids. A new scent, rust-flavored, smothering the familiar perfume.
Blood.
Mia pushed her way past the assembled Hands, Ash and Tric close behind. The servants tried to stop her, but she railed and shoved and elbowed until at last a voice called from within, “Let them through.” Mia found herself inside the hall’s green light, eyes wide with rage.
Carlotta was slumped over the workbench, a quill clutched in one cold hand. A slick of congealed scarlet covered the table before her, puddled beneath her stool. The song of the ghostly choir hung in the air with the ironshod stink of blood.
The Revered Mother and Spiderkiller stood by the body, speaking in hushed tones with Solis. Mother Drusilla’s habitual smile was missing entirely, and Spiderkiller looked even graver than usual. Solis stared at the empty air above Mia’s right shoulder as she entered, his face as grim as an abattoir floor.
“Lessons do not begin for hours, Acolytes,” Spiderkiller said. “You should not be here.”
“That’s our friend,” Mia said, pointing to Carlotta’s body.
Spiderkiller shook her head. “No more.”
“How did she die?” Tric asked.
“She didn’t die,” Ash spat. “She was killed.”
“Throat cut,” Spiderkiller replied. “Very quick. Almost painless.”
“From behind?”
The Shahiid nodded.
“Jessamine,” Mia hissed. “Or Diamo. Maybe both.”
“Those fucking cowards,” Ash whispered.
Mother Drusilla raised an eyebrow.
“You know something about this matter, Acolytes?”
Mia glanced at Ashlinn and Tric, slowly nodded. “Carlotta and Jessamine quarreled at evemeal a few turns back, Revered Mother. Lotti was close to cracking Spiderkiller’s formula, but Diamo destroyed her notes. Lotti almost broke Jessamine’s nose and Jess promised to kill her for it. Ask anyone. We all heard it.”
“I see.”
“Lotti said she was going to ask Shahiid Spiderkiller for permission to work late to make up the lost ground. Jessamine and Diamo knew she’d be here.”
“From what you’re describing, anyone who attended that evemeal would have known she was here.”
“But Jessamine promised to kill her. In front of all of us.”
“And that proves what exactly?” Solis snapped. “I recall Acolyte Tric here threatening to murder another novice over evemeal not so long ago. And that same novice turned up dead the next turn.” Solis turned on Tric. “Do you have something to confess, Acolyte?”
“I had nothing to do with Floodcaller’s death, Shahiid. I swear it.”
The hulking man turned on Mia and scoffed. “Idle threats do not a killer make.”
“You don’t even care she’s dead, do you?” she asked.
“On the contrary, Acolyte, we care very deeply,” Mother Drusilla said. “Which is why we are investigating thoroughly instead of leaping to obvious conclusions. Jessamine is a cold-blooded one, true. But do you think her fool enough to murder a girl she openly threatened in front of a room full of people a few eves before?”
“Maybe she thought none of you would give a damn? You weren’t exactly tearing the place apart looking for clues when Floodcaller got his throat cut. More than half of us have died since then and not a tear’s been shed for any of them.”
Solis glowered, blind eyes flashing. “I would counsel you to watch your tone when you speak to your betters, girl. Your distaste for Jessamine is well known. The beatings she’s given you in the Hall of Songs would be reason enough for you to spread lies about her now. And if there are any among this congregation who stood to benefit from Carlotta’s death, it was you.”
Mia blinked. Gobsmacked. “What?”
“You said yourself she was close to solving Shahiid Spiderkiller’s quandary. If Carlotta did concoct the antidote, your best chance to finish top of hall would be lost, neh? You certainly have a sunsbeam’s chance in the ’byss of standing victorious in the Hall of Songs.”
“You miserable…”
“Mia,” Tric warned, putting a hand on her arm.
“… black-hearted…”
“Corvere,” Ash muttered.
“… fucking…”
“… mia…”
&
nbsp; “PRICK!” Mia roared. “She was my friend! Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Solis brought his fist down on the workbench and bellowed. “I am a Shahiid of the Red Church! The Mother’s Blade on this earth, thirty-six sanctified kills wrought in her name! And I swear you will be the thirty-seventh if you dare speak to me so again!”
Mia took one step forward, rage burning in her chest. She knew better than anyone what it meant to cross Solis. But she was still heedless, ever fearless, Mister Kindly swallowing caution whole. Tric and Ash grabbed her arms, pulled her into check. But it was the Revered Mother’s voice that finally brought still to the room.
“Where were you yestereve, Acolyte?”
Drusilla tilted her head, peered at Carlotta’s body.
“Sometime around three bells?”
Spittle on Mia’s lips. Eyes narrowed. Jaw clenched. “Abed, of course.”
“No one to account for your whereabouts, then.”
“… No.”
The Revered Mother fixed her in a cool blue stare. “Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?”
“I’ve ventilated a few throats in my years.” Drusilla motioned to Carlotta’s corpse. “From the wound’s look, I would judge the killer to be left-handed.”
Silence descended on the room. Ashlinn and Tric exchanged uneasy glances, the sweat on Mia’s skin beginning to cool. The Mother was looking right at her.
“Jessamine is ambidextrous,” Mia said. “She fights just as well with either hand.”
“And which hand do you favor, Acolyte?”
“… My left, Mother Drusilla.”
The old woman motioned to the desk. Mia noticed a faint outline in the blood spatter, as if a rectangular object had been sitting in front of Lotti as her throat was opened, shielding the bench from some of the spray.
“Carlotta was obviously working on something as she was murdered. It would seem to be around the shape of a book. A journal perhaps. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Acolyte?”
“Carlotta kept her notes on Spiderkiller’s antidote in there. Everyone knew that.”
The Revered Mother tilted her head. “Interesting.”