by Della Roth
But he never answers me. Something beeps in his pants pocket. Roland turns away, flips on his communicator tablet, and reaches for his shirt at the same time. I retie the bathrobe. Some of the light from the tablet glows against his face. It plasters ghastly shadows against his skin, and I realize it’s worse that I ever imagined it could be. Nothing can cure him of those scars. The redness. The puckering. All those scars on one side whereas the other side is completely smooth and handsome.
He must feel like a monster every time he looks at his reflection. No wonder he keeps the place in darkness. But I cannot let myself pity him. I can deal with lust. I can deal with sex. I will enjoy licking every inch of those scars on his body.
I cannot deal with pity or its kinder sister: affection.
Without warning, he looks away from the tablet and at me. He knows I’ve seen him. He’s no longer hidden from me. I see the lust on his face as well as disappointment. He wonders if I’m still attracted to him. Just as a moth is attracted to a flame, I cannot alter that attraction, and it will get me into trouble.
But I see something else in his expression: a haunting, like something literally eats at him, something he cannot purge.
Then the look is gone.
“We have a delivery. Get dressed,” Roland orders as he buttons up his shirt. Whatever he was feeling seconds ago is now gone. “I’ll meet you in the hallway in two minutes.”
My mind whirls. We have a what? “What were you going to say a moment ago? What’s going on?”
Roland pauses by the door. “It’s time for you to show me what you’re capable of, Rahda.”
TEN
THE DOOR LATCHES, AND ROLAND IS gone in a flash. It’s time for you to show me what you’re capable of, Rahda.
My eyes flinch as I flick on the lights. I’ve been in the darkness too long already. I open the wardrobe, but instead of selecting one of the lovely fabrics, I pull out a black utility shirt and black trousers, put them on, and then lace up my black combat boots.
I am amazed at how everything seems to be tailored just for me. The clothing fits perfectly. Not too snug or too loose. I could easily run up and down a few flights of stairs wearing this outfit.
Just before I leave the apartment, I pull my damp hair up into a tight bun and meet Roland in the hallway.
“I don’t have a key for the apartment,” I say as I fiddle with the door.
“You won’t need one. The doorknob is programmed to recognize your unique body signature once you enter the hallway. You and only you can open your apartment door.”
“A form of protection? But from whom?”
“From me,” he says without the slightest hint of humor. “Now follow me. We need to reach the lab quickly.”
Before I can question his chivalry or ponder the fact that I might actually like finding him waiting for me in my room one night or why I need protection from him in the first place, Roland pockets his communicator tablet and jogs to the end of the hallway. It’s a long hallway.
“What the hell!” I squeak mostly to myself and run to catch up. He pauses at a curtained window, and I see the wet streets below. Deserted. Dingy yellow lamps burn against the fog unsuccessfully.
Roland opens a wooden panel and waits for me. I duck inside and together, we traverse an intensely spiral staircase that was probably never meant to be seen by outsiders.
“We have to get there quickly, and this is the only way,” he explains after the first few steps. There are no lights to guide me, and I am again reminded that everyone here seems to be able to see in the dark.
“How in the world can you see?”
“Just follow the steps and my voice,” he answers. “It’s a regular staircase and not exactly difficult to operate.” A small amount of sarcasm enters his voice. He’s teasing me, and I smile in the darkness.
“I hope that you’ll be extremely sad, then, when I fall down twenty flights of stairs.”
Two levels down. A hundred more to go. I thank Goddess for the trousers and the boots. I would have tripped all over the fabriskin robes.
“Is that still the rumor? Twenty stories? Only nine floors are visible.”
Underground levels, then. Instantly, I imagine medieval dungeons and torture chambers. Actually, now that I think about it, those two things are making a comeback.
“How many basement levels?”
He chuckles. “I don’t know, to be honest. You are welcome to investigate on your own time, if you wish.”
“How can you not know how many floors your home has? Haven’t you lived here your whole life?”
“My ancestors built it over other structures. Churches and other such things, and they kept building in and around the Palace, absorbing other buildings in the process.”
“So they just built around whatever was in the way?” That would explain the bridge and the crack in the floor.
“I guess you could say that.”
A couple of feet below, I can see a sliver of light coming through the bottom of a door, but as we approach it, the light goes out. How odd. Roland opens that very door.
“Why did the light go out as we approached it?”
“Just as your apartment door recognizes you and unlocks itself, my home recognizes me and behaves accordingly, to include lowering the lights.” He leads me into a smaller hallway. Tiny, embedded recessed lights mark the glass floor, sort of like lights under the surface of a swimming pool, and there is just enough illumination for me not to veer off the ledge. The hallway is like a catwalk, its flooring raised several feet above the older-looking brick walkway below. At some point in history, this part of the building was outside and a side street or a sidewalk.
Glass planks unite the walkway with connecting doors. Roland stops at an unmarked door, I hear it unlock, and he allows me to enter first.
I notice two things immediately.
First, the lights do not go out completely. It isn’t by any means bright, but it’s better than everywhere else in the building. I turn around to see how Roland reacts to the dim light. He’s looking down. I try not to notice the scars, but I’m not yet conditioned to see past them. So I turn back into the room.
Second, and maybe more importantly: we are not alone.
“‘Bout time ye got here, Rolan’. Is dis her, tha new hire?” a short, stout man standing in the middle of the room asks.
ELEVEN
“CALM YOUR HORSES, MR. UNDERWOOD. I only received your page two minutes ago. Rahda, this is Alben Underwood. He is an old friend as well as my weapons expert, among… other things,” Roland says, though the last part is so vague it could mean anything from he’s my cook to he’s my personal secretary to we’re lovers. “Alben, this is Rahda Plesti, my newest research assistant.” No among other things. Mr. Underwood holds something in his hands. “What have you brought me?” Roland asks.
I wasn’t aware that Roland had a weapons expert. The man is short, round, with long white hair, tiny, wire-rimmed glasses that rest on the tip of his nose, and he looks more like a bookkeeper than a man who should be holding a slimy-looking dead sea animal. I am sure that in time, I will understand why a weapons expert would be excited about a dead specimen, though excited might be too strong a word.
Alben’s accent spoke volumes. He must be from the far-far north—perhaps a north sea citizen, known for their fierce loyalty and a fierce fighting style—and definitely a commoner.
Roland supposedly hates commoners. And… maybe everything my mentor told me about Roland isn’t true.
Alben stands next to a stainless steel table filled with various instruments. Microscopes. Dissecting utensils. Chemistry tubes. Against the walls stand glass-covered shelves containing books, antique weapons, and metal parts for, presumably, weapons making. I’m honestly not sure, and I do not ask.
“Spent time in tha black water near Hades Rocks to find dis here creature. It will have wot ye need for tha new hire.” Alben holds out the creature. Neither Roland nor I move to take it from him.
“What exactly is that thing?” I ask. And it came from Hades Rocks? Nothing good ever came from Hades Rocks. I look around for some sort of weapon.
Alben huffs unceremoniously. “Weren’t’ye listenin’? Jus told ye. Wot type of research assis’ant are ye?”
“I think what Mr. Underwood means to say is that the black ink and the cuttlebone inside of the cuttlefish, the creature in his hands, will aide you in your research.” Roland’s face is turned away from me as he says this. “At least, I think it might help you. The others…” he trails off.
“The others didn’t think so?” I ask, referring to the previous research assistants, and he nods.
I begin to think of the possible reasons for using a cuttlefish. I can use the cuttlebone for casts, models, and even a rudimentary white paint, none of which even comes close to what I need. The black ink, well, it would depend on what that black ink can do when combined with other ingredients. Ingredients that Dorni might have in her Widow’s Lane shoppe.
I smile, and Roland looks at me curiously.
Cuttlefish are the perfect chameleons, blending into their surroundings with almost near accuracy to avoid predators. Excellent bio-natural technology that I would love to extract and use in the human world.
Can I manipulate it? Would it work?
I already have a working theory, but I need to see the lab promised to me, and I need to know and see what the other research assistants had worked on before me. I pick up a silver lab tray and allow Alben to deposit the cuttlefish onto it.
“Thank you, Mr. Underwood.” The creature squirms against the pan and immediately turns the exact shade of silver as the lab tray. “I didn’t realize it was still alive.”
“Cuttlebone can waid’a day, but ye’ll need ta move fast ta remove da black ink,” Alben explains. This is why Roland brought me down through the spiral staircase at breakneck speed. The cuttlefish isn’t long for this world.
“How much time?”
Alben huffs again as he brushes past me, rubbing his slimy palms against his trousers. I get a whiff of black sea water and gunpowder. “How wud I know? Yer da research assis’an’ fer chrissakes.” Then he turns to Roland. “Ya migh’ need ta start lookin’ fer nummer eight. Dis one here don’t seem all dat bright.” He does a little wave and then leaves without saying another word. The door hisses closed.
“I think he’s sweet on me,” I say.
Roland watches me closely before he smiles. It’s a total transformation. He doesn’t look so sad or angry, but I notice that he keeps his good side pointed in my direction. Even after the intimacy we shared upstairs, he appears reluctant to allow me to see him fully, completely, and I’ll require full access. And I’ll need to know why the others failed.
“Do you mean Mr. Underwood or the cuttlefish there?”
“Definitely Mr. Underwood.” I wink at Roland as I lift the tray slightly. It isn’t heavy or cumbersome, but I do need a place to withdraw the black ink. “Will you show me to my lab?”
“Allow me to take you there now, Rahda. It isn’t far.”
I love and hate it when he says my name like that. Like it’s the dearest name to him. And it probably is, professionally speaking, if I can allow him to re-enter society again. If I can make him feel whole again. If I can make the scars disappear.
TWELVE
ROLAND TAKES ME BACK OUT INTO the hallway, and I find that I have to adjust again to the darkness. I stifle a large yawn, and part of me wishes I was fast asleep upstairs in that glorious bed, but the sudden excitement of starting the project early, even if by a few hours, rejuvenates me.
He opens another door, and I step into a brighter room with gleaming instruments, white spaces, a radiation chamber, and, in a corner, a table with six piles of books and boxes labeled Research Assistant One through Six.
My lab. I don’t care that six came before me. They failed. I will not.
I place the silver tray on a white table. I find a needle and a medium-sized vial and quickly remove the black ink from the cuttlefish. It squirms against my gloved hands, and the creature expires soon afterward. Hopefully, the ink is still potent outside of its host. If not, Alben Underwood dived into the murky black waters for nothing.
“Tell me about your training,” Roland says unexpectedly. “Why did you decide to become a bio-technical engineer?”
Part of his question hurts because it shows just how oblivious he is to the outside world and the realities that face the continent’s poorer families. It also shows that he doesn’t remember me.
“I didn’t decide,” I answer truthfully. “When I was thirteen years old, the king’s army arrived on my family’s doorstep and forced me to join the infantry. If we resisted, we would have been killed immediately. I remember hearing, later on, that entire families were murdered. I suppose it was an effective tactic. The fact that I’m standing here right now tells you that I did not resist.”
Unlike Pareu. I push the thought of my brother away.
Roland’s face softens. I wonder if he expected me to lie.
“I’m truly sorry. That was my father’s doing. He was a barbarian, and if he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him again. What happened next?” He asks this quietly, respectfully.
“I kept my head down and hoped that no one noticed me. But that changed after a few months, but not for the reason you might think. I wasn’t winning any beauty contests. I had a knack for taking things apart and putting them back together differently. A broken radio became a tent heater. A truck engine, combined with a couple of tubes, became a filter to purify the black water. That was a big hit with everyone. I enjoyed doing things that made our lives better, easier, or more comfortable. It might sound strange, but it’s almost like I can control things, and when I create something new, it feels… right.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I pause and gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t laugh, I continue on. “It’s silly, I know.”
Roland roams the room, listening, straightening some of the books so the spines align. Busy work. I wonder what he’s waiting for.
“No, not silly. Everything has a soul, even objects. Maybe their souls liked your soul.”
I laugh a little before I realize he’s being serious.
“I’m not a witch, if that’s what you’re asking. I know the souls of humans and half-humans can be claimed, but not objects… not things. Honestly, I don’t know much about it. But my mother…” I stop, thinking.
“Your mother?” His eyebrows raise, and I can tell he’s extremely interested in whatever I say next.
I shake my head. An old memory comes to mind. I furrow my eyebrows, concentrating.
“I was just going to say that I think my mother once told me something about claiming souls, but I can’t remember. It was probably to scare me into not doing something naughty.”
Roland nods.
“Probably,” he agrees quietly and for a moment, silence greets us. “How did you get out the infantry?”
I smile to myself, remembering the first time I met Prince Roland Rexus.
“There was a young officer who seemed to favor me, though he probably treated everyone the same way. He brought me treats, food, warm socks. Stuff like that, and he told me a story about the most wonderful city in the world, where every citizen was treated equally. He filled my head with images of rooms of fresh food, clean clothes, friendly faces, and how, one day, a Queen would rule the continent fairly. Obviously, it was utterly ridiculous. No such city could ever exist, but it allowed me to dream of something other than trying to survive for just another day. I’ll never forget his kindness to me,” I say as I stare at him. “His was the only kindness I knew while in the infantry.” He was also my first love. What thirteen-year-old girl wouldn’t be in love with Roland Rexus?
“What was this officer’s name?”
“I—I don’t know,” I say quickly, looking down, and placing the black ink vial into the subzero nitrogen tank. “But it’s what he did afterwar
d that changed my life. He introduced me to an old scholarly man who paid for my freedom. This scholar, my mentor, took me under his wing, moved me to the Old City, and educated me. This is how I became a bio-technical engineer.”
I leave out the parts about the mentor training me to destroy the Rexus Dynasty.
“So, this officer changed your life, but you can’t be bothered to remember his name?” Roland says coldly. He pushes himself off the table he was leaning against and strides toward me. His body is strong, virile, taut, and I imagine myself molded against his skin. I can still feel where his lips pressed against mine, the way his skin tasted against my tongue, the way I know he’ll feel perfect inside me. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
I shake my head, hoping to rid it of these thoughts.
Roland stands before me now. His face is unreadable when he asks in a low voice, “Is this the same old scholar that instructed you to kill me?”
I suck in air.
“Why would I want to do that? I don’t even know you.” I block the lies to make them feel real. Seem truthful. I study his reddening face.
“Of course you don’t know me… no one knows the dark prince,” he says coldly.
His green eyes cut through me when I ask, “What happened to you?” Why am I asking? I lift a hand to touch him, but he jerks away from me as if I burned him, as if I’m the reason for his deformity. I’m not supposed to care, but dear Goddess, his rejection hurts.
“Your first test is in—” He checks his communicator tablet. “Twelve hours. Have a working prototype or else.”
Roland stalks from the room, and a trail of silent hurt and pain lingers. I find myself staring at the dead cuttlefish to avoid the multitude of feelings broiling inside me.
I reach over and pick up a scalpel.
THIRTEEN
SEVERAL HOURS PASS BEFORE A NOISE cuts into my attention. In the corner of the room, a small door slides sideways, into the wall rather than away from it, and a small service robot glides in effortlessly. It’s a tiny thing. A plain yet shiny round body, wheels for legs, and, in its skinny outstretched arms, it holds a tray loaded with toast topped real butter, a meaty royaltrail gravy, and coffee so aromatic that I should have smelled it coming long before it arrived.
