Then she went back to the entryway, where her trunk had been deposited on the floor. She sat down on it and waited. She had only ever seen the Beast of the Barrens from afar. He was a tavern owner and a terrifying man. Though she was the daughter of an infamous criminal, she was kept away from such men as he. She was raised with a modicum of respectability.
What would he be like? What would he say to her? What would his mask look like?
Despite everything, she was curious about the man.
But he didn’t come to collect her himself. Instead, he sent four musqueteers, to whom he must have been paying bribes, because the musqueteers were the holy army of the Order of the Flamme, and they served at the will of the patriarch himself.
The musqueteers took her trunk and loaded it on the back of a boat. They put their hands on their pistols, as if they expected her to resist, but she did not. What would be the point of fighting? It would only be undignified.
She went with them with her chin held high, as regal as a queen.
The boat wound through the canals that cut through the city and stopped behind the tavern that the Beast of the Barrens owned. It was located in the Barrens, of course, a part of the city that was frequented only by those who were poor or criminals or both.
She entered the tavern’s kitchen, which was bustling full of workers there making food and drink for the day. The tavern did not open for business until near lunch, as was customary, but the workers were there to prepare. They looked up when she arrived, and she felt their eyes on her, and she heard the whispers as she passed.
Apparently, news of her arrival had preceded her. She supposed it wasn’t every day that a street lord lost his daughter in a card game.
When they left the kitchen, they came into the tavern proper, a large room full of wooden tables of various shapes and sizes, all surrounded with mismatched chairs. The far wall had a stage running across it, a threadbare velvet curtain pulled aside to reveal several folding screens with various scenery painted on them, a collection of stools, and a harpsichord.
A woman with a kerchief around her head was running a wet rag over the tables. She looked up at the sound of the kitchen door closing. “Oh,” she said. “You’re here.” She dropped the rag on one of the tables with a plop and scurried over. “Follow me, if you please. I’ll show you where to leave the mistress’s trunk.”
Mistress? Was she to be the Beast’s wife, then? If that were the case, her father wouldn’t have said the bit about her reputation being ruined.
The woman curtsied to Ziafiata. “My name is Marta Russi. I’ll be seeing to you as best I can. If you have a maid, the master says—”
“I don’t,” said Ziafiata. Perhaps her voice was too curt. Perhaps she should have been warmer to this woman, who obviously had no fault in this, but Ziafiata had been through quite a lot that morning, and she was nearing her breaking point.
“Well, I’ll be helping you a bit, then,” said Marta. “But I’m not your maid either. I haven’t got time to be a lady’s maid in addition to everything else I’m doing around here. I’m sorry about that.”
Ziafiata only nodded.
“Let’s get you settled,” said Marta. She turned and walked towards the stage.
After a moment, the musqueteers realized they were meant to follow and they took off after her, dragging Ziafiata along when she didn’t immediately hop to and move.
Marta led them up a narrow and rickety set of stairs to a small room above the stage. There was a bed in one corner and a mirror attached to one wall. There was a wardrobe, but it was missing both its doors. The floor had cracks in it so wide that Ziafiata could see straight through down to the stage.
She made no reaction to the room. Neither did she thank the musqueteers for bringing their trunk or speak when Marta asked if there was anything she needed.
Instead, she was silent and serene.
Marta said that the master was catching a few hours of sleep, but that he would be with her before noon. She said that she would be back to check on Ziafiata at some point later.
When they all left, Ziafiata tried the door, and it wasn’t locked, but she did not think to try to escape. It would be pointless, anyway, with so many workers below. She did not wish to call attention to the fact that she had not been locked in either.
Ziafiata did not know where she would go if she did escape. Returning to her father would likely only anger him, and it would also probably mean that he simply returned her to Chevolere. Perhaps, however, if she could make her way to Diago, perhaps he would shelter her.
Soon enough, it was too loud to think, because entertainers had taken to the stage below, and Ziafiata was treated to the sound of singing and of boisterous music that women danced to, kicking bare legs out of their skirts in tantalizing ways.
Customers began to fill the tables in the tavern. Ziafiata could see them through the cracks in the floor of her room. She was so busy watching them that she wasn’t watching the door when it opened. Instead, she heard it, and she looked up quickly, and by then, he was already filling the doorway.
Chevolere Vox, the Beast of the Barrens, stood there in a black cape and a black mask. He strode through the doorway, shutting the door behind him firmly, and he advanced on her.
Ziafiata had been sitting on the floor—the better to look through the cracks—and she scrambled to her feet, her heart soaring into her throat.
Chevolere stopped, two feet away. He dragged his gaze over her, and she could feel it, like a cold breeze, fluttering over her, exploring every dip and curve of her body.
She clenched her teeth, willing her heart to beat more slowly. She did not wish this man to understand how much he unnerved her. This close to him, however, she could not help but look at him as well. That curiosity within her wished to be sated.
His mask covered almost all of his face, but she noted that his eyes were blue. No, they weren’t, they were gray, a very light gray that could almost pass for blue, but was ultimately colorless. His chin was clean shaven, but she could see that his hair, if he let it grow, would be dark. He was expressionless as he took her in. There was no way to know whether he approved or disapproved of her, not that she wished to please him, and not that there must be any doubt if he had manipulated her father into gambling her away.
The Beast of the Barrens wanted her.
The thought made her want to convulse in horror. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from doing so.
But no, perhaps it wasn’t that way at all. Her father had indicated that there was some sort of personal indemnity between Vox and her father, and if that was the case, she might be incidental in the entire situation.
Chevolere’s gaze found her own, and she met it, staring defiantly into his gray eyes.
Moments passed.
Chevolere took another step closer to her.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He was inches away from her now. She could feel his breath on her cheeks. He was taller than she was and he seemed far too large and far too close.
Ziafiata stepped backwards, and she was horrified to stumble a bit when she did so.
Chevolere’s arm shot out and caught her shoulder. Roughly, he tugged her forward again.
She collided with his chest, letting out a noise of protest.
“Ah, there it is.” Chevolere’s voice was deep. “You are frightened of me, though you try to hide it.”
“I am not.” She spat the words in his face.
“Then you are a fool.”
She shrugged his hand off her shoulder.
He put it back, and his other hand on her other shoulder besides. He dug his fingers into her flesh. “Stay still.”
“And if I don’t?” She sneered at him. “You plan to use me ill no matter what I do, is that not so? Why should I make it any easier for you?”
“I am prepared not to touch a hair on your head.”
“Too late.” She nodded at his grasp on her shoulders.
She licked her lips. So. He didn’t want her after all.
“However,” said Chevolere, “I do need something from you. If you see fit to give it to me, I shall not need to extract it from you.”
She furrowed her brow. “I have nothing. I have come only with a trunk full of clothes, and you are keeping me in this horrible room—”
“The thing I need from you is in here.” He closed the distance between them again and tapped her temple with one finger. Oh, his hands were rather large, weren’t they? And the hair that grew on the backs of his hands was dark, just as she’d thought. “When you were married to Diago Caputio, he took you to the family fortress on Sierboli for your wedding night.” Sierboli was an island, rather larger than Rzymn, an hour’s trip away by boat.
“There was no wedding night,” she lied through clenched teeth, because that was what she had been taught to say.
“I couldn’t care less about your maidenhead,” said Chevolere. “Whether it is intact or not is nothing to me. You were there. At the Caputio family fortress. You saw where the key is kept.”
Her lips parted. The Caputio family fortress had a door that was latched with the most complicated of locks ever created, as far as anyone knew. The locksmith who had crafted it was named Vilirus Biancce, and he had been forced to make it out for fear for the life of his wife and children, who Abramo Caputio had captured and refused to release until the lock was created. The lock required a special key—a large key—one too big to carry around on one’s keyring. It was instead ensconced in a secret location that only certain members of the Caputio family knew about.
Ziafiata had indeed watched as Diago had taken the key from its hiding place to unlock the door. She knew where it was.
“Where is the key?” said Chevolere.
“Why do you want to enter the Caputio fortress?”
“It’s part of my plan for your father,” said Chevolere. “I won’t tell you more than that. It’s unlikely to motivate you to wish to help me. I rather imagine you have some twisted admiration and loyalty to the man, no matter what he has done to you.”
Her nostrils flared. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I know what sort of man Federo Abrusse is,” said Chevolere. “He deserves what I will do to him. And you might find you are happy to be free of him.”
“Are you going to kill my father?”
Chevolere didn’t answer, and his expression was stone. “The key.”
“No,” she said. “I won’t tell you.”
“He has no loyalty to you,” said Chevolere. “If he did, he would never have given you to me.”
Against her will, her lower lip began to tremble.
Chevolere put his knuckles under her chin, lifting her face so that she was looking into his colorless eyes again. “With him gone, you will never have to endure him again.”
“I will hardly be free, however,” she said, her voice trembling. It was trembling in anger, but it sounded like weakness. “What future would I have as a woman with a ruined reputation, the discarded plaything of the Beast of the Barrens?”
Chevolere dropped his hand. He took a step back and regarded her. “I will see to it that you are provided for. A woman with finances always has a future.”
She didn’t respond.
“Help me, and I will make this as painless as possible for you.”
She let out a harsh laugh. “And if I don’t help you?”
“Pain will only be the beginning,” said Chevolere. His voice was still expressionless, but some horrible light had gone on behind his eyes, some burning desire that shook her.
“Never,” she whispered.
“Your loyalty to that man is misplaced,” said Chevolere.
“Not because of Father,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Because of Diago. I would never betray him.”
This surprised Chevolere. She could see it in his posture. He was silent for several moments. Then he stroked his chin. “The man with whom you had no wedding night? That is where your loyalties lie?”
She didn’t respond to that. She wished that Diago would have defied his father as she had defied hers, but in the end, he had not fought for her. She understood, however. Abramo Caputio was as hard a father as her own. Diago hadn’t had a choice.
Chevolere’s mouth curved into a smile. “Well, I am sorry for you, dear Ziafiata, but I can’t say I am entirely displeased with this turn of events. I shall take pleasure in extracting the location of the key from you.”
She shivered in spite of herself.
Chevolere closed the distance between them once again. He caressed her cheek. “You are a very pretty girl, after all.”
She yanked her face back from his grasp. “Do your worst. I will never betray Diago.”
“We’ll see,” said Chevolere, and that fire in his eyes, it was there again, burning brighter than it had before. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER THREE
Ziafiata was left alone with thoughts of Diago, and she tried never to think of him.
But with nothing else to entertain herself and no way to escape, she found herself at a loss to distract herself, and she lay down on the narrow bed as the music below filtered up through the cracks and thought of him.
Diago had been forbidden to her, of course. It was unlikely that they should have ever met at all, but he had somehow found his way into the reception of Ziafiata’s elder sister’s wedding, he and several of his friends, all of whom worked for the Caputio family.
She had seen him across the courtyard. It had been high summer. The air had been warm. He had golden curly hair, and he had looked angelic, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. She had seen him before, of course, in the streets of Rzymn or inside his family’s boats on the canals. But it had been years since she had, and he had grown up. She had grown up, too.
What perversity within her drove her to go to him, she could not be sure of.
It was in that time when things were relatively better, the time when her father still repented for his part in her mother’s death, but just at the tail end of it all. Perhaps her father’s permissiveness, his preoccupation with his own grief, had made her brave.
Or perhaps it was only that when one is imprisoned one’s entire life, kept from doing even the most banal of things by some oppressive force, one becomes rather like the living flame that resides within the musquets of the musqueteers—ready to explode.
This was perhaps her explosion.
At any rate, she had gone to him, winding through the courtyard as if on a meandering path, but sure in her intent. She found herself at Diago’s side, and she spoke to him. Her father would not approve of such things. Indeed, no one would.
The Caputio family and the Abrusse family were rivals on the streets of Rzymn, both vying with the other to be the most powerful street family and rule the city’s underbelly. There was no love between the two families. One might even say there was hate.
Consorting with any Caputio was strictly forbidden, but Diago, the heir apparent, it was unthinkable.
What could have driven her to do it?
What could she have been thinking?
The truth was she had hardly been thinking at all. It had called to her, a sweet song of excitement. Perhaps the certain destruction to which she confined herself if she was caught was appealing in some awful way. Perhaps she wanted to explode.
She hadn’t done it because she expected to fall in love with Diago or he with her. She hadn’t expected him to wish to marry her. She had only wanted… she didn’t know… a moment to blaze brightly in the summer night.
But Diago, he was…
She had never met anyone like him. She was dazzled by his good looks. When she was near him, she often felt tongue-tied and shy, and she didn’t t
hink that he could possibly be drawn to her as well, but he was.
They sneaked around for months, and it was the most frightfully exciting and romantic thing she could have dreamed of.
She told lies—saying to her father that she was staying with one of her married sisters and instead going to meet Diago. They sailed through the canals under the glittering stars and climbed the cathedrals in the heart of the city. They kissed in the balconies overlooking the main square of Rzymn.
When he asked her to marry him, he wanted to do it then, that very night, and she was so caught up in the idea of it that she couldn’t have refused, not even if she’d been shown how it would all turn out. Maybe she had known, even then, that it couldn’t work between them.
She had come to him for an explosion, after all.
She must have been steeling herself for it to happen.
Diago bribed a carale to marry them in the back room of some cathedral, and then they fled to the island of Sierboli, where the marriage was very thoroughly consummated. Twice.
But by then, her father had wind of it for she hadn’t come home when she had promised she would, and her sister had told her father that she hadn’t come to stay at all, and the entire Abrusse family was combing the city, looking for her.
It didn’t take them long to uncover the carale bribed to perform the ceremony, and then Abramo Caputio himself came and separated them.
She cowered on the bed that she’d shared with her new husband, clutching the sheets to her chest so tightly that her fingers ached, while Diago listened to his father rage with a bowed head, while he bore his father’s slaps and blows to the head without making a noise.
Then she was sent back to her father and given a frightfully awful-tasting tea to drink, which brought on her bleeding and ensured that no Caputio seed would quicken in her womb.
And everyone pretended it had never happened.
Except Chevolere Vox, apparently, who had purchased her from her father precisely because it had occurred.
It was the worst of her sins, the excuse her father used for every punishment he visited upon her since. She was not worthy of the Abrusse name. She was a common tramp, a hussy who spread her legs for Caputio trash. She was a disappointment. She was a failure.
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