by C. M. Lind
Randolph slowly nodded.
“At most,” Balfour said, “I can go five days without seriously searching for her.”
Randolph quickly nodded. “Understood.”
“Good,” said Balfour. He pulled his head back away from Randolph. “She will have to be careful though. I have heard that the Southern Knives have a contract out on her. I wanted to tell her last night, but it seemed inappropriate given the venue. They have men all over the country.” He said the next part very slowly: “She will not be safe in any part of Aveline.”
“I understand,” said Randolph. His chest was tight, and he couldn’t believe what was happening.
“I have a lot to do here,” said Balfour. “I think I will question Etienne for a long while, so, if you need to leave, now would be a good time.”
Balfour offered his hand to Randolph, and, without hesitation, Randolph took it. The two clasped as men of their professions did: firmly and briefly.
“Good luck, Micah,” said Balfour.
Randolph smiled at the man. “You too, Baly.”
* * *
Randolph was in his room. Grabbing the messenger bag that he kept rumpled under his bed, it occurred to him that he really had nothing to pack. He always had what he needed on him, and Randolph needed very little. Even his clothes he would wear until they broke apart, happy to wash them by hand every few days.
He didn’t know what they were going to do or where they were to go. He could have packed food and water, but if they were leaving by ship, those wouldn’t be necessary. They might be if they left by land, but with just the two of them, it was too dangerous to head into northern Aveline. It was a place relegated to bandits and deserters—a pleasant buffer in the eyes of the Avelinian people between them and the north.
What he needed was money. Given the murders, going to his bank would be too suspicious. His account was created by Jae, and his flight would be ended by a nosy banker before it even began. He was owed payment for his work for last month, but he doubted it was the right time to approach Ety about it.
But Randolph had lived in the Reinout estate for years, and he definitely knew where to find money. He grabbed his empty bag, threw it over his shoulder, and he booked it for Lilane Reinout’s room.
As Randolph made it up the stairs, a few hallways away from his goal, he almost slammed into someone on the way as he turned.
Most of the staff had taken the day off, as custom when a superior dies, for mourning. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be where he was going. Most of the house, besides the Justicars, was empty as all of the maids had taken the opportunity to “mourn” for the mistress of the house, Lilane. Randolph imagined them all at the pub, toasting to her: as cold in death as in life.
Randolph began to apologize, knowing he was practically running through the house, until he saw who he had run into. It was the man from the night before: the islander who distracted him—and as he vividly remembered, practically fondled him.
“Slow down,” said the man, pressing his hands playfully against Randolph’s chest. “A big man like you could break me!”
“Don’t tempt me,” said Randolph, jerking his body back to pull the man’s hands away.
“I don’t think you can afford the time to break me properly.” He smirked. “Besides, I am utterly exhausted from last night.”
Randolph cocked his head. “Do the Justicars know you’re here?”
“Why?” he asked, mocking him with a waggling eyebrow. “Do you think they will have the coin?”
“So they can question you.”
“Oh, no.” He laughed. “All that unpleasant business of last night with that womanizer? Unfortunately, I have nothing to say on the subject, and I have a foolproof witness that I was never near him.”
“Why are you still here then?”
“I stayed the night!” He jokingly whispered with a naughty smile.
“Who?” asked Randolph.
“Now, now,” said the man, practically dancing around Randolph to get away. “I never kiss and tell.” He giggled, his head disappearing around the corner. “Especially when it’s a delicious little Reinout lord.”
Randolph shuddered. He wiped his chest where the man’s hands had been.
It wasn’t difficult to find her jewels. She kept them displayed. Necklaces were on velvet wrapped stands that resembled necks and shoulders. Rings were slipped onto smooth hands made of ivory, bone, and wood. Bracelets were laid over satiny, long, tube-like pillows.
Randolph flipped open his bag, and, without any particular strategy on what to take, began picking and tossing random ones in. Sparkles of all colors and metals filled his little bag up quickly, and, when he was done, a treasury of gold and jewels remained.
It was, no doubt, theft, but Randolph didn’t care. That was the good part about being a no-good mercenary like everyone thought he was: there was no one to disappoint. If anything, he reasoned, he was no hero, and he was simply living up to their expectations.
And, he figured, they could go ahead and call him a thief. They could implicate him in the murders for all he cared.
He was done with the Reinouts, and, thanks to Lilane, he had enough money to run away with Soli—wherever she wanted to take him.
Chapter 79
Vitoria waited inside his house. Her armor was tight from all the bandages, moss, and ointments covering her back. Aimee had done her best with Vitoria’s nose, but she said there wasn’t much hope of her ever passing for a lady again given the damage. Vitoria didn’t mind that. She only hoped the whistling would stop after it healed.
She leaned back in the chair, waiting. Her cane was in her hand, resting across her lap. She would need it for a while longer until her ankle healed.
Saemund sat at her feet with his back against the chair legs. He had fallen asleep again. Since he had carried her from the party, he hadn’t rested. Her body was broken and lifeless then. Nothing but a corpse was brought back to Aimee. He had easily been awake for over twenty-four hours watching her—making sure she wouldn’t die again, which, according to Aimee, had happened three times. Vitoria had died three times that night.
Aimee had done everything she could for Vitoria. She shoved tubes into her stomach to pull out what wine was left, but the drink had long been absorbed by then. She injected Vitoria with countless anti-toxins and concoctions to keep her alive. She even breathed life into her whenever her breath stopped. When Vitoria finally opened her eyes and could speak, she saw Aimee, pale-faced and red-eyed above her. The old woman’s hand was bandaged, and three digits were missing.
Vitoria asked her about it, and Aimee said, “Three sacrifices for three deaths.” It was all she would say on the matter.
Strangely enough, Vitoria had never felt so alive. It was not a time in her life for rest or relaxation. She suddenly had things she needed to do, even though Aimee protested, demanding she rest. She ordered Saemund, while Aimee was asleep from exhaustion, to take her where she had to go. He didn’t argue, but he clearly wasn’t happy about her exerting herself. Leaning on him and her cane, the two walked out into the night.
All around them were notices declaring the deaths of Lilane and Jae Reinout. Their corpses were found several hours since they died, and the notices implored for prayers and information. Vitoria smiled. Every poster she spied along her way was validation.
For some reason, she knew who Lilane was. Vitoria had never seen the woman in her life, but somehow she knew what the woman looked like. She could even recall the sound of her voice as if she had heard her with her own ears. Ever since she died though, Vitoria suddenly found herself knowing a lot of strange things that made sense to her.
To compound the mystery was the big question: who had killed Lilane? She asked Saemund if he had done it, but he swore he hadn’t—claiming he had obeyed his master and had never entered the room. Given his reaction to her question, she was inclined to believe him, and that voice she was so used to in the past, said nothing.
&
nbsp; No matter, she decided. No mother should outlive a child. It was cruel and heartless, and, perhaps, it was the humane outcome. Besides, she told herself, she had other things to concern herself with.
Vitoria knew exactly where he lived, and when the two arrived, he was nowhere to be found. To be expected, Vitoria had said to Saemund, given his profession. Saemund steadied her while she picked the lock on his door with the same pins she had picked her own cell with back at The Cliffs.
The two decided to wait, and, while waiting, Saemund had fallen sleep. She decided to let him rest, one hand wrapped around her cane and the other gently stroking Ulrich’s hair. Underneath Ulrich’s tresses, her fingers caught on a heavy cord. She pulled his hair back. The chain of his amulet of Anker was there, as usual, but beside it was a leather braid. She followed it down to his chest. She glanced a glint of gold at the end of the cord just as the lock of the door clicked. Her hand shot back up to Saemund’s head, and Vitoria gently scratched his scalp, waking him with a start. He turned her head to look at her, unable to believe he had fallen asleep.
Looking Saemund in the eyes, she nodded to her side, and by the time the door swung open, he was standing next to her, a few paces behind her chair.
Mikis walked in. His clothing was slightly askew, but the rest of him, as always, was flawless. He didn’t jump when he saw them, and instead he burst out in laughter. “Oh, you little minx, you!” He wagged his finger while he sing-songed. “You are quite the bloody ripper!”
She clutched her cane as she smiled. “Hello, Mikis.”
“I saw your work!” He pressed his hands together as if in praise. “Beautiful! Barbaric! Brutal!”
She nodded, wincing at the pain of her back being tugged by her neck as she did so.
“But you do look a little worse for wear.” He stepped forward and touched his fingertips to the back of her clenched hand upon her cane. “I am happy to see you still draw breath.”
“Are you?” she asked.
“Of course!” he said, feigning hurt at her skepticism. “There was so much blood I was afraid you were no longer in this world.”
“I believe you,” she said, grinning. “What good is a favor from a dead woman?”
“So cynical!” he scoffed.
“And accurate.” Vitoria looked down at his hand which was beginning to curl around her own.
“My dear, I have only ever wished well for you!”
“Oh, Mikis.” She turned her head back to his face, which was wide-eyed and crinkled-browed. His other hand was a fist, pressed to his lip in hurt expression. “You are quite beautiful, aren’t you?”
His fist fell to his chest, as if touched by her compliment. “As are you, my dear. As are you.”
“No,” she said, still smiling. “There is no need for that.” Her nose whined as she breathed.
Saemund fidgeted at her side, and Mikis glanced at him.
“Do you know what I hate about beauty?” she asked.
His eyes shot back to her. “How could anyone hate beauty?”
“I hate that it is unmerited. It is the luck of the draw.” She inhaled deeply, and her nose made a long buzz. “The most nasty, wretched souls could be housed in someone like you, while the most worthwhile, intrepid, or wise could be hidden by ugliness or deformity. Could be burdened with illness or handicapped.”
His eyes narrowed, and he withdrew his hand from hers.
Saemund’s hands twitched, and he stepped forward a few inches.
“Like I said though.” She paused. “It is all the luck of the draw.”
“And then there is you,” he said, crossing his arms. “So dull. So plain. So utterly forgettable. You could pass for a boy, I swear.” He laughed. “At least with the nose you have something memorable about you now.”
“I never thought it was fair,” said Vitoria, ignoring him. “I always thought, ‘If I was a god, I would never give those unworthy such beauty. I would never make their lives inherently more valuable in the eyes of society. I would never easily give them the love, trust, and adoration that others work so hard for.’”
She felt Saemund’s hand on her shoulder, but she nodded for him to wait.
“So what?” Mikis laughed again. “You bring your pathetically beaten ass here to threaten me? And this priest of yours?” He flung his hand at Saemund. “What is he going to do? Nag me to death for donations?”
“This?” She said, looking at Saemund. His narrowed eyes were on Mikis, and a small smile was spilling over his face, showing his white, bared teeth. “This is no priest, contrary to what your eyes have told you.”
“It’s Ulrich, that useless priest who visited you.” He glared at Saemund. “The foolish boy with a savior complex.”
“Ulrich is dead.”
Mikis’ head snapped back to her. “Nonsense.” He sounded unsure.
“This is my man, Saemund.”
Mikis went pallid. His lip trembled as if to say anything, but no sound came out.
Saemund took a step forward. Vitoria could hear a faint chuckle spill from his lips.
“You have, no doubt, heard of him too. Good. That will save us further introduction. So, I always thought,” she said, returning to her thoughts that Mikis had interrupted, “that it would make so much more sense if the gods had simply made every wretched, twisted soul a body to match.”
Mikis backed away with his hands up, putting a chaise between him and Saemund.
“But now I know.” She smiled, recalling the darkness of death. The cold. The voices that had touched her. The hand of Anker himself pulling her to him. “It isn’t the gods’ responsibility to right the wrongs of the world of man.” Ever since she died, she had suddenly known so much. “That is our job.”
Mikis’ outstretched hands did nothing as Saemund jumped upon him. He was as helpless as a cornered mouse. Saemund wrapped his arms around Mikis, and the man yelped as Saemund brought his teeth down on his face, snapping and tearing at his nose, cheeks, and lips.
At the feral sight, Vitoria lost her breath for a moment. Saemund was more magnificent than she could have imagined, and she felt a slight flutter in her stomach.
Mikis couldn’t fight. Saemund had his arms pinned. So he flailed and screamed, trying to turn away from the monster on top of him, but every time he turned his face, Saemund would snap again at whatever he could. The loudest shriek erupted like a widower’s sobbing wail, and Saemund turned his head long enough for Vitoria to see him spit out a bloodied ear.
“Wait,” said Vitoria, finding her breath.
Saemund paused at her command, his teeth opened and hovering an inch over Mikis’ bloody nose.
Mikis continued to wail. Gasping for unsteady breaths, his whole body practically convulsed in Saemund’s arms. The foul scent of urine filled the room as the crotch of his pants became wet and dark.
Vitoria waited patiently for Mikis to regain his composure.
“Why are you doing this?” he screamed, not at Saemund but at Vitoria.
“I’m not,” she said as she swung her cane off of her lap, slapping the end onto the hard, wooden floor. “I’m simply not stopping it.” She tapped the cane, and Saemund snapped. His incisors sheered through the flesh and cartilage of Mikis’ nose—leaving his far worse than Vitoria’s.
Mikis screamed again. Blood ran into his mouth, and he gagged upon it while he wailed. That time, Saemund did not spit. He gulped loudly, showing his empty mouth to Mikis with the exaggerated wag of his tongue.
“Wait,” said Vitoria again.
Saemund’s tongue recoiled back into his mouth like a serpent, but he kept his teeth bared and close to Mikis’ face.
“You bitch!” he screamed at her.
She tapped the cane again, and Saemund launched into his already wounded cheek, pulling another chunk of flesh off. She heard teeth against teeth.
“Fuck!” screamed Mikis. “Stop!”
She tapped her cane again, and Saemund froze after a particularly loud, wet swallow. Vit
oria’s blood was rushing. Saemund was consummately hers, and he followed her direction no matter what. Never again, she told herself, would she be the one following orders.
“Just stop!” he screamed again, coughing on the blood falling into his mouth.
“Oh, Mikis.” She feigned concern. “You swallow much more and you’ll make yourself sick.” The worry in her voice dropped, and her it went cold and matter-of-fact. “I could make him stop,” she said pausing for a few seconds, “but that sounds like I’d be doing you a favor.”
He spit blood. “Oh, you think you’re so clever, you bitch.”
Saemund snapped at his face. Mikis screamed, pulling away the best he could.
“Fine!” Mikis wailed. “Fine!”
“Tell anyone you wish that I am done. Saemund is mine. Whoever fucks with me must go through him.” Vitoria pushed herself from the chair, leaning against her cane. “Come along, Saemund.”
Saemund gave Mikis one last look before he released him, giving him the largest grin he could. Bits of flesh and a inking of blood covered his teeth.
Mikis gagged, but his eyes never left Saemund.
“You have been a lovely and accommodating host,” said Saemund. “And the snacks were to kill for.” He longingly licked his teeth.
Vitoria was already at the door by the time Saemund joined her, offering a hand to support her. She took it, and he opened the door, leaving the shuddering, gasping, bleeding Mikis behind for good.
“Take me back to Aimee’s,” said Vitoria.
“Of course,” said Saemund.
“I need to rest,” she said, hobbling along. “But I need you to do one last thing for me.”
Epilogue:
Cole was on his knees again, praying. He prayed nearly every waking moment, and when his knees became tired, as they did against the cold, stone floor of his cell, he’d fall forward, prostrating himself to his goddess, Nox. He wondered if he had seriously injured his patella by then.
