Queen of Ruin (Grace and Fury)

by Tracy Banghart

  “You cut your hair,” Val said. He slipped a hand through the ends, and his smile was so kind and sweet Serina forgot to feel self-conscious.

  As easily as a breath, she moved into the circle of his arms. She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Tired. Worried.”

  Gently, he ran his hands down her back. “You keep going, even when I expect you to stop. Ever since we met. It’s my favorite thing about you, the way you keep getting up, keep moving forward.”

  “And smile in the faces of people who hate me?” She buried herself in the worn softness of his shirt. The rumble of his laugh vibrated against her cheek.

  “Yes, exactly. It’s hard to smile at someone who hates you,” he returned. “But I don’t think Anika hates you. Twig might.”

  She gave him a little push.

  His hands glided up to her shoulders and then her cheeks, cupping her face. She put a little distance between them so she could look up at him.

  “A year ago, you were learning how to be a Grace.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Your whole world revolved around submitting to someone else’s needs. Now you’re leading a hundred fifty women to freedom. You’re the one in charge. And you’re succeeding, Serina. I know you have doubts, but you are helping everyone on Mount Ruin.”

  His words sent heat through her. It surprised her when he spoke like this. She had never imagined she’d see a man joyfully watch a woman claim power. She never thought she’d see a man stand back and support, rather than assert his will. She’d once thought the Heir was handsome. But she’d never seen anything so attractive as the respect in Val’s eyes.

  She pressed her face into his hands, tilting her head back, and he accepted her invitation, bending to kiss her. Their lips met and made their own small universe of sunlight and dizzying stars. Serina’s hands slid up his chest, around his shoulders and into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled him closer, down into her darkness, into the sweet heat of her mouth. His hands moved too, abandoning her face for the curve of her waist. Serina sighed into him, their breath mingling, sparking new flames low in her belly.

  Running footsteps drew them apart.

  Serina turned in time to see Anika skid into the room.

  “We found another body,” she panted.

  All the warmth drained out of Serina, leaving an icy wind in its wake. Not another. Not so soon.

  “What happened?” she asked, already following Anika out of the room and down the rock-splashed staircase. Val hurried behind her, his hand on his firearm.

  “Lion, a girl from Beach Camp. She was one of our sentries on the north side, near the amphitheater.” Anika glanced over her shoulder long enough to add, “She was strangled, just like the others.”

  Serina pounded her fist into her thigh. “Any sign of Nero or Diego?”

  Anika shook her head. “The girls out with her saw nothing. One moment she was there and the next, gone. Her knife’s gone too, and her water.”

  Serina swore under her breath.

  They came to the hotel’s open-air lobby, still framed by a couple of cracked urns, the decorative plants they’d once housed long dead. A group of women surrounded Lion’s still form. Serina felt tears build behind her eyes.

  Twig bent and picked up the girl’s body, cradling her protectively against her chest. Lion’s legs dangled bonelessly, and Serina’s stomach turned over.

  Anika said quietly, “The other sentries picked up a trail for a while before they lost the track near the stream. They can’t figure out how the guard managed to double back without them seeing him.”

  Serina’s heart sank. “All right, bring everyone in, except for the women guarding the prison compound. We’ll stick close to the hotel tonight, tighten up our defenses here, and pray the boat comes tomorrow.” They were already stretched too thin. No one was getting enough sleep. “Make sure no one goes out alone. Everyone gets a weapon. But no firearms. I don’t want to risk Nero and Diego getting their hands on one. Except you, Anika. You take one to the southern gate like you planned.”

  Anika nodded. “That boat better come soon. We need to get off this rock.”

  Serina went to find Ember. The older woman had been helping in the infirmary when she wasn’t leading combat training. She didn’t sleep much or stop moving, as far as Serina could tell. Val walked with Serina, and she couldn’t decide if it was comforting or concerning, the way he scanned the scrubby trees with narrowed eyes.

  “I want to be part of the next watch at the prison,” she told him. “Ember, you, me, Cliff if I can find her. I can’t shake the thought that Nero and Diego are going to go for the other guards.”

  “Or they’re just trying to pick us off, one by one,” Val said grimly. “They got Lion near the amphitheater.”

  “What about firearm training? Are we ready if the boat does come tomorrow?” she asked. They were still trying to get ten girls who could use the firearms reliably.

  Val shrugged. “It’s going. Maris hasn’t wanted to train, so I picked another girl to fill her place. She’s not as good, but she’s getting better. The rest are picking it up.”

  Daylight was fading, and the infirmary teemed with shadows. Most of the wounded were recovering, though a girl had died that morning and one more would likely follow. A third woman, from Beach crew, had lost feeling in her legs. Val had told Serina privately that he suspected she would never regain it.

  Serina was surprised to see Maris in the corner, huddled with Helena. She headed over to them, her pulse dancing a little faster. “Are you all right? I heard you haven’t been training.”

  Maris looked up at the sound of her voice, and Serina was shocked at her haggard appearance. Dark half moons sat beneath her eyes, and her hair hung dirty and tangled around her face. If Serina hadn’t known, she never would have guessed Maris had once been a Grace.

  “Are you well?” Serina asked again.

  Maris dropped her head into her hands. “I just keep hearing it,” she mumbled. “The gunshot… it echoes and echoes without end. And the blood…”

  “She’s been having nightmares,” Helena said softly. “Ever since that night in the cave. She’s scared to fall asleep now.…” She rubbed Maris’s back, over and over.

  Serina sank to the cracked marble floor before the two girls and reached for Maris’s hands. “You saved our lives. Your quick thinking saved Helena.”

  Maris looked up. Serina’s heart clenched at her haunted expression.

  “Hector wasn’t going to stop,” Serina continued, pitching her voice low and soothing. “He wanted to hurt us. He would have killed us without a thought. If you hadn’t shot him, he could have ripped the firearm from your hands. He could have shot you and Helena and all of us in that cave. You did what you had to do, Maris. Helena is here now—she’s safe, because of what you did. So if you’re going to carry the memory of his death, make sure you’re carrying joy that she’s alive too.”

  “I didn’t want to kill anyone,” Maris whispered.

  Helena put an arm around her and drew her close. “None of us ever did.” She looked up, meeting Serina’s eyes. “I wish I’d had the firearm. It would have made me happy to kill him. What does that say about me?”

  Tears spilled down Helena’s cheeks.

  “It says you want to survive. We all do.” Serina stood up. “It won’t always be this way. Soon, we’ll leave Mount Ruin—all of this—behind.”

  Helena ran her hand over Maris’s hair and cradled the girl against her shoulder. “Will we?”

  “You saved Helena’s life, Maris,” Serina said firmly. She remembered the shock of watching her first fight, of knowing she’d have to fight one day herself. She knew how horrifying it was, coming from the palazzo. “Try to focus on that.”

  With a last look at the two women, Serina turned and made her way to Val. He’d collected Ember from the women caring for the injured.

  “I
want to relieve the watch at the prison,” Serina said to Ember. “Are you up for it?”

  Ember nodded. “Of course.”

  They snagged Cliff from a quiet spot near the hotel, where she was whittling branches into spears. “Bring your knife,” Serina said.

  They hiked to the prison compound in silence, searching every shadow.

  Night had fallen in earnest by the time they arrived, and Serina was grateful for Ember’s torch and Val’s firearm. She didn’t like the way the darkness crowded around them.

  Ten women guarded the entrance nearest the path. They nodded solemnly as Serina’s group filed inside. The dim, musty stairwell was as narrow and shadowed as the cave’s entrance. Serina filled her mind with images of tall ceilings and sparkling chandeliers. She drew in a breath and imagined it as a clean sea breeze, without the smell of sulfur, or ash, or blood.

  Blood?

  They’d reached the top of the stairs. The thick iron door stood open.

  Val raised his weapon. Serina fitted her knife to her hand.

  Slowly, they stepped into the long hall. For the first time, Serina could hear the buzz of the lights. Belatedly, she realized why.

  The guards weren’t shouting threats and insults.

  Serina stared at Anika, Mirror, and Fox. They all held firearms. It wasn’t their turn on watch.

  “Anika,” Serina said softly, and then she could see into the shadows of the cells: the arms splayed, the blood spatters. “What have you done?”

  FOURTEEN

  NOMI

  NOMI WOKE WITH her head pillowed on her arm, curled up in the bow of the boat. Faint streaks of dawn illuminated Malachi’s face. He was asleep next to the tiller, head back against the gunwale, his mouth slack.

  If they’d both been asleep—

  Nomi sat up fast, belatedly noting other details: the sails, slack; the lights of a village glowing at the edge of shore, a dozen yards away.

  Shore, just a dozen yards away.

  She scuttled to the stern of the boat.

  “Malachi!” she said, shaking his shoulder.

  With an un-Heir-like snort, his head fell forward and he woke, sputtering like she’d dropped him in the water. “What? What is it?”

  She pointed wordlessly at the village, so close.

  He slumped back and rubbed at his eyes. “I know.”

  “You… what—” It was Nomi’s turn to sputter.

  “You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you, and I knew we needed to wait until sunrise to dock anyway. So I took down the sails and threw the anchor.” He yawned. “I’m glad. I got some sleep too.”

  Nomi stared across the water to the houses climbing spiderlike into the hills. “That’s Porto Rosa?”

  He nodded. “It is.”

  She craned over the gunwale, looking for the anchor line. “Then let’s go.”

  “Not yet,” Malachi said. “We need to eat. And you need to change.”

  Nomi looked down at herself, at her threadbare shirt and baggy prison pants.

  “I know it will be painful, but we’ll need to play the part,” he added, almost gently.

  “You mean the part of quiet, obedient girl following her husband with her head down.” The familiar urge to scream rose in her chest.

  “You are not a quiet, obedient girl.” He put a finger on her chin, startling her, and tipped her head up so she’d look him in the eyes. He gave her a sharp smile. “You are dangerous.”

  Unbidden, her mind returned to the night of the storm, when he’d first told her she was dangerous and then kissed her, their faces flushed and wet with rain. It had been different from kissing Asa, in ways she’d never let herself examine.

  She was certainly not going to examine those feelings now.

  She turned away from him, toward the lazarette and the stash of goods they’d traded for. “Fine,” she said, with forced calm. “I’ll wear the dress.”

  Nomi didn’t have a brush so she finger-combed her hair and braided it down her back. She had nothing to replace her boots, but the dress was long enough that they wouldn’t be obvious. Hopefully. Even though she had no idea how to use it, she was comforted by Serina’s knife hidden in the leather along her ankle.

  Once she was clothed, Malachi left his post staring out over the stern and hoisted the sail.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, gesturing to his stomach. He’d hidden his pain well the past few days, but she’d seen the blood-flecked dressings and the occasional wince when he pulled a rope tight.

  Malachi put a hand to the wound. “I’m fine.”

  She raised a brow.

  “I’m healing,” he amended. “I’ll survive.”

  “Good,” Nomi replied. “I… I’m nervous,” she found herself admitting. “What if Dante doesn’t want to join you? What if he’s loyal to Asa?”

  “He was my best friend from the time we were children,” he said. “He knows who Asa is.”

  Nomi moved to the bow and watched the port approach, trying to focus her mind.

  A long golden beach curled beneath houses with vermilion roofs that climbed into the hills. Beyond the city, a green, tree-covered hill shouldered up to the sky. To the north, a long pier extended into the sea, the squat concrete and steel of the port at its base a blemish in contrast to the rest of the city’s charm. Malachi navigated to this pier, where several dockworkers ran to help him tie up.

  Nomi took a deep breath.

  You can do this.

  She cast her eyes downward and became a woman of Viridia again.

  Malachi helped her off the sailboat with a hand under her elbow. For a few moments, her legs wobbled sickeningly, unused to the unmovable ground beneath her feet.

  “How can I help you, sir?” A man walked out to meet them, sharp and weasel-faced in his navy brocade waistcoat and gold breeches.

  “I’d like to store my boat here for a few days,” Malachi said. He slipped a few coins from the pack, spoils from his trade with the men on the floating village. “That’ll cover it, I should think.”

  The boatyard foreman counted the money and appraised Malachi with a quick look. “You’re two silvers short,” he said, raising a brow. His hair was thin, a nondescript brown with wisps at the top, not long enough to hide his bald spot.

  Malachi handed him one silver. “I’ll pay the other when I come to retrieve my boat.”

  The foreman opened his mouth to protest, but he wilted under the intensity of Malachi’s gaze. As Malachi urged Nomi forward, she almost felt sorry for the weasel-faced man.

  Dawn had broken upon Porto Rosa, and the streets were full of men pushing carts toward the central piazza. Some had wives and daughters following them—women could be put to work selling wares as long as they didn’t handle the money themselves.

  We do the grunt work, the backbreaking tasks, Nomi thought, staring at a thin girl carrying a heavy basket of bread on her hip, her back bowed with the strain. It made Nomi think of her own mother, hunched over her sewing machine, working for decades while her husband collected her wages. Nomi’s father was kind, but he’d never questioned the fairness of the system. He’d never asked Nomi’s mother what she thought about anything.

  But Renzo… Nomi had made Renzo listen to what she thought. Her radical views had wormed their way into him, whether he liked it or not. She didn’t know if her persistence had made him different, or if it had to do with them being twins, or maybe he was just the kind of person who saw value in everyone.

  His smile shone in her mind like a candle flame, drawing her forward.

  Malachi marched through the cobbled streets with his shoulders back and his intense glare threatening to burn anyone who challenged him. A new beard and tattered clothes couldn’t hide the haughty confidence he’d inherited from his father. How could he not be recognized?

  Nomi’s heart seized every time someone passed them and gave him a second look.

  “Can you tone it down a bit?” Nomi whispered, feigning fear of a passing dog
to squeeze herself a little closer to him.

  “Tone what down?” he muttered in response.

  Nomi came very close to rolling her eyes. “Your… Superiorness. You’re walking down the lane as if you own it. Someone is going to recognize you.”

  Malachi kept walking, but gradually his demeanor shifted. He stopped glaring at everyone they passed. He let his shoulders slump a little. And he slowed down.

  A loud burst of laughter made them both jump. Two men stood on the corner, their backs to Malachi and Nomi.

  Nomi followed Malachi through a narrow alleyway. Above them, women hung laundry on wires strung between the two buildings. Nomi remembered completing this same task, the wire burning against her fingertips, already raw from the hot water and harsh soap of the wash.

  Every street they walked along, Nomi looked for signs the country was in mourning for the Superior. Black curtains in windows, or black ribbons hanging from light posts and the twisted iron gates that protected the nicer homes.

  There was nothing.

  “The whole country should be hung in black for your father,” she murmured. “Do they not know the Superior is dead?”

  “I saw a portrait of Asa hanging in a shop. They know my father is dead.” Malachi’s jaw tightened. “It seems Asa did not declare a mourning period upon his ascension.”

  Nomi shifted closer, pressing herself into his side. She didn’t know what else to do to show that she was sorry. It didn’t matter that the Superior had been cruel and capricious. He’d been Malachi’s father. And maybe Nomi wasn’t sad that Viridia did not mourn such a man. But Asa had made the choice not to, and that tainted it.

  “Almost there,” Malachi muttered.

  Here, it was quieter. Nomi guessed they were moving away from the central piazza and the day’s business. The houses on this street were larger, with tall wrought-iron fences and bright green foliage. Aside from an elderly woman sweeping a stoop and a child playing with a small wooden ball on the corner, no one was around.

  They had traveled a good distance from the pier, up into the hills, but the air still smelled of fish and brine. It reminded Nomi of her first day in Bellaqua, when she’d seen the city’s fairy-tale bridges and canals for the first time and smelled the city’s rot.