by Claire Luana
The fire was little more than embers when Hale triumphantly won the last round of King’s Quarters. His body was pleasantly tingly, whether from the magic or the gin, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both.
“That’s it for me,” Lennon said, throwing down his cards. “I need my beauty sleep.”
“Same,” Thom said with a jaw-cracking yawn.
Wren nudged Olivia, who had fallen asleep snuggled against the couch behind her. “Time for us to be off.”
Sable’s eyes were drooping as well, her head lolling onto Hale’s shoulder. “Come on, Sabes,” he said, giving her a gentle shake.
Callidus stood and gave Hale a little nod. A sign of truce? Hale had groaned inwardly when the guildmaster had come into the room to join their game, but in the end, he hadn’t minded. Callidus had seemed almost human. Had almost smiled at times. Maybe Hale needed to cut the man a bit more slack.
The others filed out of the room now with sleepy waves and yawns.
Hale pulled Sable gently to her feet, wrapping his arm around her waist. She leaned into him with a smile. “You’re lucky,” she said, her words slurred, her eyelids hooded. “Do you win all the time?”
“Not when it matters most, it seems.”
She smelled of chocolate and gin and jasmine, and the feel of her warmth nestled against him felt so right, it hurt. He needed to tell her how he felt. Not tonight, when she was drunk and likely wouldn’t remember, but soon.
“A tale of Hale,” she said in a singsong voice. “Your name rhymes with so many things. Do you like to eat kale?”
He reached her door and opened it for her. “If it’s cooked right. Goodnight,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
She crossed the threshold and smiled brightly at him before swaying towards the floor.
“Woah there!” He darted forwards and caught her.
She laughed, a carefree giggle of delight that he wished came out on regular basis. “Good thing you’re not frail!” At least the gin had made her happy tonight. Those melancholy nights were painful to watch.
“Are you going to need a pail?” he asked, half-walking, half-carrying her to her giant four-poster bed. She roared with laughter, and Hale found himself smiling. He pulled back the quilt, a bright Magnish design in reds and blues, and lowered her in. He pulled off her shoes and lifted her feet, angling them onto the bed. But when he went to pull up the cover, he found Sable sitting up, her expression turned serious. Her curtains were open, silhouetting her face in a dusky spill of starlight. His breath caught.
“Hale,” she whispered, reaching up and twining her fingers in the collar of his shirt, pulling him towards her with surprising strength. “You are my favorite male.” And then her lips were against his, her mouth hot and insistent.
His senses roared to life, and he was aware of everything and nothing all at once. The slick velvet of her tongue, flavored of juniper and herbs, the sharp pain of her other hand twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. Sable’s kiss was a desperate, animal thing, an exquisite agony. It was everything he had ever wanted, and yet it was all wrong.
Not like this. Protests flared through his mind. She’s drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Not like this.
With what could only be described as god-like willpower, Hale pulled back, breaking the kiss with a gasp, pressing his forehead against hers.
Sable was having none of it. “Stay,” she said, the word like a prayer. “Stay.”
“This…” He heaved in a ragged breath. “I must curtail.” He kissed her on the forehead and pulled from her grasp, taking a tremendous step back from her.
Her expression was angry, confused. But her eyes were bleary, unfocused. She was clearly not in her right mind. Not like this.
He gave her a little bow. “Good night, my Sable,” he said, and he stepped outside, closing the door with a decisive click. He sagged against it, his heartbeat roaring in his ears, his pants painfully tight. He sank to the floor against the door and closed his eyes, wishing for a night that he could have given in to the Hale that everyone thought him to be.
Chapter 10
The taste in Wren’s mouth woke her. It was like a noxious creature had crawled behind her tonsils and died there, slowly mummifying in a dry desert wasteland. She lay there for several minutes, the crook of her elbow thrown over her pounding eyeballs, warring with herself. She needed water, and she needed to relieve herself, but the prospect of moving promised only pain. Eventually, those impulses won out. She slid down the cascade of comforter to the floor and half-stumbled, half-crawled to her washroom, regretting every inch of movement. Today was going to take effort.
When Wren finally managed to clear the taste of stale gin and stale luck out of her mouth, she washed, dressed in her most shapeless but comfortable dress, and made her way downstairs. Her stomach quailed at the thought of breakfast, the smell of omelettes turning to ash on her tongue. She hurried past the knot of Cedar Guardsmen out the front door of the Guildhall into the crisp morning air, breathing in deeply. The briny scent of the sea and the call of gulls appeared to be acceptable hangover cures, and she sagged against the side of the hall with relief. She shouldn’t have drunk so much. An image of her father after a long night of drinking swam to mind—his bloodshot eyes and rumpled, sour clothes. She shoved the memory aside. Her father had drunk alone, to forget life. She drank with friends, to celebrate life. They weren’t the same thing, she told herself. But still. She would take it easy in the future.
The city was still standing after last night’s attack; not even the acrid smell of smoke lingered in the air. The attack could have been a dream. She danced her fingertips across the scab on her palm where the glass had cut her. It hadn’t been a dream. And Lucas had gone to face those intruders.
She walked slowly towards Lucas’s apartment, her feet carrying her by habit while her mind spun and whirled. Lucas was all right. The city was all right. Their despicable evil king was all right. The city was in far too calm a state for anything to have truly gone awry last night.
Wren stopped at the Bitterbird Cafe, picking up two black coffees to go and two sticky pastries covered in maple frosting and candied bacon. Somehow her presumption felt right, a declaration that she was certain Lucas was home at his apartment, whole and unharmed.
But when she knocked at his door, there was no answer. She pounded harder. “Lucas!” she called, cradling the mugs to her chest. “Lucas, are you there?” Tears threatened in her eyes, and a lump grew in her throat, much to her horror. There was no need to panic, she scolded herself. Perhaps Lucas was at the inspector’s station. Perhaps he’d stayed at the palace to assist with the clean-up or to soothe his mother or sister. There were so many other explanations other than the image that now loomed in Wren’s mind of Lucas crushed to death under falling debris, or speared through with an Aprican sword. She leaned her forehead against the door, willing her pounding heart to slow.
It was that moment when the door opened inward, and Wren fell with it.
“Hot!” Lucas said, as half the coffee in Wren’s hands spilled onto his shirtless chest. He hissed through his teeth, brushing it off himself onto the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” Wren said in horror, putting down her burdens on the entryway table. “Are you all right?” She grabbed a kitchen towel and mopped at his chest. He wore only striped pajama bottoms, and her eyes drew down the length of his firm chest and taut, rippling stomach towards where the drawstring was tied. Her face grew warm and she looked up at Lucas, who stood grinning at her, his hair tousled from sleep. “I brought breakfast,” she said lamely, handing him the soggy kitchen towel.
“It looks delicious,” he said, not taking his eyes from hers. Heat snaked through her body, his gaze raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. He stepped closer, reaching around her to shut the door. As the door clicked closed, he didn’t step back. In fact, he stepped forwards, walking her slowly backwards until her back hit the door, her breath hitching. His body pressed int
o the length of hers, his sharp hipbones and a telltale hardness pressing into her stomach. He stroked her auburn curls, cradling her face in his palm. “I was worried about you.”
“I was worried about you too,” she said, the words barely escaping before his lips crushed against hers with the intensity of a pent-up night of glittering gowns and exploding glass. Wren raked her nails across Lucas’s back, and he grabbed her hips, lifting her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he stumbled to the couch with her in his lap.
It was some time before they came up for air. Wren’s lips were raw from kissing. They were still clothed, though Wren had contemplated undoing Lucas’s drawstring a thousand times. Wren buried her face in the curve of Lucas’s neck and sighed into it, resting for a moment. She hadn’t…been intimate with a man before, and she wasn’t sure how to tell the right moment. Perhaps that could have been the right moment, but perhaps not. And if there was a possibility that it wasn’t, then wasn’t it most certainly not the perfect moment? She knew it was foolish—that she was overthinking—but somehow, despite the twists her life had taken, she had managed to hold on to this one piece of herself. She didn’t want to let it go until she knew she was supposed to. She thought that it would be with Lucas. She could see it. But perhaps just not yet. Lucas, to his credit, took Wren’s silent decision in stride. He never pushed her, and though she was sure he would gladly follow were she to lead him down that path…he seemed perfectly content to kiss her until she was dizzy.
Wren swung off Lucas’s lap onto the couch with a rueful chuckle.
He grinned back at her, springing up to retrieve the coffee and pastries. “Think this is still warm?”
“If there’s any left,” Wren said. “I swear, one of these days, I will come over here without spilling something.”
“But I quite like our little routine.” Lucas pretended to pout, returning to sit beside her. He laid a kiss on her cheek.
“Tell me about last night,” Wren said, retrieving one of the coffees from Lucas. She took a sip and grimaced. It was lukewarm. She took another sip. Lukewarm coffee was still better than nothing.
“There’s not much to tell,” Lucas said. “Our sources say the bulk of Aprica’s forces are still moving into Alesian territory. They’re passing Mt. Luminis, stealing crops, supplies, causing havoc along the way. This was covert force; we suspect their sole purpose was to disrupt the wedding and destroy our alliance with the Centu.”
“But they were too late. The wedding had already happened by the time they started the attack.”
Lucas shrugged. “Maybe they hoped to scare the Centu into backing down, to keep the wedding from being consummated.”
“Did it work?” Wren felt strange asking about Lucas’s brother’s sex life, but the success of Prince Zane’s wedding night did have fairly important implications for Alesia’s future.
“It is my understanding that everything went…as planned,” he said with a grimace.
“And the explosions?” Wren asked. “That was this new black powder we’ve been hearing about?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Father has our best scientists working on it, but we haven’t been able to replicate their cannons yet. I think that’s part of what the attack was about. To intimidate. They didn’t even send any men into the palace. I think they just wanted us to know how close they could get.”
“How many men does King Evander have? Will we be able to withstand the attack when it comes?”
“Reports vary widely. I’ve heard ten thousand—I’ve heard as many as thirty thousand. Even ten would be more than we have. Though we have the advantage of walls.”
“And they can’t get through them, right?” Wren said. “Even with those weapons they have?”
A shadow passed across Lucas’s face. “I think the walls will hold. But if they don’t…” Lucas stood. “Hold on.” He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with something clutched in one fist. “Wren, can I trust you keep a secret?”
Wren wanted to laugh at the irony in the question. “Of course,” she said instead.
He opened his hand to reveal an ornate iron key threaded on a thin silver chain. “If things go sideways…if the Apricans get in the city…I might be fighting. I might not be able to protect you.” Lucas’s face was serious, his gray eyes grave.
She squeezed his knee. “Nothing will happen to me,” Wren said with a confidence she didn’t feel. She was pretty sure a Guild girl like her would get chewed up and spit out if the walls fell.
“That’s what I want to be sure of.” Lucas took her chin in his long fingers and kissed her sweetly. “There are four sets of secret passageways out of the city. Two from the palace, one from the Tradehall, one from the Municipal Courthouse. They come out near the main gates to the city walls—”
Wren gave Lucas an incredulous look. “Are you kidding? Secret passageways? Like in a mystery novel?”
“I know, it sounds crazy, but they date back to the founding of the city. This key opens all of the passageways from outside the city or inside. They’re marked with little carved falcons. I want you to have this.” He pressed the key into her hand. The metal was heavy and warm.
“I can’t take this,” she said. “What if you need it?”
“Everyone in my family has one. If things go south, I’ll probably be with one of them.”
Wren heard the unspoken second half of that sentence. “Or…you’ll be dead,” she said quietly, her mind railing at the thought. This was getting far too real.
“I’m hoping for the first.” He gave a crooked grin. “But at least with this, you and your friends in the Guild can get out of the city. Go to Centu or Nova Navis…I don’t know. Somewhere safer than here.”
Wren’s heart melted at his concern, mingling with her fear for him into a confusing cocktail of emotions. That he would give up his chance to be safe, for her… “Are you sure?” she asked, shaking her head. She didn’t like this. “You’re sure you don’t need it.”
“Positive,” he said.
She slipped the chain over her head and tucked the key into her shirt. The key was a comfort, hanging there heavily between her breasts. A way out. Safety. As much as she hated taking it, she was grateful to Lucas for giving it to her. “Thank you,” Wren said, giving him a thorough kiss. “I hope I never need it.”
“Me too. My money is on the army getting washed away,” Lucas joked, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t think the sun-worshiping Apricans know what they’re in for with a Maradis winter. I bet two hundred days of drizzly rain will be enough to send them packing.”
Wren smiled. “Why do they even want Maradis, anyway? Isn’t Aprica filled with gorgeous beaches and green rolling fields of orange trees and wine grapes? What do they want with us?”
Lucas frowned. “There’s a lot of speculation among the Councils about that. We do have resources they don’t have. Forests filled with wood. Water. They say there’s been a terrible drought in Aprica the last several years. I don’t know—maybe King Evander is just bored. Wants a new playground.”
“Is there no end to the pomposity of men?” she muttered.
“Likely not,” Lucas said. “We are a hopeless gender, the lot of us.”
“They say acceptance is the first step,” Wren joked.
“First of many,” Lucas said, taking a massive bite of one of the pastries and smiling at her through a mouthful of maple frosting.
“You’re disgusting,” Wren protested halfheartedly, though in truth Lucas could look handsome rolled in a mud puddle. “I should probably get back to the hall. I shouldn’t wile away the whole day with you.”
Lucas stood too, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam. Wren examined a fern in a stand in the corner, trying very hard not to stare.
“Interested in company?” he asked. “I plan on stopping by the Vintner’s Guildhall this morning to see if I can find hide or hair of Trick.”
“Sounds lovely,” she said. “Though you should probably put a shi
rt on.”
“I don’t know. You seem to enjoy this look quite a lot,” Lucas said, giving a twirl before her.
She seized a pillow from the nearby armchair and threw it at him.
He dodged with a grin as she pointed to the bedroom and commanded, “Shirt.”
Chapter 11
Wren liked walking with Lucas. As they strolled down the sidewalk, hand in hand, she felt far more cheerful than she knew she had any right to be with a hostile army headed their way. Lucas had changed into a pair of gray houndstooth pants, a soft cotton shirt with a line of buttons halfway unbuttoned, and a pair of red suspenders. When he had emerged from his room, fitting a newsboy cap over his dark hair, a small part of Wren had melted like chocolate in a double-boiler. She wasn’t sure what it was about Lucas’s style of handsome that appealed to her so much, only that she was well and truly smitten.
The walk was over far too soon; it seemed only a blink had passed before they found themselves standing in front of the Vintner’s Guildhall. A soaring arched trellis climbing with grapevines escorted them in off the street, beckoning them towards the massive wood-and-iron hall. As Wren reached for one of the solid door handles, the monster door swung open, startling Wren back into Lucas. A handsome older man with white hair and striking dark brows maneuvered past them, a flick of his gaze telling her that while he recognized her presence, he didn’t care in the least.
“Guildmaster,” Lucas said, catching the man’s forearm before he could escape.
The man stopped and turned, deep blue eyes roaming from Lucas’s grasp on his arm to Lucas’s face. “I’m in a hurry,” the guildmaster said, freeing his arm with a jerk. The man’s coat was a fine velvet the color of wine. Or blood.
“I only need a minute of your time. I’m Inspector Lucas Imbris. My brother Patrick is a member of your Guild. Do you know where I could find him? I haven’t heard from him lately and I wanted to make sure nothing has happened.”
