by Leigh Kelsey
Azrail nodded, feeling like utter shit for doing this to his friend, to all of them. He knocked back his drink in three swallows, not fond of the burn but enduring it, deserving something for risking his family’s freedom at least. “I don’t think she’ll tell anyone, Jaro.”
“It’s a damn lot to risk on your intuition.” Jaro’s pale face was tight with reproach. And fear—that was fear darkening his green eyes. For his own reasons, Jaro needed their cause to continue, and he needed this safe haven of a house to escape the little room he had in a too-hot, cramped building full of other courtesans on the southside of Vassalaer. He was one of the highest paid in any pillow room in the empire, but that didn’t make him any better treated—it only meant his clients were high powered and came with a title or a rank. The extra money didn’t change the fact that Jaro only worked in that sick, sweltering place because of the clamp around his ankle—the indenture.
“I’m sorry,” Az said softly, his insides seething with loathing and guilt. He took a tight breath, easing his grip on the glass in case it shattered. “We’re happy here,” he said suddenly, the words forcing their way out like they’d been squatting in the back of his throat, waiting for a moment of weakness. He slammed the glass back on the cabinet. “We’re safe, or as safe as it gets for two dead fae, a beastkind, an ex-guard warrior, and a girl with saintslight.” In a pitiful voice, he admitted, “I didn’t want to drag everyone away from this sanctuary.”
Jaro shook his red head, his expression softening with forgiving. “First of all, you wouldn’t be dragging us away. We’d leave, to be on the safe side, and come back if the coast was clear. Secondly, you don’t hand down orders, Az, that’s not who you are. We talk through every issue, and I doubt this would be any different, so it’s a group choice. It’s not all on you. Thirdly, don’t be so maudlin. We’ll face this the way we’ve faced everything else.”
“With reckless abandon?” he asked wryly.
“Together,” Jaro said with a gentle smile, nothing but affection on his face. At times like this Az was sure he didn’t deserve a friend like Jaro. He could accept brash, swaggering Zamanya, but the softness and care Jaro offered … he didn’t deserve it on days like these.
Az sighed, checking the glass he’d slammed down hadn’t cracked—mercifully it hadn’t. “Someone would move in and wreck the place while we were gone, and you know it.”
“The bones of the house would be the same,” Jaro countered, his eyebrow raising. “Why are you being such a stubborn bastard?”
“Because we need to stay in Vassalaer.” They couldn’t exactly get revenge on Ismene from another city.
“Alright.” Jaro stood, his hair moving like a wine red waterfall as he crossed his arms. A habit that had been trained out of him at the pillow rooms, but Az and Zamanya had corrupted him. “Then we’ll find another house in northside.”
“Because it’s as easy as that,” Az muttered. He was being difficult and was fully aware of it.
“It is as easy as that for you and Ev, you big grump,” Jaro said, crossing the room to grab his shoulders. The touch made Az slump as a bartering ram of relief crumpled his insides. “Now stop being so miserable. I’ll tell Ev and Zamanya, and we’ll make a plan. None of this is your fault.”
Az shook his head, but he knew better than to disagree. Jaro gave one last squeeze and left to tell the others. With a deep sigh, Az dropped onto the sofa. His ribs gave a pang of protest, a souvenir from the Fox in the market, but the injury was mostly healed thanks to his sister's healing skill.
He laughed as Siofra plopped down beside him and inched closer, a hefty book in her lap.
“More saints tales?” he asked with a grin, casting off all his anxieties.
“You promised to read the one about the soulmates,” she reminded him.
“So I did,” he agreed. Azrail balanced Ev’s childhood book in his lap and opened to where they’d left off at the only surviving story of the Wolves Lord—his marriage and bargain with the Iron Dove, his mate. Az knew the exact moment Jaro told Ev about Maia because her husky voice exploded with the most vicious string of swear words he’d heard in his life. He wasn’t sure whether to commend her creativity or run for the hills.
“You stupid bastard,” Ev exploded, storming down the hall and digging her blunt fingernails into the wooden door frame to the front room. As if to hold herself back. Deep blue eyes—his own eyes—glared dangerously at him. “How could you keep this from us?”
“Keep what?” Siofra asked, her violet eyes wide with curiosity but her shoulders beginning to shrink inward at Ev’s anger. Az put his arm around the girl and gave her a reassuring smile.
“Nothing you need to worry about, Sio,” he promised, and gave his sister a hard look. It was so easy to fall back into it—the mindset of a father with a young child to take care of. He’d given Zamanya similar looks when Ev was young, never wanting his baby sister to worry about anything, even if they were low on food, or had zero money, or were struggling to keep the house hot enough to avoid them freezing to death as winter set in.
Ev sighed hard, her gaze flickering. The red-hot rage on her face softened just slightly, her grip easing on the door frame. “It’s just my brother being an idiot,” she said to Sio, and rolled her eyes, downplaying it. Az’s chest hurt as his heart filled with pride. “As usual.”
Sio didn’t look convinced, but she went back to her book, and Az pushed off the sofa, following Ev into the hall. He was sure to shut the door behind himself so Siofra didn’t hear, and faced his sister with his shoulders hunched, his heart steeled for the blow of her rage. He’d failed her; he deserved it.
“I know,” he said quietly, fiercely. “Everything you have to say, I already know it, Ev, so save it for after the meeting.” He sighed, and added, “I’m sorry.”
“This woman’s going to turn us all in,” Evrille shot back, but more subdued than he’d expected. No fiery temper, just hollow hopelessness on her elegant face, her arms not crossed but hanging hopelessly at her sides. Their mother’s face—how no one looked at her and knew exactly who they were was a miracle.
“She isn’t,” Az swore, grabbing his sister into a hug and holding her tight, determined to get that bleak look out of her eyes. Never—she should never look like that. He hated it. Being scared, being full of dread—that was his job, his role, so he could keep her shielded from it. But … Jaro was right, they were a democracy in their little circle, and he had to come to terms with the fact that Evrille was a grown woman with thoughts and opinions of her own. And she deserved, as much as he hated it, to know the hard things. “I’ll take care of it, I’ll make sure she tells no one.”
“How?” Ev asked, squeezing him once before pulling away, brushing her dark clothes as if some of Az’s love and softness might have clung to the fabric like the spores of a disease.
He snorted—she scowled—and balance was restored.
“I put enough doubt in her mind about the stories she’s heard of the Sapphire Knight for her to hesitate. She hasn’t told anyone yet. And she gave me her vow that she wouldn’t; to break it would be agony, and incur the saints’ wrath.”
“She could be biding her time,” Jaro murmured, jogging down the stairs with his coat in hand. Shit, they were going to be late. And where the chasm was Zamanya?
“Do you trust my judgement?” Azrail asked, meeting his friend’s eyes, and then his sister’s. A grave, serious question.
Jaromir nodded sharply, sliding his arms into his coat, even that movement controlled and beautiful—trained. “Always.”
“No,” Ev huffed. But when Az gave her a wounded look, she forced out, “Fine.”
A weight fell off his chest. “I looked into her eyes, and saw her confliction. Maia knows I’m not her enemy, whether she’s beastkind or fae or human. No matter what she said, she’s not going to condemn me. Us.”
Ev shook her dark head, but he knew from the surly look on her face that she was giving in.
&nb
sp; “Zamanya will want her name, so she can look into her and see what kind of person she is, what connections she has,” Jaro pointed out, leaning against the bottom of the staircase as he buttoned his coat. He looked so courtly, standing there in his fine clothes with his red hair long and gleaming, his skin pale and perfect, that Az briefly wished they were home—his true home. He’d grown up among the clouds and stars, in a tower on the southside, surrounded by people he’d thought were his friends, but who’d stabbed his parents in the back and handed them to the executioner.
He shoved the memories away. That life was dead, just like his parents. Like his first identity.
“I only know her first name,” Az told them, grabbing his own coat off the hook by the door where he’d slung it, buttoning the navy wool over his soft jogging trousers and cotton shirt. No uniform or finery for this gathering—he respected them too much to try to fool them into thinking him a fine gentleman, a fae lord. “It won’t be enough to track her down. But I do know she works in the Library of Vennh.”
“That’ll be enough for Zamanya,” Ev said with a grin, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over the bodice of her black dress. “That woman can find anyone, anywhere.”
“And then gut them from neck to dick with a subtle flick of her wrist,” Jaro added with a chuckle. “Or in this case, neck to pussy.”
Ev made a sound in her throat, her footsteps heavy as she turned and stomped into the kitchen. “Always so vulgar, Jaro.”
Jaromir shrugged, an easy smile on his face. “Comes with the occupation, my dear.”
Evrille made a show of banging things about in the kitchen, getting together the supplies she’d been preparing all day for them to hand out to whoever turned up tonight.
“You raised a prude,” Jaro said to Az, his eyes crinkling.
“No idea how that happened,” Az replied with a soft laugh, propping himself against the wall and feeling a rare moment of peace.
“Oh, here she is,” Jaro said, waving a hand at the door just as a shadow darkened the window. Az’s heart leapt into his throat, a sudden fear that Foxes had found them closing his airways, but that was Zamanya’s outline, her long braids, her curves and muscle, and her fist hammering down the door. As usual, she threw it open before any of them could answer it.
“My tits have frozen,” she said by way of greeting, stomping her shoes on the wall beside the door. “It’s started to snow, have you seen?”
Az hadn’t, but that was hardly surprising. It had been fucking freezing when he’d gone for his run. But frosts meant worse living conditions, especially for people who were already struggling. He sighed, and was glad for the vat of stew he’d made to hand out. “Fucking snow,” he growled. “Jaro, help me carry this stew, will you?”
“I assume I’ll have my hands full of Ev’s healing crap,” Zamanya said, leaving the door open and letting all the damn heat out. Az shot her a look, and she closed it with her foot with a feline grin.
“I’ll remind you that ‘healing crap’ saved your leg last winter,” Ev said testily, indeed storming down the hall to shove boxes and jars into Zamanya’s arms while Az and Jaro split the vat of stew into more easily transported pans. It would be cold by the time they reached the Brewery, but it was food.
“I’m still not happy about being on babysitting duty,” Evrille muttered, flicking her dark braid over her shoulder as she watched them head for the door. “Just so you know.”
Azrail laughed, balancing the heavy pot in his hand. “She’s just a girl, Ev; you’ll be fine.”
Evrille’s midnight eyes narrowed, glaring at him all the way to the door, and probably still glaring when he kicked it shut behind himself.
Zamanya was right; it was snowing, and heavily too. He only hoped he could stop people from freezing, from starving—his people, the people still loyal to his parents after all these years.
Chapter Eleven
The hulking Brewery building was fucking freezing at night, but a few small fires had been lit around the vast, stone space, taking the worst of the chill off the main rooms. Az still fought a shiver as he handed out cracked bowls of cold stew and cups of peppermint tea to the throngs of people in front of him. It was a fortnightly ritual, coming to this place where he could talk openly about who he was, about who his parents had been, with the fifty people who still gave a shit about them, still dared to remember them.
It was also the only place where the few free beastkind could gather safely, without fear of being arrested, thrown in a prison cell, and only let out when they took the cuff and indenture. It was a dangerous life of always looking over their shoulders, wondering if their neighbours could be trusted, if their colleagues noticed the claws they’d accidentally shown one time, or the pupils that changed from ordinary green to eerie gold. Az was fae, not beastkind, but he knew something of living in fear and secrecy. A different sort, but the effects were the same.
“There’s not going to be enough,” Jaromir whispered, ladling stew into a bowl and handing it to an aging woman with grey hair and a fierce, defiant grin. She had a wealth of inappropriate jokes, that woman. Az loved her.
“Psst,” she said, giving Az a toothy grin across the beaten up table. Her grey hair was a cloud on her head, her eyes like wicked quicksilver. Azrail was already smiling. “What does one saggy boob say to the other saggy boob?”
Az’s laugh burst out of him, even if the mother he handed a bowl of stew to didn’t appreciate the vulgar joke. “I don’t know, Francille, what does one saggy boob say to another?”
“If we don’t get some support soon, people will think we’re nuts,” she replied, grinning from ear to ear.
It took a moment for him to get it, and then Az was roaring, unable to contain the laughter as tears pricked his eyes. “That,” he said, “is your best one yet.”
Francille bowed, or at least as far as her stooped spine would allow. Her eyes flashed, shifter gold, and she beamed. “I thought so, too. I heard it at the Cock and Crown.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Jaromir drawled, his lips quirked as he leant against the table, a prince among shadows and grime. “That place is total filth.”
“Total is the best kind of filth.” Francille winked.
Jaro chuckled, unable to keep the amused light out of his jade eyes. “Always a pleasure, Franny.”
Francille gave them both a beaming grin, clutching her bowl in knobbled hands. “I’ll be back with more next time.”
“Oh, I hope so,” Az replied, giving her his best smile as he picked up another bowl, one of fifty they kept at the Brewery. Thirteen days out of the fortnight, only these bowls and tables occupied the empty, abandoned building, but on meeting nights, it was full of quiet voices and laughter. He made sure no one heard them, that no one noticed the lights from the fires, both his magic and Zamanya’s keeping them hidden.
“It’s inappropriate for someone of your standing to laugh at those jokes,” an aging man said with reproach, giving Az a heavy look.
“Standing?” he asked, feigning innocence as he ladled soup into the next bowl. “I don’t know what you mean, sir, I’ve no more standing than you.” He winked, and even the disapproving man couldn’t hide his fondness. These people were another family for Az. They had been since the moment he’d stumbled upon the Brewery one night, and found a group of beastkind without indentures huddled in the corner. Those initial people no longer lived in the city, had left or gone missing, but the Brewery was as much a safe place for beastkind now as it was then.
The gruff man rolled his eyes, but he was charmed, Az could tell.
When he moved on, Azrail winced at the worn tears and holes in his brown coat and looked up to serve the next person. He exhaled in relief as he realised the man was the last one. He’d had to scrape the pan for enough to fill his bowl; there were only dregs left.
“There you go,” Jaro said, tipping the pan over the bowl in front of him to get every last drop. “One steaming, err cold, b
owl of stew. Take care, my dear.”
“Thank you,” the young woman breathed, looking at the bowl as if it was a gift from the saints. By the rangy looks of her, it was her only meal today. Maybe even this week. Az hated it—the divide. He always had. Had always despised that the crown and court glutted themselves on food, and even threw away any leftovers, while here in the northside, people thanked the saints for even a drop of sustenance.
His parents had sworn to change that, had promised a better city, a better world. Sometimes Az thought that was why they’d been killed, because they spoke up for people that those in power wished to remain voiceless. Most of the time, he knew better. They’d found something—about the crown, about Ismene Delakore. Either her advisers or the queen herself had had his parents framed for treason.
Az busied himself with stacking the remaining bowls. Fourteen—too many, far too fucking many. What had happened to the people who used to come for a meal and a chance to socialise in safety? Where had they gone? But he knew the answer to that. They were missing—so many of them. Not just free beastkind, either, but the indentured, too.
“It’s the same in the southside,” Jaro said quietly, watching Az stack yet more bowls, his tanned hands shaking with rage. Jaro had always been good at reading the nuances and tells of his moods. “I saw a merchant last night who told me his twin daughters had gone missing. They went out last Sunday for a meat pie from the meat market, and never came back. Not beastkind—fae.”
Az clenched his jaw, using a rag to clean up the few careless spills on the table, hating each wasted drop that soaked the rag. “Where do you think they’re going?”
“A better question is who’s taking them,” Jaro replied, his green eyes dark as he stared across the room at the last free beastkind as they ate in quiet companionship.
Az’s stomach tightened, the thought of someone taking Jaromir sending so much anger through him that the dark power slumbering in his core opened an eye. It scanned the room, dismissed everyone, and went back to sleep, to Az’s trembling relief. No matter how bad things got, he wouldn’t waken that dark power, not when every instinct warned him away from it.
