I flashed her a smile and trusted that her youth would inspire her to kill the double shot as I had. They never liked to appear inexperienced when it came to vices. As expected, she tipped her head back and downed the liquor without thinking. A faint cough was sputtered, and she smiled before nervously taking the room in again.
I refilled the drinks, drawing her attention back toward me with the subtle clink of glass on glass.
“You were saying?” I persuaded. “…before I rudely interrupted, that is”. I playfully rolled my eyes and sat back to laze with my drink resting between both hands.
“Oh!” She startled, and her voice rose just a shade above its usual honeyed tone as she spoke, “I um, I was raised by my mother… widowed before my birth.”
The way she hurriedly added the last part left me wondering if it held even a morsel of truth to it. I looked at her. Not the way I had a thousand times before; I detached myself from the man she knew and looked at her the way I had countless others who had been tied to that very chair.
A thoughtful sigh escaped me as I took in the black dress and shoes. Her belt and jewelry, it was all dark. A purposeful choice. A choice that spoke volumes about the woman who wore it.
“Where is she now?” I asked, bringing my drink up to my lips. I was banking on the fact that abandonment, injury, and dark personal selections somehow reflected a powerless childhood.
“Watching over me, I assume.” Her voice ebbed with a loss that reflected in her beautiful eyes, and she subconsciously mimicked my behavior. Only, Chalice knew no such reserve—her two shots turned to four before I could stop her.
Strike one, I thought to myself, while reaching out to brush her knee.
“Apologies, I shouldn’t have pried.” I made a point of looking down and then back up to her with a remorseful smile.
“You’re fine,” she whispered. Her gaze met mine, and the only relief I found was in the fact that her eyes were dry. It was a wound, but one she was coming to terms with… or was she? I thought back over the similarities of her and Reverie.
“Thank you, for bringing me here. All I needed was a change of scenery. The Villa can be—”
“I know,” I cut her short. “You’re not used to such a large setting. I wasn’t either. Not at first.” I trailed off, and we sat in silence, sipping our drinks, and listening to the waves crash against the dock.
“It was only us… in the beyond,” she added after a time.
My brows climbed despite my will to remain impassive. Was she a battle field stress buster? A wise woman of the forest? Who exactly was this mysterious mother of Chalice’s?
“The beyond… Dirt Dwellers then?” The moment I said it her face flushed, and her glossy eyes locked on mine.
“My mother wasn’t born a Dirt Dweller. She was a daughter of the mountain.” Chalice’s lip quivered, but she held her chin high.
“How does one go from being born of the wealthiest families to sleeping in the dirt with their daughter?” I asked, between sips of the Cognac. It burned on the way down, much like her story. No daughter of the mountain ended up in dirt. They married dignitaries and bred armies of sons to assure their lineage.
“They lead an uprising and murder the Excellence of Rochambeau.” She cockily sang back.
The liquor was talking, but I knew from the proud gleam in her eye, that it was spilling truths rather than drunken drivel.
Chalice
The jail, for lack of a better word, was a floating shack with a few cages and enough floor room for a desk, two chairs, and a trunk. I’d have made a joke about how little crime Rochambeau must have if I didn’t already suspect I was in the presence of a murderer.
I mean, he had said that much, right? So why was I always comforted by his presence and longing for him in his absence? Why had I told him the secret I had been trained my whole life to hide?
Why, while he sat there sipping his cognac, did I want to crawl into his lap and know him as Blazian did?
Fuck her.
I sipped on my drink and stared into his hazel eyes. My lashes felt so heavy, and my mouth was dry. The Cognac didn’t burn anymore, there was no hitch to my breath when it hit the spot. It was all going down smooth, and so was my guard.
“What’s so special about Blazian?” I heard myself ask. I should have been mortified, shamed beyond reason… but instead, I stared at him over the rim of my glass and sipped the Cognac the way Atticus did his wine when people were looking.
“Blaz… Lady Blazian?” He nervously chuckled. When I continued to watch him rather than change the subject, he licked his lips and pawed his chin a bit before leaning in like we were conspiring. “You’d have to ask Atticus, he’s the one that wanted the union.”
I rolled my wrist, watching the liquor lap at the sides of the glass while I inwardly dissected his every word. My mother always insisted I had a gift. The truth is, my ability to read people had nothing to do with blessings or gifts. It was the product of my cursed existence. A life of always looking over your shoulder. Always anticipating outcomes and reactions. The simplest change in tone or expression alerted me toward ill will and impending violence. It wasn’t easy being women in the wilderness. One had to adapt.
“You’re unioned?” I asked, coughing ever so gently to chase the tremble from my voice.
His brows quickly leapt together, and he shook his head in a subtle denial before wiping the air of the entire notion. “No. Betrothed. She is my intended.”
“If you’re so miserable about it, why do you fuck her?” There was something about delivering that word to him that made it suddenly feel foreign and enticing when it spilled from my lips.
His face instantly turned to a blank slate and he hid in his glass.
“I… I’m sorry.” I tucked my hair behind my ear and cursed myself for letting the liquor saturate my filter. “What about you… what was life like before you found the Krypt?”
The drink was killed, and he quickly refilled it. A few swigs later, and he was practically melting into his chair. His voice maintained that smooth whiskey tone, and he even managed to meet my eyes now and again.
“Before the Krypt?” His gaze became distant and a forlorn smile carried a gentle softness. “Hmm… I became a Krypt the day I was branded. The day Atticus and Isabella saved my life.”
“What?” I smiled, expecting some sign of jest. When it didn’t come, I placed my hand over my throat and forced myself to speak past the empathy that had lodged there. “Wh -why were you branded to the point of death?”
“I was found guilty of theft,” he slowly repeated. It was a statement that haunted him, causing a distant haze to cloud his eyes each time it was uttered.
“For what, though? What could you have possibly stolen that would demand such a deep and horrid marking?”
“A woman’s honor,” he whispered before scooting the bottle of Cognac toward the center of the desk. It was just beyond his reach to beckon back without purposeful effort.
“You… you raped someone…” The drinks and his tale were weaving with my new-found hyper-vigilance. Everything sounded suspicious and sordid.
“No!” he passionately hissed. Pain quivered at the corner of his eyes, it was subtle, but I was sure I saw it before he clenched his jaw and forced all traces of emotion from his expression. “She was my intended.”
“Oh…” I slowly comprehended. “Did they brand her too?”
“No.” He swallowed and looked away. “They executed her.”
My brows flinched, and I fought my own shock in search for some words of condolence, but none came. Why was he laying with Blazian? What man risked suffering such a fate twice?
One that was set to be unioned with a woman he didn’t give an iota of a fuck about, that’s who.
“May the Fated Few show her mercy,” I finally managed.
“Don’t tell me you still believe in all those whispers and fables.” He smiled wistfully.
“You don’t?” Shock and disbelief c
lung to the almost whispered query.
“I…” He paused and looked at me like it was our last moment together. “I don’t think it’s possible to live this life… and still believe in things like favor and curses.”
“Are you saying you believe in nothing?”
“I’m saying I believe in myself. I believe I can compel a man to use his very last breath to utter curses. Hmm, indeed. My beliefs are neither here nor there, Chalice. But... if there is one thing that I would choose for you to remember, love, it’s that you are the truth. The judge, jury, and executioner of your own conscience. Do I believe in the depths of Lake Last? Fuck no. The most excruciating existence one could ever conjure or be sentenced to, the only eternal torment that exists in this life or any after is and always will be House Krypt.”
When Messiah spoke, men shut up and listened. Though his tone was dreamlike, and his eyes forever lust-lidded, when he spoke it was with power. His words chosen with purpose and delivered in a way that stuck.
Even in my inebriated state, I recognized it for the grave warning that it was.
Chapter Fourteen
The Games We Play
Ender
Things were sticky for a few days. I kept an eye on the ever-boiling tempers and did my best to avoid the inevitable blow ups that emotion of any kind inspired in House Krypt. I wanted to scream, to pummel and stab. I needed something up close and personal.
Every time I allowed myself to grow idle, my mind returned to mull over the desperation I had seen and ignored in Reverie’s blue eyes I was desperate to free myself of the guilt, anger, and sadness that was slowly drowning me. I knew better than to linger around the Villa.
Atticus’ bawdy laughter exploded from the parlor and Icarus’ muffled tone followed. A door slammed in response. Not even bothering to see the cause of the upset, I hurriedly took my leave. I hadn’t slept without the help of the Nirvana Root since I’d heard the news. Cognac and the sweet surrender of the root had been my only intake. My hands shook, and I could feel the heaviness beneath my eyes. Sniffing, I rolled my collar up as best I could and kept my head down for the rest of the journey to my surgery.
All it took was a whiff of herbs and sanitized surfaces to melt half my stress away.
Get a grip, Ender, get a fucking grip.
But I couldn’t. She wasn’t there to grab anymore. I closed my eyes and exhaled, forcing myself to concentrate. When I opened them, the first thing my attention landed on was the fucking operating table.
How many bodies had I examined and ruled over? Somebody, somewhere had laid her on a table… The thought didn’t have time to register the sting it should have. No one examined her body. I was willing to bet, my entire freedom all over again… no one bothered to “recover it”.
The moment the sea swallowed her she had lost her worth. In the eyes of House Krypt, she was just another Iron Inlet slave that had been used as a tool.
My jaw set, and I tried to tell myself to be calm. There was no evidence anyone had harmed her. She was distraught and a silly girl with too many feelings…
You’re a man who has seen too much, and now your mind anticipates darkness at every fucking corner, I told myself.
Another breath and I managed to open my eyes. A large, hulking figure shrouded in black passed my window. I knew at once it was Messiah. I’d seen him wear that very cloak a hundred times. I’d also witness what he left in the shadows when his fuse ran so dangerously short.
He’d came to snap a neck or few and was moving like a fucking cannon to do it. I backed away from the door, fully expecting him to barge in and try to kill me. But why would he? He didn’t know I had forced her onto the boat. No one did. Except me, and my fucking conscience.
I grabbed the window, threw it open and took a few welcoming breaths of the crisp evening air. It immediately assaulted my senses enough that I could only focus on the here and now. Right now, Chalice was creeping along the shadows on the opposite side of the street. Her long legs made her glide like the Painted Ladies, but every time she scampered across the torch-lit street, her long curtain of black hair gave her away.
I hadn’t seen her like that since her first day in Rochambeau. Isabella would have a stroke if she saw her hair so free and scandalous. And in public, too… I couldn’t help the approving laugh that quietly escaped me. Nor could I help my growing curiosity.
What was she doing, following him? Oh, fuck. She was following him! I panicked so badly I couldn’t get the door to work. When it did, it connected with my forehead and slammed back toward my fingertips. Cursing the device and my own lack of self-control, I finally managed to open the thing and step out into the night.
The traffic was still light. It was too early for the Painted Ladies, but anyone of decency was likely making it their business to get home within the hour. I wiggled my neck, assuring that my color was up, and stuffed both hands in my pockets. Rather than confront her, I decided to see just how bold she would grow.
I didn’t cross the street; instead, I played her own game. Lingering and lazing on the opposite side, far enough to keep an eye on her, but not so close that she could distinguish my facial features without staring.
Messiah passed House Kantor and dipped into the ally beside the large three-story mansion.
Shit.
Just as I expected, Chalice hurriedly shot across the street. Panic shot through me and I took a few large steps, almost breaking into a run, before I saw Keif Kantor descending the stairs.
“Hey Beautiful,” he called.
I stilled, and so did she. Suddenly flustered, I made a snap decision to cling to the shadows and hope for the best. After a few moments of inward debate, I deemed his jovial greeting loud enough that Messiah had been warned. So, why didn’t I piece him up for being so forward? Why couldn’t I leave?
Keif
“Don’t tell me you weren’t looking at her. I saw you. You were salivating on yourselves. Shameful. Both of you,” Mother declared. Her dark eyes snapped like a hawk up and down her husband, and then she tried to throw her daggers toward me.
I snorted but managed to somewhat stifle my laughter. “Don’t go lumping me into the soup-sandwich you’re brewing. Keep that bullshit to yourselves.”
It was all fun and games with them two—until it wasn’t. My mother was a magnificent woman. The highest of all women in my eyes, but when she was set off, not even the Fated Few could help. And her set-offs came on a whim. The servants were too chipper, the sky to grey. Her dress wasn’t pressed properly, her shirts too stiff. One never knew which way the breeze blew around her.
What I had learned in my quarter century, was that the polarities of the world rested within her. She could be your savior, or she could rain scorn and scorch every ounce of a person’s life and liberty. There was no in between. Not with Klarissa Kantor.
“I thought you wanted a tie to House Krypt…” I scoffed in disbelief. She had threatened to disown my brother when he bulked over unioning with Reverie. “Now…”
“Now, I have to bury a son. Are you daft? Do you really need someone to sit down and explain to you why you will not see that girl again?” Mother raged.
Behind her stood my stepfather, a man ten years her senior and a fraction of her height. He cowered when she roared, apologized when she often demeaned him, and worshipped the ground she walked on in public.
She bragged to everyone about how he melted before her. I’m not sure how she was figured it to be any kind of feat—I mean, the man had never possessed a spine to begin with.
He argued his case, insisting that he had been looking at something past Lady Chalice, oblivious or perhaps unwilling to accept that her attention had splintered. Mother turned and slapped him. The sound of the contact rang so loudly we all grimaced and felt her annoyance. Several slaves scurried off to the corners, one even shrieked.
“You,” she hissed, pointing at random to one of the slaves.
Yep, that was my cue.
I left her to
it, letting myself out the front door as quietly as I could. She was a hundred, hundred-thirty pounds at best, but even I knew to tip toe around her when she was in one of those moods.
A quick moving figure caught my eye. Chalice. I started to call out to her, but I knew Mother would hear her name and come unhinged.
“Hey, beautiful,” I called instead. It was the safest bet, no one was around to hear it, and Mother would never dream I was addressing a Lady like that. She’d chalk it up to a slave or Painted Lady.
It was a good call. Wherever she was heading, the term stopped her instantly. Amber hues widened and settled on me. Her smile was quick and nervous. I took advantage of her darting attention, that quick search for witnesses. I knew it well, and closed the distance between us, before she could object.
She sensed my movement and turned back to face me. I expected her to startle or step back, but she didn’t. Instead, she glanced down to my hand and took it in her own.
“Come, have a drink with me?” she asked, fixing me with that sparkling amber gaze of hers. It was so different from all the ones around me. The rest were dark, lifeless, malicious.
“I would…” I said on a whisper, “but what would your brother have to say about that?”
“He’s… he’s not my brother,” she proclaimed before fading off into a laugh that wasn’t hers. I knew what she was doing. The statement had been rerouted entirely, I could hear it in the way her words were delivered, and the emotion left in the latter half of what she had said.
Intrigued, I tucked her arm around mine and waved not toward Blazian’s winery, but to the lower level. A place I trusted we wouldn’t bump into many Krypts, or my mother, for that matter. I preferred it down there, really.
They were simpler people, like my father’s people.
She came willingly enough, taking in the sights and smiling in a way that I assumed meant she was content. She felt comfortable, not that stiff, forced stuff that most of the arranged escorts did. Now and again she would lean into me and gaze up at the barely noticeable stars.
Chasing the Night (The Krypt Series Book 1) Page 10
