Such a Clever Deception: A Stolen Tears Prequel

by Cortney Pearson

  He squirms under the weight of her words. Is she right? Is that why he sought her out tonight?

  No. He came because it’s been too long, and he owes it to her. That’s all.

  “You’re wrong, Shasa,” he says, his voice low. “I want this. Tyrus is about to make me a commander. I’ve worked too hard to throw it in now. There’s no place for me back in Feihria. This is who I am now.”

  “And yet…” She chews her lip, tracing a slender finger along one of the cuts he received during his scuffle with Ripkin. The touch stings, her fingertip like fire. “You never heal yourself.”

  “What of it?” Talon’s angry, defensive, and he jerks away from her touch.

  She purses her lips with the quirk of an eyebrow. “You’re punishing yourself.” Her exulting smirk turns into a full-on spiteful grin, and she points her finger at him. “You know I’m right. Admit it.”

  He turns his back to her, not wanting to answer. “Bye, Jomeini,” he calls over his shoulder before jerking the door open and stepping back out into the rain.

  The air is crisp and chilled, scented with hints of sand and sea. Moonlight hides behind the thick overlay of clouds. Waves lap in, slow and curling, greeting the shore. The training ground is dark; the palace lights have been dimmed, and only a few guards patrol the outer gates. They let Talon pass with a nod.

  Instead of climbing the grand staircase to his chambers, he breaks to the left. His empty stomach squeezing in pain, he tramps his way down to the kitchens. Food. He needs something to do, something else to think about. If Aria made a plate for him, chances are she left it in one of the fridges.

  Talon meanders through the maze-like corridor, passing the washrooms, the storage areas and the servant quarters until he reaches the kitchen that could hold four of those squat, crumbling homes Shasa and Jomeini are being held in.

  Music, soft and resonant with a slight, dragging beat, greets him as he steps into the large space. The sound of breathing and some kind of footwork reaches his ears, and he pauses at its source, feeling lighter than he has all day despite the wedge still in his chest.

  Aria is in the kitchen, but she isn’t cooking.

  Her dark hair is cropped short, one side just longer than the other. It fans in front and falls into her eyes as she sways in the center of the space lined by dark wooden cabinets. A pair of sinks sits across from a sequence of fridges, which hum softly from the streaking magic along their bases.

  Aria wears a baggy black shirt with long sleeves hanging low over skintight exercise pants that hug her calves. A spear of lime green stripes down the side of each leg, and a matching green tank top peeks from the billows of her shirt. She sways, bending to the tile and raising a leg like a straight arrow behind her body as she curls in and turns in time with the rich beat.

  Talon has only ever seen her in her serving attire—loose-fitting pants and shirt beneath a white apron and a net covering her hair. He had no idea it was cut short to begin with, but the style suits the angles of her jaw, the delicate line of her cheeks and gleam in her eyes, which are currently closed as she continues morphing her body with the line of music. He watches her for several moments. Though he’s only feet from her she’s out of reach, lost in her own world.

  He smirks, resting hands on the counter behind him as he deftly lifts his body for a better seat. His head collides with something metal dangling over him. The pan’s handle wriggles loose from its hook before he can catch it. Like a fool, he was too preoccupied with watching her to remember the line of cookware put to rest for the evening.

  The golden pan crashes to the counter first, and then it clangs to the floor, jerking Aria’s attention right at him. She freezes for a split second, then straightens and clutches her fists to her chest as though she’s been caught stealing.

  “Captain Haraway!”

  Aria dives for the player on the counter, smashing a hand to shut the music off. Silence follows, and the canister holding glittering purple magic near the door flickers in response. Meanwhile Talon bends for the fallen pan and hooks it once more into place.

  “You dance in kitchens?” he asks, unable to help his grin. He knows for a fact the staff detoxes and sanitizes every surface in here daily. Hourly, probably.

  Aria’s hazel eyes bug wide. A hand flies to her mop of hair as if realizing she’s in here without a net.

  She’s adorable, Talon thinks, admiring her expression, her big hazel eyes and the way the pout of her mouth drops open.

  “I—I can’t do it in my quarters. Madam Guavera goes to bed early so I can’t play music, and there are so many soldiers in the lounging and exercise areas now, and…I have privacy in here. At least, the last few nights I have.” She ducks her chin down.

  “How long have you been dancing?”

  “As long as I’ve been breathing!” she says excitedly. Then she catches herself, straightening once more. She fiddles with the silver bracelet at her wrist, gleaming with a single purple stone. That talisman releases the girl’s emotions that were blocked by the wizard’s spell.

  It’s not a wonder she has one. Like the claw, the talisman is an Arcaian invention awarded mainly to servants and subjugates whose owners want more responsive companions. It’s not that different from a dog collar, now that he thinks about it.

  Talon’s manservant, Marco, has one. Marco traveled here with him from Arcaia two years ago. He knows Marco counts it as an honor to be able to work in the Triad. He wonders if Aria feels the same now that she can, well, feel.

  “Do you dance with a…a company, or anything?” He isn’t sure what the technical terms are. This is an area he knows nothing about.

  “I used to,” she says with a distant smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

  Talon wonders how she came to be here, working at the Triad Palace of all places, or how she came to be wearing that talisman around her wrist, the one that makes it so she isn’t lifeless like the Itharians in his brigade.

  The reality sinks into his stomach like a hot coal the longer he stares at it. Someone has subjugated her, and they don’t want her to act robotic. The thought saddens him. Makes him wonder if that’s why she’s had to stop dancing.

  Who was it—Tyrus? Miles, maybe? It’s not necessarily the stuff of polite conversation, and he isn’t sure how to broach the subject.

  Her eyes dart around to the empty kitchen, before she scrambles to retrieve her lumpy pink and red patchwork bag slumped against one of the massive refrigerators.

  “I should go,” she says. “Obviously you came down here for something, and I’m in your way.”

  Talon steps in, catching her by the wrist, surprising both her and himself.

  Both of their gazes skim to where their skin touches. A current that has nothing to do with magic or electricity passes between them. He releases her, his voice husky. “Sorry, I only wanted to catch your attention. You don’t have to leave. I can go.”

  “No!” Her hands dart out. Then she smoothes over her hair once more. “I mean, you can stay, if you want.”

  “And watch you dance?”

  She chews her lip, tracing a foot over an invisible line in the tile. “You could dance with me, if you wanted.”

  For a moment he pictures taking her hand again, holding her close, guiding her around the small space. But he’s no dancer. He’s a soldier. He can hear Shasa’s consternation now. You danced with her when she belongs to someone else? She’s not even one of us. Shame from earlier sets in again, thick and scalding like hot tar. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want what he can’t have.

  He clears his throat. “Actually I came here because I was hungry.”

  Pink climbs into Aria’s cheeks, but she smiles. “Of course you are.” Flustered, she tucks the longest part of her dark hair behind an ear. “I know right where everything is—”

  “But I don’t want to eat alone—”

  “And I left a plate for you in the fridge. I told the general earlier when he was in here but obviously he—”


  Talon reaches for her wrist once more, stopping her from opening the refrigerator door.

  “Aria,” he says. She’s warm under his touch. Her breath catches, and she turns her hand, letting him feel just how smooth her skin is. He knows he should let go, but he doesn’t.

  She blinks in disbelief. “You…?”

  “Know your name? Of course I do.”

  That luscious pink climbs higher up her cheeks, but she doesn’t back away. She’s breathing in time with him now, hot and fast. He’s aware of the blood racing through him, though in a different way than he’s felt before. Nothing with Shasa has ever been like this.

  Unwittingly, his glance flickers down to her mouth, still in that open pout of amazement. She’s surprised, he thinks. Shocked that I’m even here with her, talking to her. Talon can’t fathom that, somehow. It’s strange to be around a girl who actually wants him around for his company rather than to force affections on him, to argue with or manipulate.

  “You’re the captain of the Arcaian Guard,” she says in explanation, just above a whisper.

  The wedge in his chest reminds him it’s still there, reminds him of Shasa, of everything she is that Aria isn’t. He can’t do this.

  “You can call me Talon,” he says, releasing her and retreating toward the door.

  “Talon.” She takes in a slow breath, never peeling her gaze from his.

  He forces away any traces of emotion and waits for something to sink in. A confirmation, maybe, affirming that she could be his. That this could be real. That she could match him—not just physically, but from the inside.

  He’s known Shasa for two years now, and despite her attempts—and despite the increase of his heart rate—that feeling hasn’t come. He doesn’t know if it’s a Feihrian thing, or just a human connection thing, but whatever it is, he wants it. Someone worth letting in. Someone willing to accept him and his past.

  Aria swallows, examining him beneath her dark lashes. He can’t afford to see if it’s there with her, either. How can he confide in her, tell her things about himself? The gleaming admiration and anticipation riding in her eyes would burn out to horror and disappointment if she knew who he really was. What he’s done.

  “It’s late,” he says, inclining his head toward the clock above the stove. “I should go. I’ll let you dance.”

  “But—”

  “Good night, Aria.” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

  ***

  Talon’s lids flicker open. His alarm hasn’t clamored yet, but his restless night makes him feel as though he only just closed his eyes. No calm breaks over his muscles; nothing about him is relaxed. And no dreams, either, just Shasa and Aria mixed together on replay in his brain over and over, spinning like a perpetual top.

  His stomach gnaws at itself. He runs a hand through his hair and breaks into a stretch before forcing himself out of bed. The floor is cold, and he pads his way toward the bathroom when a knock strikes on the door. Marco is here earlier than usual.

  “You know you can just enter,” he mutters under his breath. The older man takes care of minor things like lighting the fire, making the bed, and laying out Talon’s uniform, though Talon tries to dress before he arrives. He yanks on the knob, whipping the door open to find not a thin man with kind eyes and a tailored suit, but a much younger girl wearing her typical loose-fitting black pants and button-up shirt beneath a white apron. No hair net, but a white cap, pulling her hair tightly beneath it.

  “Aria!” At once he’s aware of his bare chest, and from the way her eyes skim down and that delicious color climbs her cheeks, so is she.

  “Talon!” she says as though she hadn’t expected him to open the door she’d knocked on. She ducks her head as though trying not to look at him, nearly dropping the tray in her hands. The plate in the center is covered by a silver platter. The milk sloshes in its glass cup, and the utensils clink as she steadies herself.

  He reaches for the shirt hanging on the back of a nearby chair and slips it on.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, stupidly.

  “You left without eating last night, and I figured you’d be hungry this morning. I—I hope that was okay.”

  Talon’s mouth quirks up. He touches his stomach. “I am hungry, thanks.”

  The two stand awkwardly in the space created by his open door until he takes the tray she offers him. The scent of hash browns and crisped bacon wafts up, tantalizing his empty stomach.

  He takes in the lanterns still lit in the dim hall. It’s minutes before sunrise. The darkness has only started to lift; a pale blue hue glows through the gap of his curtains. What time must she have risen just to make him this breakfast?

  He stares at her long lashes and the shape of her lips pressed into a smile. He could say it. Now is the perfect time. He can picture inviting her in or to grab a bite to eat later, strolling along the beach while they talk and share stories of their childhoods…

  An ache wriggles in the center of his chest. His mouth opens. She seems so innocent in her black garb, her figure slim, hope reaching from her gaze.

  “You know,” she says, “if you’re ever hungry, I can get you whatever you’d like. Any time, really.”

  She tucks her lips between her teeth.

  Before Talon gets the chance to say anything, voices trail behind her, and she turns. Miles rounds the corner with Adam Nels, Talon’s closest friend since the two of them were five years old. A whip cracks in Talon’s mind, reminding him of where he should be right now. It’s sunrise—his brigade is probably gathering on the training ground below, waiting for his arrival. He offers what he hopes is a kind smile.

  “Thanks, Aria. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Miles approaches, suited up in the expected Arcaian khaki uniform, while Adam wears a crumpled pair of casual blue trousers and wrinkled buttoned-up shirt. His red hair is mussed, sticking up here and there like a mass of wires.

  “Bye, Talon,” Aria says with one last glance before ducking her head down and passing Miles and Adam without a word. Miles inclines his head at her, but Adam watches her with a smirk, pulling at the neckline of his shirt. He glances at Talon, his eyes brimming with glee.

  Talon’s sure what it must look like. He turns back into his room, knowing they’ll follow. Adam closes the door, not waiting a second before pouncing.

  “You’re on a first-name basis, are you?” he says with a grin.

  Talon sets the tray on the decorative table. More light sneaks its way in through the curtain, and he flicks on the switch to bathe the room in a yellow glow. He lifts the platter, and a puff of steam rises, heating his cheeks. Pancakes with bits of banana and blueberry spoking through their golden crusts, hash browns, bacon and sausage, all lure him. He takes a bite of the bacon, his mouth watering at the taste.

  “You look terrible,” Talon says without answering the question. “Where have you been?”

  Adam stalks over, peering down at the spread Aria delivered. He closes his eyes and inhales. “You can’t have this food. It’s mine.”

  “I’ll fight you for it,” Talon says with a grin and another bite as he changes into his uniform near the armoire across the room. He glances in the mirror, buttoning up the khaki shirt with nimble, bacon-greased fingers.

  “You win that argument,” says Adam.

  Miles laughs, helping himself to a piece of bacon as well. “You’ll always win that argument.”

  Though Talon joins in, he can’t help following the line of Miles’s and Adam’s skin toward their purpled hands. He wonders how many people’s magic Miles now claims after taking the old man’s yesterday in front of all those recruits. If Aria belonged to either of them, they would have said something when she’d passed by.

  Talon doesn’t like the thought of her belonging to someone else, in any regard.

  “To answer your question,” Adam says, stealing the last piece of bacon. “I just got back from sporting the local scenery. Girls weren’t this pretty bac
k in Arcaia.”

  “Any fine conquests?” Talon asks, grinning as he tucks his shirt into the khaki trousers. Relief seeps in just seeing these guys. No pressure, no expectations. Just him and the boys.

  “Adam fared pretty well,” Miles says.

  The redhead exhales as he continues to chew. “It’s why I’m so late this morning, but angels, she was beautiful.”

  While Adam and Miles exchange a laugh, Talon’s thoughts drift back to Aria. Adam and Miles might be able to fool around with the local girls without a second thought, but even if Talon could bring himself to do that, he’s not sure he could be with someone as sweet as Aria, only to drop her like he knows he’ll have to.

  As though reading Talon’s mind, Adam claps him on the back. “When are you going to come out with us and do some conquesting of your own, eh?”

  Talon raises an eyebrow.

  “You know what I mean.” Adam waves a hand dismissively. “When are you gonna get yourself a girl?”

  “It’s that promotion. He’s waiting for it to go through, aren’t you, Haraway?” says Miles. “He thinks if he has a few more shiny badges on his chest he’ll be irresistible.”

  Adam guffaws, shoving a slice of bacon into his mouth. “Girls don’t know the difference, mate. Corporal, captain, general—s’all the same to them. Vreck, they don’t even know which is which. I tell them all I’m a captain, anyway. Seems to go over well.” He waggles his eyebrows.

  Talon rolls his eyes at his friend. “Why don’t you just go for commander while you’re at it?”

  “When’s that promotion going through, anyway?” Miles asks, not letting Adam answer. “I thought you’d be pinning on any day now.”

  Talon sighs. He hasn’t had a chance to tell his friends about his discussion with Tyrus. He’s not even sure he wants to. He shrugs. “There’s some problem with the color of my hands,” he says wryly. “Tyrus is working on it.”