My mouth dried.
He plucked the bit from his lips, damp and misshapen. “My Menagerie does not revolve around you, troublesome pet that you are.”
“But—”
“Leave it.”
“What about this?” I demanded, gesturing at the chamber I’d called a prison. “You were chained, Hawke.”
“I said leave it.” His free hand cupped the back of my head, pulled me to my knees and forced me to brace one hand against his bare shoulder. God above, he was warm. Brilliantly, blazingly hot. “Open,” he ordered.
The will drained from me. “Damn you, Hawke.”
“Open your mouth.” Unyielding.
Lost in the driving intensity of his stare, I obediently parted my lips. His fingers passed between them, depositing the tar on my tongue, and this time, I did not await his efforts. I closed my mouth, deliberately sucked at the flesh that had so intimately known mine moments before.
His gaze darkened. His jaw tightened.
This time, when he withdrew his fingers from mouth, he did not allow the distance to keep. The hand at my nape tugged me closer, so close that his mouth seized mine, claimed my lips for a kiss that did not speak of tenderness or sympathy. Neither would ever be Hawke’s language, and I did not care. His tongue slid between my lips, to taste deeply of me, my breath, and the bitter tar that melted between us.
All that I was liquefied into a wild-light river of blue sensation.
It was not until later, after he’d taken me again against the wall, my cries muffled against unforgiving stone and my hair wrapped about his fist—after he’d driven me beyond all grasp of reality and dreamy insanity—that I realized he had not given me any sort of explanation at all.
The things we demanded of each other were not selfless—and oh, I knew I would carry the scars of this night forever.
I fell into a fitful sleep, alone in the bed as Hawke stoked the fire in the hearth, and dreamed of eyes that winked from tawny to feral blue; of blood spilled on a cold laboratory floor, and the heartrending, disturbing echo of a woman’s sobbing. I wept in my own dream, though if I did so in the waking world, I did not know.
“Cherry,” sobbed the ghostly voice. Warning, I think. “Cherry!”
I awoke, struggling against ephemeral bonds, sure that strands of red, brilliant as rubies and stronger than silk, wrapped about my limbs.
The bedclothes slid to the floor.
My flailing hand was seized in two. “Cherry! It’s all right,” soothed a woman’s voice. Familiar and soft. “Cherry, wake up.”
As my vision cleared on the windowless chamber, on Zylphia’s pretty blue eyes free of the black paint that had darkened them just last night, I found myself clutching her hands in mine. Terror filled me, unnamed and with no source. Cold sweat caused a shudder to take me.
“It’s all right,” she repeated gently, freeing one hand with effort to smooth back my tangled hair.
All right?
No. As I shook my head hard, freeing my thoughts from the foggy grasp of my fractured sleep, I studied the tumbled bedclothes, my own nude body—felt the places that ached so thoroughly—and could not force myself to agree.
Nothing was all right. I awoke with fear sour and choking on my tongue and could not fathom why. I had fallen asleep with Hawke’s presence like a storm within the chamber, and awoke feeling empty and shattered.
I let go of Zylphia to her obvious relief. “Where is—”
And even as I began the hoarse words, I recognized them; exact echo of the words I’d uttered after Hawke had saved me, tasted me so intimately the first time. My cheeks heated.
Was I forever doomed to retrace my own steps?
“Cage?” she finished for me, one beautifully shaped black eyebrow climbing. There was nothing friendly in her gaze, now. Nothing but an irrefutable resolve. “It doesn’t matter, now, does it? You’re to leave.”
“Leave?” I scrambled, pulling the bedclothes to me, though it mattered little. Zylphia had been my maid for some weeks before my exile; she’d seen me unclothed and helped dress me upon waking.
She took the opportunity to gather my discarded clothing. “You cannot stay here anymore,” she told me, her voice a pleasant echo in the stark chamber. “You’re deucedly lucky the Veil didn’t send anyone else here first.”
“Here?” I scrubbed at my eyes with the heel of one hand. “Zylla, what is here?”
“It doesn’t matter what it is. You’re leaving.”
I was, certainly, but I’d meant to be leaving with more help. Not more questions. I’d never intended...this.
I frowned at her, taking in her plain day dress as she gathered my things. Not as delicate as the tea dress I’d envied so much, but certainly no one else could have made a simple white blouse and plaid blue skirt look so delightful.
Jealousy seized my heart.
I turned away as she returned to my bedside. “At least answer my questions,” I said, near enough a snarl that I appalled even myself.
The sticky remnants of my dreams refused to leave the fringes my thoughts. It felt as if I still waded through the tar I’d eaten not hours ago.
Had Hawke truly fed me? Had he shared in the flavor of it with a kiss as indecent as it was electrifying?
It seemed as if the heat in my cheeks flooded my whole body. Snatching the apparel Zylphia gave me, I made short work of pulling on my rumpled trousers—and only winced in surprise once before I learned to mask the discomfort my body felt.
No one had warned me of the aftermath of sexual congress. The understanding I’d come to in the small hours of the morning now strained my credibility.
Why would women sell themselves if this was how they’d feel upon waking?
Zylphia did not offer to help. She turned half-away, as if it would afford me privacy for modesty I was not sure I maintained.
What a fool I’d been. To expect Hawke to be waiting come the morning? For what? Polite inquiry as to my health?
The man was never there come morning. If I did not learn this the first evening spent in his bed—willing or no—I certainly would know it now.
“Ask, then,” Zylphia said, curtailing my wandering concerns with a sigh. “I’ll answer what I may. But you must hurry.”
“I’m going fast as I can,” I snapped, earning her impatient frown. Even her dismay was beautiful. To be so exotic that even surrounding herself with lovely sweets did nothing to dampen her appeal—I could not imagine it. No wonder Hawke turned often to her.
He would likely do so again upon my departing.
I jerked my shirt closed, scowled when I reached for the buttons and found none.
If possible, my face went hotter.
Biting back a harsh word, I wrapped my shirt tightly in place, tucking it into the trousers that had survived intact. “Where did he get his scars?”
“The Veil had him punished for utilizing magic upon you.”
That stopped me cold. I stared at her.
She watched me steadily in turn.
“Magic,” I said doubtfully.
“You’ve heard of the Menagerie’s wūshī, yes?” Unlike me, Zylphia did not stumble over the foreign word. When I nodded impatiently, struggling into my corset while attempting to keep my shirt tails folded closed, she gestured absently. “That’s him. That’s Cage.”
“What does it mean?”
“I think something like sorcerer.”
“Bollocks.” The word snapped as the corset settled into place. It wasn’t the most comfortable I’d ever been, but I’d worn ball gowns with tighter fittings. This would suffice for now.
Zylphia shook her head, yet when I glanced at her, it was pity I saw. “As you say.”
I ignored the challenge inherent in the capitulation and asked, “So he was whipped for helping me?”
Her lush mouth twisted. “It seems a common trend.”
My hands jerked. Clenching my teeth, I wrenched the laces on my corset with more savagery than required. My m
ood was rapidly turning all the more foul.
Nothing a bit of medicine wouldn’t cure.
“I refuse to be held accountable for your servitude,” I snapped.
“As has been made abundantly clear,” she replied evenly. She bent to pick up my boots, brisk in every way. “Are you done?”
Oh, this hurt. Far more than it should have. Faced with such truth, utterly unprepared for the slap of it, I shoved all I could into a fire of nameless fury. “Is that why I am exiled?” I demanded. “Because the Veil sees me a threat?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she told me, an unwitting echo of Hawke’s common refrain.
To hear it spill from her full lips was a knife I hadn’t expected.
She handed me my boots, one by one, and stood by as I thrust my feet into them. “The Veil believes you’ve brought bad luck to the Menagerie.”
“Bad luck?” I snorted a most unladylike sound, and for the first time, Zylphia’s mouth softened. Almost a smile, really. I hardened myself against it; lathered my anger into a shield so hot, it consumed my efforts. “Does this have to do with Lily’s assault?”
“Among other things. You’re reminded, by the Veil itself, to call off the collection.”
I bit my tongue before I acknowledged that bit of bollocks for what it was. Knowing what I knew—that any attempt to locate the Ripper now would be taken from Zylphia’s flesh, that I had intended to remove this threat and did not—made everything so much worse. I cleared my throat. “I daresay your illustrious ringmaster is eager to see the back of me.”
“He is.” Such easy acknowledgement.
“Then you may have him to your heart’s content,” I said, a ragged declaration. Stamping my feet shifted my boots into a more comfortable place, and I shrugged into my worn coat when she passed it. I avoided looking at her, and she said nothing. “Help me with my hair, then.”
To my surprise, Zylphia did. If my terse order annoyed her, if she felt inclined to leave me, she did not show it. Instead, her fingers were gentle as she braided my hair, then fished pins from a ream of them tucked into the hem of her skirt.
Soon enough, my distinctively dark red hair, frizzy beyond measure without the care I and my maids had always taken, was wrapped tightly and hidden beneath a street boy’s cap she handed over at the end.
It felt...nice. Familiar. To have her fussing over me was a luxury I did not realize I’d missed until a shaft of grief pierced my heart, ruined the smooth ease of anger with something tragic and painful.
How much I had lost, and for what?
I strode across the chamber, knelt to pick up the discarded knives. As I slid them into the custom sheathes, my hands shook. Such toys, the ghost of Hawke breathed into my ear. As if their dangerous promise was nothing to him.
Of course. I wasn’t dangerous, was I? I was something made less. A kicked dog, collared by her own foolish trust. I had accomplished nothing in too long.
He had known it. He’d mocked me for it so many times.
Enough. I would find a way. There was no more choice.
“Cherry?”
I hesitated at the open door, looking back to find Zylphia standing, her arms full of the soiled sheets. I could not stall my blush; my skin seemed determined to reveal my feelings, no matter what stern demeanor I attempted.
“If you come back,” she said softly, her blue eyes luminous in her dark skin, “your debt will be paid in flesh.”
“The Veil agreed I’d be kept out of the auction rings.”
She shook her head. “You have failed in every task the Karakash Veil set before you, brought midnight sweets to harm and gotten too often in the ringmaster’s way. You’ve failed, Cherry.”
Failed. The word screamed where her lips only shaped emphasis. It drilled through my head, raked venomous claws within my aching throat and bloomed like a bloody stain in my chest.
“If you come back, it’ll be your corpse bearing the burden,” she continued, but I heard it as if from far away.
It hurt to breathe.
Failed. I had failed from the very beginning, hadn’t I? Failed to capture the Ripper when first we assumed it was him carving up girls from the gardens, failed to capture the sweet tooth, failed Zylphia when she’d borne the whip for my interference.
Failed Betsy, who had left my service for it.
Failed Cornelius, whose cold mausoleum had never seen my visit.
Failed, failed, failed.
“Never you mind,” I said hoarsely, looking back into the dreary gray light coloring the sky.
“Cherry—”
“I won’t return again.” Squaring my shoulders, ignoring the wobbly uncertainty of my knees and the ill-used muscles I’d never imagined would ache so, I strode from the chamber that had—for the briefest of moments—been a haven.
It took me only a moment to adjust to the brighter daylight streaming through gray and rain-heavy clouds. If I blinked longer than strictly required, there was no one else to note it.
Hawke had not the strength of character to evict me himself. Claimed his night of flesh and then left me to another to dismiss. Zylphia’s harsh appraisal of my misdeeds only bound my wounds in acid truth; insult to an injury I would not acknowledge.
I could not let it hurt.
Chapter Seventeen
Maddie Ruth was exactly where I’d hoped, hunched over her table in her strange underground work chamber with the fans whirring merrily in the background.
There was less chaos by light of day. I suspected the others had long since retired to bed. It should not have surprised me that the restless child did not follow suit.
God help us both, I saw in her a familiarity that I dared not encourage.
I cleared my throat as I clung to the ladder that lead back from the Menagerie ground. “Maddie Ruth?”
She spun on her narrow stool, a smile already stretching her lips. “Good morning! Or afternoon, really. I’m glad—”
Whatever she was glad for faded as she took a good look at my approach. I touched the ground easily, though with a little more ginger reserve than I usually displayed, and I was sure there were bruises under my eyes from my lack of real sleep.
If my face displayed any of my inner turmoil, I simply did not know.
“You look wrung hard.” A rather definite observation. “Are you all right?”
“Quite.”
My even tone brooked no prying, but Maddie Ruth was not the sort to take such cues, I was learning. She slid off her stool, stripping off the wide gloves protecting her hands from the tools I spied arrayed on her table.
“Give me your hand.”
I had not the inspiration to argue. I offered her my left, palm bared. She studied the rope wound I’d all but forgotten. “You’re healing fast.”
Faster than I’d realized, to be sure. The skin had already pinkened, a ream of shiny flesh rather than the crusted seal I’d expected. “So it seems.”
“But not so fast that you’re, um, walking easy,” she added delicately, a glint in her eye. That such a look would reveal itself on a girl of sixteen did not shock me, not here.
Not anymore.
“I’m fine,” I snapped, twitching my hand away.
She did not back down. “You’re shaking,” she retorted. “And your eyes are dilated. Does your throat hurt?”
What didn’t hurt? I shrugged in nonchalant admission.
“Your head?” she pressed.
Like a boot pressed upon it. “Maddie Ruth—”
“And irritable, besides,” she added, as if she were running down a list. “My pa would show the same, when he went too long without.” Ignoring my attempts to direct her attention, the girl turned and vanished beyond the curtain separating the chamber from her bed.
“Maddie Ruth,” I called, impatience cracking. “I am not here to be smothered!”
“Bear with it,” she called back, voice muffled. I heard the scrape of wood, and small hinges squeak. “I think I’ve also worked out that c
ameo’s design. It really does look like you, doesn’t it?”
Yes, I was well aware. Many was the Society maven who swore I had my mother’s face, though often admitted to a shame that I had none of her grace or skill.
I would wager my graceful mother would never have allowed a man to take her from behind, her unfashionably bold hair held tightly as if she were little more than a creature of flesh and sensation bound by a garnet leash.
I would wager none of those poisonous Society salons had experienced what I had. Screamed as I had.
Begged for more.
As I had.
My knees wobbled. I sat upon Maddie Ruth’s abandoned stool before I found myself greeting the floor. I stared sightlessly at the device upon the table, a lantern of some make whose base was fitted with working cogs of some design. Much of it still scattered around the heavy iron frame, leaving me at a loss as to what she intended.
My mind would not focus on anything but the pain in my body and the wide, empty chasm yawning beyond my feet.
Until my gaze lit on a torn half of parchment tucked to one side on the table. The oval drawn upon it caught my attention.
I reached over, plucked it from under a large magnifying glass just as Maddie Ruth stepped from behind the curtain. She saw the paper in hand and nodded easily. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”
I recognized the drawn face on the oval, done to rather neat precision. Maddie Ruth had a deft hand and clear eye.
That this pretty piece of gold had once housed one of the most dangerous alchemical compounds I’d ever dreamed of did not make its facing any less pretty to look at. If anything, it made a surreal kind of sense. The science behind the foolish dreams of old men searching for immortality and unending wealth was often wrapped in the pretty words of superstitious nonsense. Yet as I’d learned, it was also something to be reckoned with.
Alchemy I would allow. Magic?
Worthless fantasy.
There was no evidence to the contrary.
Whereas evidence of alchemy’s viability was mounting all around me. My father’s dabbling, my mother’s own interest in the subject—as displayed by the book she’d given the marchioness long before I was born. The same book I’d had no choice but to abandon when the marchioness attempted to have me imprisoned within my own home.
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