Forged Absolution (Fates of the Bound Book 4)

by Wren Weston

  Instead, she followed Dixon through a maze of twisted metal and side-view mirrors toward the back of the shop. They slipped through a door and jogged upstairs to the top floor.

  Dixon entered the apartment first. After a quick peek, he motioned her inside. Nothing had changed in the last few weeks, not that Lila had expected it to. The walls were still purple. The counters and furniture had still been made of wine barrels and slabs of wood. Dixon still flipped on the heater immediately after he entered, preferring a tropical heat, rather than the mere hint of warmth.

  As it whirled to life, the scent of Chinese food flooded her nose, causing her stomach to rumble and growl in anticipation. She took off her hood, grabbed the first container she came to, and opened the lid, digging a plastic fork into the pork lo mein.

  She stuffed her hood into her coat pocket as paradise erupted in her mouth—not that she tasted it. Five bites slid down her throat before she even chewed.

  She hadn’t even sat down.

  Luckily, Dixon hadn’t paid attention. He’d ventured to the front of the room and turned on the screen. The theme music for the News at Noon filled the space, and he moved to a free-standing locker at the back. He withdrew a bottle of Sangre de las Flores, Lila’s favorite wine, then fumbled deeper inside, glass bottles clinking.

  Her mouth watered between bites. She hadn’t had wine in nearly a month.

  She stroked her belly absently, as had become habit over the last few weeks. She didn’t want to think about the child growing inside her womb, if it still grew at all. Perhaps she’d miscarried from hunger and hadn’t noticed.

  But Lila knew the stupidity of that thought. She’d bought a dozen pregnancy tests when she still had credits. She’d taken one every few days, just to check, just to see if her nightmare pregnancy had ended during the night or had been some silly joke.

  Every single one of them said the same thing.

  Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

  She hadn’t decided yet what to do about it.

  “Hot chocolate or tea wouldn’t go amiss.” She carried her meal to the black leather couch and plopped on a cushion in the middle. It was so large that it could have sat four grown men easily, or perhaps one enthralled couple. She recalled having sex with Tristan on the very same couch, many times, the month before.

  Today, the leather chilled her skin.

  She slipped another bite of lo mein into her mouth.

  Dixon put away the Sangre. She’d never refused it before, and she hated that refusing it now might invite further speculation. He didn’t pull out his notepad and ask questions, though. Instead, he slipped into the kitchen and filled a kettle, leaving it on the stove while he opened a cabinet and rummaged through the cutlery, the clatter not loud enough to cover the newscasters’ voices as they blabbered on, rehashing the newest trial at Bullstow. Another lowborn hacker had been found guilty by the disciplinary committee that very morning.

  They’d sentenced her to hang.

  Lila’s stomach wriggled but did not turn. She shoveled another bite into her mouth, annoyed at its insistence.

  “Do you know what else hangs?” one pleasant newscaster asked the other, her hair a shield fixed around her head.

  “Effigies?” The other, her hair equally sculpted, winked.

  The women both laughed in a rather fake manner, then stopped at exactly the same time.

  A picture of Chairwoman Holguín appeared in the space beside them.

  Lila shoved more food into her mouth, listening as the women droned on about the protests outside Bullstow, showing a video of people crowding the front gate the night before. A rather crude version of the Holguín matron hung on a makeshift scaffold, the entire structure set to burn by a single match. The workborn who crowded the area chanted something unintelligible, fists pumping in the air, fireworks popping above their heads like gunfire. The group wore no colors—for workborn had no right to do so—but several in the crowd had red bands tied around their upper arm. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen such bands. Lila recalled seeing them on the Wilson compound, the night of a riot, and in previous protests against the Holguín family.

  “Representatives from both High House and Low House conferred with protest leaders to discuss their concerns last night,” one newscaster reported. “According to protesters, Bullstow has bungled the safety of government data as well as the sale of Oskar Kruger, a slave bought by the Holguín family. The teenager disappeared shortly after his high-profile purchase less than two months ago. Protestors speculate that Chairwoman Holguín secretly sold the boy to King Lucas, the German king and emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.”

  “The Holguín family released an official statement this morning,” the second newscaster continued, “alleging the chairwoman was a victim of theft. The matron maintains that German mercenaries kidnapped Oskar Kruger before the family could complete negotiations with a highborn family in England. Bullstow claims they are still investigating the matter.”

  The first newscaster nodded absently, her eyes jiggling as she followed the teleprompter. “In related news, a fire broke out after protestors gathered in front of the Musketman and the Two Cat Tavern last night, both pubs owned by the Holguín family. Firemen were called to the scene around ten o’clock. A spokesperson for the fire department says they were unable to put out the fire before it consumed the buildings, but they kept the flames from spreading to neighboring businesses.”

  Footage of the restaurant and the bar next door filled the screen, smoke billowing from the windows and doorway. Highborn patrons streamed outside, a flutter of silk and brocade and leather. The crowd parted slightly so they could escape. Hard eyes and clenched jaws followed each scrambling figure.

  More red armbands dotted the crowd.

  The video ran out, returning to the newsroom. “Chief Shaw of the Bullstow militia called the incident unfortunate, saying that no criminal act perpetrated by protesters would go unpunished. Bullstow is investigating the incident as arson.”

  Dixon handed Lila a mug of tea, then plopped beside her with his own food.

  A bedroom door opened.

  Tristan leaned in the doorway. “I knew something like that would happen eventually. I wish I had been there. I would have liked to throw a few Molotovs.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and prowled across the room, his black trousers and sweater covering his swimmer’s build, his boots soft against the hardwood floor, his short brown hair mussed as though he’d just woken up. His brown eyes skated across her face then to the containers stacked on the kitchen counter.

  He fetched a mug and a tea bag, then grabbed the kettle off the stovetop.

  Tristan looked good.

  Better than good.

  He seemed more relaxed than she’d ever seen him.

  “Times are finally changing,” he said while his tea steeped. “They’ll soon change for the better.”

  After it had finished, he brought his mug to the screen and plopped down in the sofa chair, ignoring the newscasters who still yammered on, this time about a theft in East New Bristol. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing over a guest today.”

  Dixon pulled out his notepad. The oracle retrieved her.

  “Oh, are we taking orders from the oracle now?”

  Lila frowned. “I thought you were helping her.”

  “Yes, we are,” Tristan said. “I had no idea you’d decided to join us, though. I suppose you’ve grown bored of life on the run, or perhaps you’re just tired of mourning your beloved fiancé.”

  Lila swallowed. It was a return of the old Tristan, then.

  While driving back into town, she’d nurtured a small flame of hope within her. Perhaps they’d talk—really talk—about what had happened between them. Perhaps they could have the conversation she’d wanted to have all month, as difficult as it might be to begin. She would fi
nally tell Tristan how she felt.

  She wanted to have that conversation, needed to have it, before she faced her trial, before she was hanged like all the others. But now that she heard the hardness in his voice, she realized how naïve she’d been. It would take more than a talk. It would take a great deal of time.

  Time that she didn’t have.

  “La Roux was never my fiancé. You know better than that.”

  “I don’t know anything about La Roux. I don’t want to know, either. It’s absolutely none of my business who you take to bed or who you don’t. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Apparently, it wasn’t even my business when we were together.”

  Lila looked away. She shoveled a bite of lo mein into her mouth, too hungry to ignore the food in her lap.

  Beside her, Dixon worried his notepad. Did he feel guilty for not revealing that Tristan didn’t want her in the shop, or did he feel guilty for not warning Tristan before he brought her?

  Perhaps both?

  Lila ate another bite. Perhaps she should tell Tristan what had really happened with La Roux. That the senator had been the Baron, that he’d hurt her, that he’d tried to kill her, that he had orchestrated the Great Purge. But as she chewed, she knew she couldn’t bear to admit a word of it. Highborns didn’t use violence, and yet La Roux had used it against her. It was embarrassing and all too common lately.

  What was so wrong with her that everyone wanted to harm her?

  Tristan kicked his heels upon the coffee table. “Why are you even here, Ms. Randolph?”

  Ms. Randolph?

  Lila put down her fork, the food turning to ash on her tongue. He used to call her Lila, his Bordeaux accent rolling over the vowels in her name, tonguing them, making her toes curl.

  Even that had fled.

  “The oracle asked for my help,” she said. “I don’t have much time, but I’ll do what I can for her and her sisters until tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s right. You have your trial tomorrow. Would you have worked on her case if you hadn’t been called to trial? If you were still the great Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph, soon-to-be prime of the Randolph family?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt that sincerely. You’d be back in your colorless bedroom, with your colorless life, and we’d be here alone, working the case by ourselves.”

  He put his tea down and walked to the whirling heater, turning the knob down from Dixon’s heat wave. “Did you ever figure out what happened with the Baron, or did you get bored of that too?”

  “I figured it out.”

  “I didn’t hear about his trial in the news.”

  “You won’t. It’s been dealt with.”

  “Dealt with? I’m sure it’s been dealt with, just like the highborns captured in the Great Purge would have been dealt with, had their crimes not been sent to the press. Do you think it’s a coincidence that the lowborn and workborn have all been sentenced to death while the highborn have been granted leniency?”

  “The highborn didn’t hack BullNet. They merely hired the ones who did. It’s not as severe a crime.”

  “Imagine that. Your kind once again pawning off consequences to others. I suppose your case will be interesting. If the world is as fair as you say, you should be hanged. After all, you marched right into BullNet and stole from every database inside.”

  Lila looked away.

  “Ah, that’s right. Your father and Shaw will leap into the fray and save you in the end. That’s when this case will get truly interesting. What will the senate do when they find out your father and Shaw hired you to hack BullNet, especially with the whole country watching?”

  “You’re enjoying this. You hope I’m hanged. You hope my father and Chief Shaw are hanged as well.”

  Tristan settled back into his chair and snatched up his tea. “I don’t hope anything. I know nothing bad will happen. You’re not just a highborn, Ms. Randolph. You are an heir. You were even prime once. You are golden. There’s one set of rules for people like me, and a completely different set for people like you. It will be good for you to finally see it for yourself.”

  Lila closed the lid on her lo mein. What had she really expected? That Tristan would jump at the chance to mend their relationship? That he’d listen to her at all? That he’d promise to swoop in and rescue her from a holding cell, just as he’d done for Dixon all those years ago? Just as he’d done for Oskar Kruger, consequences be damned?

  Lila slid her lunch onto the coffee table, frustrated with her own hopeful stupidity. Yes, she’d wanted him to vow to rescue her, not that she actually wanted him to go through with it. The fact that he didn’t offer or even care about her welfare said a great deal.

  Tristan was right. It was good for her to learn. The man no longer cared about her. The lingering daydreams she’d had at the cottage were the fancy of a child. Perhaps he wouldn’t care about the baby in her womb either, even if it was his.

  In a few days, regardless of her sentence, she would have her first prenatal appointment. She’d ask for a paternity test, and she’d know once and for all.

  If Tristan really was the father, at least her child would have a good uncle. As a highborn male, Dixon would do right by the baby.

  If she decided to have it.

  Her hand strayed to her belly. The father of her unborn child was either a man who had tried to kill her or a man who could barely tolerate her presence. But she’d brought it all on herself, hadn’t she? She’d made the wrong choices. She’d trusted the wrong people.

  With such poor judgment, could she really trust the oracle? The last person she’d trusted had put his hands around her neck. She’d trusted Patrick Wilson too, and he’d tried to kill her. Her best friend had used her. Her mother had stolen every credit she owned. She’d even begun to wonder about her father and Chief Shaw. After all, she’d barely heard from them.

  And now Tristan had flipped completely, from vows of love to apathy.

  She’d always thought she was good at reading people, but she had to admit that her intuition had failed so completely that she couldn’t trust her own judgment about anything anymore.

  She peered at the men, their faces disappearing into angles and hard lines.

  “What? You don’t like the truth?” Tristan asked.

  Lila sank into the couch. No, she really did not like the truth. For the first time in her life, she started to feel…

  Lonely.

  Dixon whistled in the awkward silence. Lila asked the oracle for a list of everyone who’s been on the compound.

  “How far back?”

  Ten years.

  “Good luck going through all that data. Of course, that’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?”

  He stood up and retrieved a stack of folders from his bedroom. He shoved them across the coffee table when he returned, nearly spilling her forgotten lo mein onto the floor. “Happy reading. That’s every transcript of every session between the oracle and the mercs.”

  He sat back in his chair, eyeing her.

  Neither spoke.

  Tristan’s bedroom door opened in the quiet. A blonde woman stumbled out of the room, squinting at the light, wearing a pair of panties the size of an eye patch and a faded gray t-shirt several sizes too large.

  A t-shirt Lila had worn only a month before.

  “Oh shit.” The woman darted back into Tristan’s room and slammed the door.

  Lila slipped on her hood quickly—not to keep her identity a secret, but because she didn’t want Tristan to see her face, to see her jaw working to form words.

  For oracle’s sake, no wonder he hadn’t given her predicament a second thought. He had no spare thoughts to give. They’d all been filled with a curvy blonde, wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed. He’d already gotten over her and moved on to someone new.

  Tristan
stared straight at her, his eyes chipping away at her resolve. He didn’t smirk nor offer a self-satisfied smile or embarrassed grin. He didn’t even seem curious. She might have just been a cat or a stray cushion.

  The bedroom door creaked. The woman emerged again and padded across the room, her feet bare. She wore a pair of trousers and her own shirt this time. Her blonde hair curled prettily around her ears. Her unlined, round face seemed young. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, just a couple of years younger than Tristan.

  She sat on Tristan’s armrest and looked pleasantly at Lila, a blush rising on her cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t know we had company. I’m Katia.”

  She intertwined her fingers with Tristan’s.

  Lila struggled to answer. What was she to think of the pretty, young woman at Tristan’s side? That for all his waxing on about his feelings, for all his declarations of love, for all his insistence that she was the only one for him, for all his badgering that she should leave her entire life behind and cast her lot in with him, he’d…

  What?

  Been full of crap the whole time?

  She’d thought a lot of things about Tristan over the last few months, but she’d never dreamed he might be a liar. Her mother had claimed that she’d been blind, though. Perhaps that blindness really did extend to Tristan.

  How had she been so wrong?

  It wasn’t the only thought rising in her mind. Seeing Katia’s fingers intertwined with his, seeing Tristan’s hand stray to his lover’s back, she had to ask herself why it bothered her so much. Why did it feel like a slap? She was supposed to be better than this. She was a highborn, for oracle’s sake. She’d had loads of lovers who’d spent time with other women. It had never bothered her before when she spied them with someone else.

  But this hurt. It hurt much worse than waking up after a tranq. It even hurt worse than breaking up with Tristan before the Closing Ball.

  His words had tricked her, had caged her. He’d said things he obviously hadn’t meant and pushed her into feelings she shouldn’t have. He couldn’t have meant those words if he’d fallen into bed so quickly with someone new. She couldn’t imagine doing the same, not even a month later.