by K Dowling
She presses her palm to her pulsing forehead, staring down her nose at her supine figure. She is on a cot—not her own—in a room that she has never seen before. At the end of the bed, she can see her toes peeking out from beneath her olive gown. They blur and sharpen and blur again as her eyes struggle to regain focus.
Where am I?
It takes her a moment to become conscious of the pair black boots that rest upon the cot by her waist. Her fluttering gaze travels away from the boots, drifting across black breeches and a black jacket and coming to rest upon the sleeping face of a man. The lanky figure leans back in a spindled, wooden chair, his arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and she can see the black outline of a bird soaring across his forearm. His tricorn hat is pulled low over his eyes, obscuring the upper half of his face. His lips are parted and his breathing slips out from his mouth in a low snore.
Emerala feels discomfited by the man’s proximity to her. Her heartbeat quickens in her chest as she does a quick study of the room around her. Sunlight sweeps in through several, soiled windowpanes to her left. Flickering, golden motes shiver in the shafts of radiance, casting the entirety of the expanse in a fuzzy, ethereal glow. Emerala narrows her eyes and wills her gaze to focus. A brass chandelier hangs from the middle of the ceiling, its curling, black wicks unlit. It creaks back and forth in a pendulum motion, moving in perfect time with the chronic rise and fall of Emerala’s body. A low, wooden desk sits at the forefront of the room, covered in curling bits of parchment. Over her shoulder is a heavy door. Stippled sunlight spills through a latticed panel in the wood.
Emerala drags her knees up to her chest, careful to avoid the boots of the sleeping man. She swings her legs over the side of the cot, pressing the soles of her feet silently against the dappled wooden floor underfoot. The lanky man gives off a loud snort and she freezes, her backside suspended several inches off the cot. He smacks his lips, slumping down farther against the creaking chair. Emerala lets out an inaudible sigh, blowing black ringlets of hair out of her eyes.
Emerala rises onto her toes, cringing as the wooden floorboards creak beneath her steps. She inches slowly towards the door up ahead, reaching her fingers out for the brass knob. There is the jarring sound of the chair clattering upon the floor and she jumps as a figure slips between her and the exit.
Emerala finds herself staring up into the pointed, golden eyes of the pirate from the square. He grins down at her, shadowed laugh lines bordering his lips. Wild, black hair sweeps across his brow beneath the rim of his hat.
“You,” Emerala remarks. She clutches at her aching head and wayward curls poke upwards through her fingers. She tries to remember what the pirate had called himself. He had given her a Cairan name, she remembers. Her emerald eyes settle upon the soaring outline of the bird upon his forearm and it comes rushing back to her.
“Thought you’d sneak out, did you?” the Hawk asks, his grin widening impossibly. He leans down towards her and she can feel his breath tickling her skin.
“I—” she starts and stops, glancing around at the radiant room. The floor drops away beneath her and she feels her stomach plummeting towards the floorboards. She stumbles forward ungracefully, her arms flailing. The Hawk catches her by her underarms, dragging her back upright. She finds herself nose to nose with him beneath the cool shadow of the corner. A wicked gleam flickers across his golden gaze and he laughs.
“You don’t have your sea legs yet, aye?” he asks, his eyes crinkling.
Confusion knits across her brow. Her head is pounding at the back of her eye sockets.
“What?”
“You see, Rogue,” the Hawk says, leaning back against the door. “People like you and me, we’re not meant to be bound to the land. The sea, it’s like—well it’s like a siren call. We can’t ignore it. It’s in my blood.” He reaches his hand towards her and she feels a finger brush lightly against her clavicle—linger above her heart. “It’s in your blood.”
She draws away from him, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Where am I?” she demands.
“You’re right where you want to be,” the Hawk insists. “You’re right where you need to be.”
His piercing eyes slide away from her and drift towards the windows. She follows his gaze, feeling her breath catching in her throat as she sees what lies beyond the thick-paned glass.
It is the sea. Crisp and clear and blue, it yawns away beneath her as far as the eye can see. Her heartbeat quickens and she returns her gaze to the pirate before her.
“Welcome,” he says, doffing his cap and giving her a jaunty bow, “To the Rebellion.”
Turn the page for a sneak peek into Book II of Rogue Elegance
Due out in Summer 2017!
BOOK II
The Rogue and the Elegant
Sometimes, against the pervading darkness of the night, Seranai the Fair finds herself struggling to keep her demons at bay.
She leans back against the warm brick wall of Mamere Lenora’s whorehouse and listens to the barely subdued sounds of lovemaking that filter down through the soiled windows overhead. The night is dark, to be sure. Black as pitch, even. The moon is at the end of its cycle, ready to rebirth in a silvery travail, dragging its empty, white light upon the cobbled stones of Chancey.
She, too, feels as hollow as the moon’s empty echo. She tilts her chin upward, her pallid skin glowing in the orange light that flickers out from a second story window. She is a woman in limbo—frozen in time as she awaits her next move. She frowns, the lines around her mouth deepening as the corners of her lips pull downward. Somewhere up above, she hears a faint clattering noise. A light fizzles out, pitting one section of the street before her in increasing shadow. There is a giggle, hushed, then silence. Somewhere off in the darkness, a stray cat yowls.
When will it be time?
She recalls again the Hawk’s last, ominous caveat, delivered to her among the peeling wallpaper of the brothel during that first meeting.
There may be blood shed, before the end, he warned her, his golden eyes glittering in the candlelight. There will be casualties.
Her fingernails drive themselves hard into the palms of her hands at the memory, and she fights to keep her thoughts from drifting further back—from calling into memory the wet copper reek of pooling blood, from her father’s lips opening and closing like a fish as he lay dying on the slab of stone before her. She thinks, instead, of Nerani the Elegant. Is she the type of casualty the Hawk was thinking of the first day he and Seranai met?
Likely not.
Seranai fiddles with a stray lock of her hair, so blonde as to almost be completely white. An unseen force tugs the corners of her lips upwards.
Selling out Nerani to the guardians had been easy enough. It was easy enough, yes, and yet something unsettling rests in the pit of her stomach. She had watched with barely concealed glee as the guardians threw a hapless Nerani down upon her knees, binding her hands at the small of her back before dragging her off down the cobbled streets. Relief flooded her as they turned out of sight and the sounds of their boots faded to silence. Nerani had not begged. She had not screamed. She had only waited, her sky blue eyes pooling with tears as she was arrested for her crimes.
Seranai should feel wonderful, but she does not. The demons that plague her in the dark follow her now all throughout the day, tugging at her mind and tormenting her senses. Something is amiss.
Nerani the Elegant should have been burned at the stake.
She should have been hung by the neck until dead.
She should have been, and yet not even a notice of public execution has been distributed among the citizens of Chancey. No herald has streaked through the street upon his horse, trumpeting the announcement of her demise.
What are they waiting for?
She arches her back, ignoring the fabric that adheres itself to her skin in the sticking heat leftover from the unforgiving day. The darkness that settles over Chancey presses against the
earth like a blanket, making the stale air hang heavy. It does not bring with it the usual cool relief of night.
She can feel James Byron’s presence in the dark street before she sees him. His arrival, as quiet and as sudden as the rain, sends a small shiver down the nape of her neck.
“Hello,” she says, opening her eyes at the sound of his footfalls on the stone. He always did have a distinct way of walking, she notes, his footsteps firm and self-assured—a meticulous swagger. His presence on the steps before her is suffocating. She pulls at the high, lace collar of her dress and frowns.
“Good evening,” James says, inclining his head in her direction.
“What brings you here?” An uneasy flutter sweeps against her insides. She recalls the warning he had left her after his last visit. Is that why he is here, now? The night feels suddenly cold, in spite of the humidity. There is no wind, but she shivers all the same.
“Come to make good on your threats, have you?” Her voice is constrained. Quiet. He looks startled by her question. His brown eyes momentarily lose their impenetrable exterior. It is then that she notices how unkempt he appears. His is donned in his everyman clothes, his gold standard replaced with grey homespun cloth and black breeches. His face is unshaven. He looks as though he has not slept.
“You look awful,” she remarks. Some of her initial fear falls away from her as she takes him in. He does not seem to register her remark.
“I need a favor,” he says. His brown eyes meet her. She is shocked to find his usually cold gaze entreating.
“A favor?” she repeats, unable to keep the disgust out of her voice. She is not quite certain she has heard him correctly.
“Yes.”
Not likely, she thinks scornfully. And yet her curiosity ebbs at her, willing her to hear him out and see just what it is he needs from her.
“Just what could the formidable General Byron possibly need from me? A quick fix, perhaps? We are at a whorehouse.”
The derision in her voice does not go unnoticed by James. He winces visibly, and for a moment she can see beneath the cracked veneer in his decorum. It hurts him to be standing here before her—hurts him to need anything from her. He closes the space between them, taking the steps two at a time until he reaches the stoop where she stands, partially concealed in shadow. His eyes flicker back and forth as he makes sure they are quite alone.
“This is serious, Seranai.”
Hearing her name on his tongue evokes, as always, those sudden, unwanted feelings. She pushes them away, growing angrier with herself. Quiet, you demons, she thinks.
“I am as serious as I’ve ever been. The nerve of you, James—coming here on your hands and knees—begging me for help after all of this time.”
His shoulders crumple slightly under the weight of her words. She fights the urge to smile. She is stomping relentlessly on his cherished pride, and it brings her more joy than she thought possible. He stares at the floor between them, watching it as though expecting it to open up and swallow him whole. After a few moments of silent consideration he glances back up at her. His dark eyes have once again hardened to steel.
“I’m afraid I won’t beg on my hands and knees. But you will help me.”
“I will?” she asks, a challenge lacing her words. She is not afraid of him—not here, when so much as a scream from her will call to the windows all of the inhabitants of the house and her patrons. One scream from her, and the unblemished record of James will be forever sullied. He cannot afford such a mistake. He cannot lay a hand on her here. Her own grey eyes narrow into slits in the darkness, matching him in their indifference.
“You will.” His echo holds, within it, a sense of finality.
“We will see, I suppose. What is the favor?”
He swallows, leaning in. “You have contacts of some sort, don’t you?” He phrases it as a question, but he does not wait for an answer. “You have a way to get inside the Forbidden City, should you need to?”
“I already told you, the city—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, cutting her off. His fingers shake at his sides and he closes them into fists. “Don’t lie to me. I know it exists.”
She purses her lips. Considers.
“I don’t know what you could possibly mean by contacts. You more than anyone know that I don’t affiliate with my people.”
He frowns. “I also know that you would never enter into any situation without first having an escape plan. If you wanted to get into the city, you could.”
She contemplates this. Clever, she thinks. But then he always was smart.
“Right?” he demands, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence have elapsed between them. His voice cracks slightly and she starts, surprised at his unraveling conduct. She wonders how long it has been since he last slept.
“Right,” she assents. “Let’s say that I do have contacts. What is it you need?”
His tongue darts out over his lower lip. “There was a woman arrested here a fortnight past. You may have known her. She is a Cairan, herself.”
Seranai feels her blood run cold. Her knees slam together beneath her petticoat. “Yes,” she says, and her voice comes out in a squeak. The demons within her are writhing in the pit of her stomach—wailing like banshees deep within her head. She struggles to gather herself. “I know of her. You will be speaking, I assume, of Nerani the Elegant.”
James pauses at the sound of her name, an unusual splash of color rising along the line of his cheekbones. She takes silent note of this and continues.
“What of her?”
James glances around carefully, his brown eyes studying the shadows as though he expects someone to surge forward out of the darkness at any given moment.
“I need you to arrange for you and… Nerani…to return to the Forbidden City.”
Unable to help herself, Seranai’s lips fall open. She gapes at him in silence, incapable of grasping what she has just heard. There is a distinct buzzing in her ears and she fights the urge to shake her head clear.
“But,” she begins and falters. She swallows hard, tasting something bitter on her tongue. Her veins run cold beneath her flesh. “She was arrested.”
James looks momentarily anguished. His gaze is as dark as the dreaded Dark Below. “I know. I’ll be bringing her here.”
“What? When?”
“Tomorrow night,” he states simply, his gaze holding hers.
“You—” She starts and stops again. White-hot anger surges through her skin, the heat curling in her fingertips. “You can’t,” she says at last. “You wouldn’t. What you’re talking about doing—that’s treason.”
She hisses the last word through clenched teeth, her fists resting upon the wide whalebone netting of her hips. His gaze turns murderous. In a flash, his hands enclose around her throat. She cries out, her skull cracking against the warm brick as he shoves her backwards. Deep red and white spots fan out across her vision. His face is inches away from hers, all traces of decorum gone. In its place she sees only quiet rage.
“You will not mention that word again in my presence, do you understand?” His voice is so low that it is almost inaudible. She lets out a guttural cry, gasping for breath as his hands loosen slightly upon her throat. Her grey eyes widen with realization as his shoulders rise and fall erratically.
“You’re in love with her,” she states blankly.
There is a footfall upon the creaking wooden staircase just inside the front door.
“Seranai?” someone calls out. It is Mamere Lenora. Two hands slide away from her neck, leaving behind a dull throbbing as air rushes down her throat and into her lungs. She can feel him slinking back into the shadows.
“Tell her you’re fine,” James whispers. He is in control of his voice once again. The words that reach her ears in the darkness are weighted with an unspoken threat: Or I’ll kill you.
She does not doubt that he will. Not anymore.
The front door squeals open and Mamere Lenora pokes her heav
ily painted face out into the darkness. “Great After, it’s hotter out here than it is inside.” She tilts her head in Seranai’s direction. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, which, Seranai notes with a heightened level of disgust, she has been doing every day since that cursed Nerani’s arrest.
“Are you well, darling? I thought I heard a commotion.”
Seranai waves her away with an idle hand, acutely aware of her bosoms rising and falling within her tightly laced corset. Her demons claw relentlessly at her insides, raking her gut and tearing at her lungs. “I’m quite alright, Mamere.”
“Are you certain? You look as though you’ve been frightened half to death.”
“I had a scare, that’s all. A stray cat popped out of the shadows just now.”
It is a poor attempt at a lie, but Mamere nods knowingly, as though a wayward cat would be quite enough to strike fear into the heart of anyone. “I understand. We’ve all been on edge since Nerani’s arrest—I can only imagine how you must be feeling, poor dear. To see one of your own snatched up like that. Just terrible, it is. Why don’t you come on inside? It isn’t good to be out here in the open where guardians might be snooping about.”
If you only knew, Seranai thinks scathingly. She shakes her head, all the same. “I’ll be in in just a few moments,” she says, trying to smile. “Don’t worry yourself about me.”
“Of course, dear.” Mamere flashes her a warm smile before disappearing back into the house. The door clicks shut behind her and James reappears. His boots are silent on the wooden stoop. His face is as grey and as still as stone. He does not blink.
“I’ll be bringing Nerani to you tomorrow at sunset. You will be waiting here for us. You will make the arrangements for your safe return back to the Forbidden City.”
“And if I refuse?”
