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Though it would have been nice to take Frat’s advice and find a place to “ease myself,” I was more determined than ever to go after the Anlace, especially now that I had spotted the guard for whom I’d been searching. I headed for the West Gate a second time, careful to stay within the throng, wary of being seen by the large guard who had picked me up after my fall. Once more I settled into the shadow of the tower where I’d laid eyes on the man I sought. He had moved closer, but was still working, waving tourists and itinerants every which way, and I crouched down to wait.
The afternoon dragged interminably, and acid ate away at my empty stomach. When at last the sun began to descend, and the traffic in and out of the city slowed considerably, my target emerged from the guard tower. He was burrowed so deep in a fur-lined coat that his face was hardly visible, but at this point, I could have recognized him by the pomposity of his stride. The fur of his coat stuck out oddly, clinging to its neighboring fibers, looking more like it might be seeking the Constabulary’s warmth than vice versa, and yet he clearly enjoyed the power and prestige inherent in his position. I doubted he was a man who would listen to reason when it came to the Anlace—I feared I might need a different approach from a conversation.
Yanking my cloak close around me, I started after him, keeping to the edges of the streets. I followed his barrel-like form through the nearby business district and into narrower, little-trafficked residential neighborhoods. The lack of people was a boon to keeping sight of my target in the fading orange glow of the sun. When the Constabulary turned to cross the street we’d been tracking, I ducked into an alley next to a community bathhouse that obligingly disguised my presence with the steam that seeped through the cracks in its paneled exterior. Peering around the corner, I saw him turn up the walk before a small home with a single peaked roof. Knowing he was about to enter, I stepped out of my hiding place and strolled in his direction.
The guard fumbled with a ring of keys, and I nearly cursed aloud when the door was opened from inside by an elderly woman. Concentrating, I tuned in my ears to catch their voices.
“You keep too many damn keys,” the woman sniped. “Keep so many you end up trapped outside buildings rather than gettin’ in ’em.”
“The keys are for work, Mum,” the guard muttered, a strong note of bitterness in his tone.
He shoved past her into the house, and the door thwumped shut. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to solve this conundrum. I had never considered that the guard wouldn’t live alone. But although he shared the house with his mother, this didn’t change my ultimate plan. I still had to confront him and recover the Queen’s Anlace. The task had just become more complicated.
I darted across the street and into the deep shade of an awning that extended over one of the home’s windows. I hid my face in the fabric of my hood and exhaled, enjoying the brief warmth it created inside the covering, then stilled my body. At some point, I crouched down and then sat, secure in the belief that no one would notice me in the gathering darkness, shrouded in the alcove I had chosen like a wraith. While I waited, I fretted over a plan. Maybe I could get something that would knock them out? Sneak into the house and incapacitate them both while they were sleeping?
At the sound of raised voices coming from inside, I pulled back my hood to improve my hearing, but the words were indecipherable. They were, however, definitely unpleasant, and it came as no surprise when the front door banged open. It was the old woman, wearing a coat and shawl along with an expression so sour she might have swallowed quinine.
“I’m off to me friend the grocer’s,” she squawked over her shoulder. “Since you don’ like the food on the table, I s’pose I’ll have to cook new.”
She slammed the door shut and toddled away, and I held my breath until she’d disappeared down the block. I couldn’t believe my luck—she hadn’t locked the door, and, judging by the silence that now reigned inside, her son had been left alone.
Limbs quivering in anticipation, I rose to my feet and stepped onto the porch. I crept toward a window from which warm light streamed, pressing my back to the wall. When I worked up the courage, I stole a peek at the home’s interior. My quarry was in the kitchen, where a table was laid with dinner, but judging from his actions, he didn’t expect the meal to be resurrected. He gathered silverware and tossed it toward the sink, ignoring the knife and fork that clattered to the floor. After dousing the lamp on the table, he headed down a hall and out of sight.
Scanning the layout of the house, I spotted a tall closet that opened into the hallway, its door ajar. Deciding it would be better to subdue him than to argue with him, I untied the sash from around my tunic, steadied my nerves to the best of my ability, and quietly opened the front door. I skittered across the room, taking in the odor of a burned dinner, and slipped into the closet.
“Back already, Mum?” I heard the sarcastic call from the deepest region of this tiny home. “I figured you’d be out all night proving that real men appreciate you.”
I slowed my breathing, my heart threatening to catapult up my throat. Footsteps announced the guard’s approach when no response was forthcoming.
“Mum?”
He stopped just past the closet where I hid, at the juncture of the hallway and the main room, and I was able to peruse his form up close. He might have been shorter than me, but he was stocky and well muscled—it would take little effort for him to crush me. I swallowed hard. If he saw me before I had the chance to restrain him, I was ruined. Briefly closing my eyes, I gathered my courage. Then I smoothed the sash in my hands, wrapped it once around each palm, and eased the closet door farther open.
The guard still lingered a few steps from me, and I sprang forward, throwing my hands over his head and snapping the sash tightly around his neck. He made a desperate grunting, wheezing sound that might have been a shout had I not pulled the sash tighter. He clawed at the strip of fabric cutting off his breath but never thought to attack me instead. He lurched, knocking over a chair and a plate of spoiled food. I struggled to keep a fast hold, almost climbing onto his back. He spun, then wobbled on his feet, finally dropping to the ground. I released the pressure of the sash, not wanting to kill him, and checked for a pulse. The steady rhythm of his heart confirmed I had only rendered him unconscious.
I picked up the chair he’d toppled, and, panting, hauled him into it. The sash was still about his neck, and I tied it to the spokes of the chair back. My eyes glued to the man, I hastened to the closet for my supplies, and yanked free my rope. He still hadn’t moved, and I wasted no time in better securing his arms and legs.
The guard’s breath was ragged, but his eyelids were flickering—he would come around soon enough. What else should I do before he woke? Spotting the napkins on the table, I picked one up, folded it lengthwise, then tied it tightly over his eyes and around his head. I didn’t want him to be able to describe me tomorrow.
I shifted restlessly from foot to foot, counting the seconds, imagining every one brought his mother closer to home, brought me closer to discovery. This was the most reckless, flagrantly wrong thing I’d ever done. I’d attacked a relatively innocent man in the sanctity of his own home. Had my attack on the guard been politically motivated, there was no question the Anti-Unification League, as the human-haters in Chrior had dubbed their group, would have lauded me a hero. Was retrieving the Anlace worth the risk of becoming like them?
It was a bit late to ask myself that question.
My prisoner coughed and wheezed, and I instinctively moved behind him. His respiration was fast and painful, making me feel all the more guilty. Still, I had no intention of hurting him further—though I wasn’t about to let him in on that secret.
“Who the hell are you?” he rasped, his body stiffening. “What the hell do you want?”
I’d terrified him. As sick and nonplussed as this made me feel, it was a boon to achieving my goal. If I could keep him scared, he was more likely to talk.
The guard turned his head from side to side, trying to sense my presence. The loss of my wings and magic had made me clunky by Fae standards, but I was still stealthy compared with most humans, and he had no idea where I was. I leaned forward and put my lips to his ear.
“You stole something from me,” I muttered, deepening my voice.
He jumped so violently he almost tipped the chair for a second time, and I felt a rush of power unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I smiled, not from enjoyment but from incredulity—I was a slender sixteen-year-old female, and he could have snapped me in half given the chance. Surprise, stealth, and pain had given me a tremendous advantage over him.
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” he sputtered. “I...I never stole anything, not my whole life.”
He twisted his wrists against the rope that bound him, his wince telling me it was tight enough to burn his skin. Another thing I’d done well.
“Don’t lie,” I snarled, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. My sash strained against his Adam’s apple, and he coughed. “You like shiny things, don’t you? You took a liking to a shiny little dagger with a ruby pommel. Probably thought it was worth a small fortune, but you underestimated its value. That knife is worth your life. Tell me where it is or I’ll prove its worth to you.”
“I don’t bloody know where that bloody knife is, bitch!”
I ripped my knife from the scabbard at my hip with a shink of metal, unexpectedly inflamed that he would dare to demean me for my gender. I should leave him a scar to remind him forever and always what bitches can do. But before I could decide whether to put the blade to him as a threat or as an act of violence, he wailed and whimpered, struggling to lean away from the sound he had heard. His bravery was gone.
“I sold it. I sold the damn thing.” His voice cracked at nearly an octave higher than its normal pitch. “I’m sorry for what I done, but I don’t have it no more. No need to hurt me. Oh, God, just let me go. I never meant no harm.”
“Who bought it?”
“Someone, someone...”
“A name!” I shouted, heedless of who might hear outside.
“A collector! A collector on the south side, his name is—is Sandrovich. Kodiak Sandrovich. He’ll still have it. I promise he will. Now let me go. My mother, she needs me. Let me go, for the love of...”
On impulse, I grabbed the money pouch that hung on his belt and pulled it free.
“For my troubles,” I sneered, heading toward the door.
“You can’t leave me like this!”
“Your mother might appreciate it.”
I went out into the night, glancing to my left and right before hurrying in the direction of the marble bridge. After a few blocks, the adrenaline coursing through my veins abated, and my legs began to shake, the enormity of what I had just done crashing down on me. I stumbled against a storefront and sank to the ground, covering my face with my hands. I no longer looked like myself or acted like myself. I was desperate, yes, but did that justify abandoning my principles? Should I have worked harder to come up with an alternate approach to reclaiming the Anlace? Or did the extreme importance of my goal justify my horrific methods? I did not know the answer to any of these questions. I only knew I was developing the ability to shut off my conscience in the name of practicality. And that filled me with a deep-rooted dread.
I raised my head and looked up at the stars, beseeching Nature for the wisdom I sought. But it was the voice in my head that provided an answer and further stoked my fear. What’s practical isn’t necessarily the same as what’s right. Wings have been cut off Fae in the name of practicality; people are executed in the name of practicality; and some even starve in the name of practicality. Pretty poor substitute for a moral compass.
I forced myself to my feet—staying in the vicinity of the guard’s house was hardly wise—and walked onward. I couldn’t help thinking I’d breached a barrier that might lead to all sorts of unconscionable deeds. Worse, having crossed it, I wasn’t sure it would be possible to turn back.
Chapter Six (#ulink_639f95df-7a8d-5caf-9cdf-638b83bffca4)
JUST THE SCARS
By the time I reached the marble bridge spanning the River Kappa, my energy was dwindling. I couldn’t track down Sandrovich tonight. It was cold and dark, and I had no idea where the man lived or worked. I needed information. This was too important an undertaking to rush into blindly.
I paused in the middle of the bridge, leaning on the white rail and listening to the water below, for there was only yawning blackness when I looked down. How should I proceed? Reconnaissance, tomorrow, on the south side to see if I could locate the collector. But what about tonight?
The obvious answer was the Fae-mily Home, but I didn’t want to risk an encounter with Fi, not in light of what I’d done. My gut roiled with remorse, and I didn’t want the kindly Faerie to read the guilt on my face or hear the resulting strain in my voice. But I also didn’t want to roam the streets. I contemplated my options, my head throbbing with the effort to concentrate. I could sleep in an alley, rent a room in an inn with the money I’d stolen, or perhaps find a bed in a human shelter.
At the sound of footsteps, I jerked my head around, my hand clutching the long knife at my hip. Though the couple approaching from the north looked innocuous enough, leaning close together, I couldn’t help but question their intentions. I backed away, then ran across the rest of the bridge, needing to get off the street, if for no other reason than to spare my rapidly fraying nerves.
A sign for an inn, advertising its lodgings and public bathing options, caught my eye, and I could see the light of a large hearth fire in its common room through the front window. Despite the hour, people were up, talking and drinking, enough average folk among them that I wouldn’t look out of place if I entered. Because of my hair-dyeing ploy, and the nice clothing provided by Fi, my fear of staying in a better establishment had diminished; and I had plenty of funds, thanks to Tom, Frat, and the Constabulary I had just robbed. I could afford to rent a room for the night—maybe even allow myself the luxury of a bath—and start anew in the morning.
Before I could change my mind, I pushed the door of the establishment open and darted inside. Laughter and the warmth of the fire washed over me, assuring me I’d made the right decision. A number of guests were gathered around a table playing a game of cards, their spirits high, more than a few empty glasses among the filled ones that stood at hand. A moment later, a serving girl wandered out of the back, her red hair lighter than mine had naturally been and curling wildly in defiance of management.
“Room for the night?” she asked, coming over to me.
I nodded, but before I could form a request for food or drink, she took note of my appearance. “And perhaps a bath?”
I apparently looked less put-together than I felt.
“Yes, please,” I murmured, trying to subdue the blush rising in my cheeks.
“Bath first,” she declared, hands on her hips. “Follow me.”
The girl led me through a swinging door and down a hallway off of which opened several private bathing rooms. She ushered me into one that was vacant, then shut the door behind us while I took stock of the area. A wooden washtub dominated the center of the floor, and a bench with folded towels sat against one wall, a water-spotted mirror hanging above it. Nothing exuded luxury, but it was nonetheless clean and inviting, and that was all I required.
“You can undress and hang your clothes here,” the girl told me, motioning to hooks set into the wall beside the door. “I’ll be back with buckets of hot water.”
I sighed. “Thank you. This will be lovely.”
She left, and I struggled out of the clothes Fi had given me. While the garments themselves were in good shape, the day’s activities had left me dirty and stinking of sweat. I heard the door open as I finished removing my tunic and, with a twinge of modesty, turned to keep my back to the serving girl.
Thud, the buckets hit the floor, followed by a half gasp, half shriek. Alarmed and confused, I shot a look over my shoulder, and my heart seemed to drop into my stomach. The serving girl’s gaze was riveted on my back. Hot water sloshed across my feet, and I hopped sideways, smacking my legs against the bench that held the stack of towels. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for one dizzy, mind-blurring moment, I thought I might scream, too.
Thick, rope-like scars crawled down my otherwise smooth back, from the tops of my shoulder blades to just above my waist. My wings had been attached by bone and muscle and skin, like any extremity, and where my body had frantically tried to repair itself, it had created a pair of raised dark red scars that spider-webbed into whiteness at the edges.
My breath coming fast and shallow, I sank heavily down on the bench, toppling a few of the folded towels onto the floor, where they immediately soaked up water. I carried a secret on my body. A secret thrust upon me by three strikes of a halberd. I could still feel the imposing shadows of the hunters like a shiver down my spine. People might look at me and see a beautiful young woman, but what lay beneath was ugly and revolting, a mutilation that would drive them away—if I needed any proof, the girl appeared ready to pass out. Who would want to be near the hideous proof of such brutalization? Not me, but I had no choice in the matter. If I did, I would run far and fast.
Then the worst prospect of all bubbled to the surface of my mind. Had my troubled fourteen-year-old cousin Illumina watched this happen to me? Left me bleeding, only to willingly relive the memory of it later? Relish it even, happily drawing pictures of my agony? Trembling, I gagged. No, no, no, it’s not possible. But something inside me disagreed, a part of me I had been trying to ignore, a part of me that not only believed she was capable of such a thing, but that she had done it.
The serving girl’s mouth was flapping soundlessly, her face going from deathly white to blazing red, but I could find no words to comfort her. Wanting to disappear, I threw on my tunic and cloak and rushed from the room and out of the inn, dragging my pack along with me.
The cold of the night air hit me like a slap on the face, and I realized there were tears on my cheeks, beginning to freeze. But I didn’t take the time to wipe them away. I was still running, running, running, desperate to outrun what I had become.
I knew where I was going, though my conscious mind insisted good sense would return to me; that I would change my decision; that I didn’t have to worry or bemoan my weakness because Anya, the principled niece of the Queen, would rear her head before the end. But the Queen’s niece only served to lend her expertise to the question of concealment as she pushed through the door of The River’s End. I pulled up my hood, unable to dispel my fear of discovery by Tom Matlock or some other Constabulary. I could not afford to be stopped now, not when I so desperately needed to lose myself.
The man seated at the table near the vestibule looked up at my approach.
“Back for another go?” he asked, his gold canine tooth the star attraction in his crooked grin.
I swallowed hard, willing my voice to come out evenly, needing to prove I was in control of what I was doing.
“More or less. I need to talk to whoever handles your, ah, inventory.”
“More you use, less you feel.” Robb snapped his ever-present deck of cards, then stood and walked to the cellar door through which lay the cloister of depravity that I craved. He muttered to a larger chap who appeared to be standing guard, and I shifted restlessly, tapping my foot and glancing over my shoulder. I was about to snipe at the men to hurry when they parted company, and I was waved over by the big fellow. I joined him, surveying the gruesome tattoos blanketing his forearms—scenes of beheadings, nooses, and weapons linked together with chains—and something inside said I should flee while I still could. But I stayed in place, seeking an alternate kind of escape.
The man examined me, presumably taking in my age, gender, rough appearance, and slight build.
“Follow me,” he gruffly instructed, apparently satisfied I represented no threat, chewing on the stub of a cigar that bounced around with every word he spoke.
I stayed on his heels while he wove his way through the pub’s patrons and into a dimly lit hallway at the rear of the establishment. He untied a ring of keys from his belt, then inserted one into a door the same color as the stone walls. I might have thought it clever camouflage if not for the unending drabness of this entire place. We stepped inside, and he produced a rusty, leaky old lighter from a trouser pocket. After a good half-dozen attempts, the contraption sparked to life, and he used it to ignite a flame on an oil lamp that rested on a block jutting forth from the wall.
The room in which we stood was cold and damp, for the pub’s heat did not stretch this far. Its floor was dirt, giving it a musty smell, and it was so small, I could have spat from one side to the other. The man from whom I hoped to purchase a supply of Cysur closed the door behind us, and goose bumps appeared on my arms. What if I was now locked inside? I checked the room for another egress, but there was none. This was an aboveground cellar.
“What you want?” the man asked, moving to stand behind a desk that took up half the floor.
I examined his broad face, trying to determine what to say. Though I was a novice with respect to this type of transaction, he didn’t seem the sort to tolerantly guide me along. My mouth opened, but no words emerged. Somewhere—perhaps just in my head—a clock ticked, and my discomfort mounted. I wanted to leave, I needed to stay, I wanted to find a bathroom, I needed to sleep. In the end, I fidgeted, no more able to regulate my nerves than to regulate the clock. The man across from me apparently found this amusing, smiling grotesquely from around the remnants of his cigar.
Thankfully, Robb saved me from further embarrassment, coming through the door bearing a metal-banded wooden chest. He set it on top of the desk, then exited.
“Seat yourself,” the tattooed fellow muttered, pointing to a chair against the wall.
I nodded, sweat running down my back despite the chill in the air. My lack of experience was evident—people were less likely to prey upon someone who appeared self-assured, and I was failing miserably in the act.
The man shifted his attention to the double-locked chest, and made use of two other keys on his ring to open it, leaving me to drag the chair closer. I sat down across the desk from him, resolved to be more assertive to regain what footing I could. He eyed me with a miniscule smirk, letting me know he could see right through my facade, then placed three pouches on the surface between us.
“How do you take your pleasure?”
“I need to know my choices.”
“Figured as much.” He yanked open the first of the pouches and held it out to me, displaying the finely ground powder inside. In the dimness, it appeared black like gunpowder, but when I squinted, I realized it was green, darker even than seaweed swaying in deep water.
“It’s already cut, ready for snortin’,” he informed me.
I yanked my head back, shaking it quickly side to side. He pulled the ties closed and moved on to the next pouch, full of brownish, leaf-like flakes.
“Good if you prefer smoke, like in the den. Downside is it leaves a stink you can’t wash out. This lot you can also chop and wet to rub your gums. But it’ll stain your whole mouth same way the powder stains your nose. The green grin, some call it.”
“I don’t want evidence about me.” On that point, I could manage certitude.
“Your type usually don’t. This’ll be what you want. Evidence ain’t so obvious.”
He removed a vial from the last pouch and set it down to show me the emerald liquid it contained. The light from the oil lamp reflected merrily off the substance—except at its core, where it looked entrancingly cold.
“Won’t it stain, too?”
He laid down a thick-needled syringe. “Not for drinkin’, for shootin’. Needle comes with the package. Your arm will scar, nothin’ more.”
I clenched my teeth, and my breathing picked up. Could I take that needle and plunge it into my flesh? Capitalizing on my silence, the man added some instruction, pointing to my upper arm.
“Just tie somethin’ tight around here, and the vein in your elbow will pop. Not hard once you get the hang of it.”
“And it doesn’t show?”
“Just the scars.”
Scars.
