The pair rolled about on the stone, punching and flailing. Micheletto trying to grasp the girl he couldn’t quite see, Mia trying to land a decent blow without quite being able to tell what she was swinging at. In the end, she threw her shadowcloak aside, settled for sheer ferocity over useless stealth. Her elbow crushed his nose to pulp, her fist danced on his jaw.
A vicious hook landed on the side of her head, knocked her senseless. Another blow landed, sending her tumbling. She realized Santino was on his feet again, behind her, his face a dripping, bloody ruin. Mia struggled to stand, but the brother seized her in a crushing headlock. The shadows snapped and writhed, but the headshots had dizzied her and she couldn’t hold them tight. She threw a savage kick backward, felt it connect somewhere soft, heard a grunt of pain. But then she was slammed back into her chair, spitting and cursing, hair tangled in her eyes. Santino held her down while Micheletto bound her wrists again. The tools on the table trembled, the shadows in the room whipping like serpents. Something heavy crashed into her temple and she slumped, bleeding and gasping, head lolling on her shoulders.
“Little fucking bitch,” Micheletto hissed.
He limped to the brazier, nose pissing blood, dragged the poker from the coals. Its tip was blazing an angry, luminous orange. Mia thrashed in the chair but Santino held her down, the other confessor raising the poker close to her face. She froze. Felt the blistering heat, just an inch or two from her skin. A stray wisp of hair touched the red-hot iron, smoking as it crisped.
“My lovely love,” Santino cooed. “You’ll be less lovely in a moment, I fear.”
Hands on the side of her head, holding her still. Breath hissing through her teeth. Nothing but rage inside now. If this was to be her end, she’d not go begging.
Never flinch. Never fear. And never, ever forget.
“Tell us where you were earlier this eve,” Micheletto growled. “Before you arrived in Godsgrave.”
“Fuck you.”
“Where were you before you arrived in Godsgrave?” Micheletto shouted.
The iron was a breath from her skin now. Already beginning to burn. She felt sick to her stomach, sweat stinging her eyes. Mia looked up at the confessor. Lips peeling back from her teeth. Whispering fierce.
“Fuck. You.”
The brother shook his head.
And with a hollow smile, he raised the poker to her eye.
“Enough.”
The smile dropped from the brother’s face. The grip on the sides of Mia’s head eased. Both confessors straightened, as if standing to attention. Brother Micheletto stepped aside to reveal a cloaked figure in the doorway.
Mia glimpsed long black hair. Bottomless black eyes. Twin blades at his waist.
Perfectly plain.
Perfectly deadly.
A greasy illness swelled in her belly, Mister Kindly shivering as the dark around them surged. And from the shadows, she heard a low, rumbling growl.
A wolf growl.
“Leave us,” Cassius commanded.
“Yes, Lord,” Micheletto and Santino replied.
The men bowed deep, and with quiet nods to Mia, marched quickly from the room. Her belly thrilled with sudden fear as Lord Cassius stepped into the cell, Mister Kindly shrinking down into the black at her feet. The Lord of Blades stood before Mia with hands clasped, long dark locks moving as if in some invisible breeze. His skin was purest alabaster. His voice, honey and blood.
“Bravo, Acolyte. My compliments.”
“… Lord Cassius?”
Mia looked about her. Beyond the sickness in her gut, beyond the surge of terror and excitement she felt in his presence, realization was flooding over her.
Relief. Anger. Chagrin.
“A test,” she breathed.
“A necessity,” Cassius replied. “Now that you know of the Blood Walk. Beyond your skill with steel or venom or flesh, there is one virtue we must ensure each and every disciple of the Red Church possesses in abundance.”
Mia looked the Black Prince in the eye. Her hands trembling.
“Loyalty,” she whispered.
Cassius inclined his head. “The Red Church prides itself in its reputation. No contract ever undertaken by this congregation has remained unfulfilled. No disciple has ever revealed a secret to those who hunt us. Every year, we bring new faces into the flock, sharpen you to the keenest edge. But as honed as they may appear, some blades are simply made of glass.”
“Glass?”
“A shard of glass can slice a man’s throat. Pierce his heart clean. Open his wrists to the bone. But press it in the wrong place, glass will shatter. Iron will not.”
A faint smile curled pale lips, Cassius’s hand drifting to a blade at his waist.
“Since the failed attempt on Consul Scaeva’s life, Cardinal Duomo has declared the destruction of the Red Church a divine mandate. Justicus Remus and his Luminatii hunt us in every corner of the Republic. We have the power of Ashkahi sorcery at our fingertips. Chapels in every metropolis. If one of our disciples were to fall into the hands of our enemies, we must be certain they will not shatter. And so …”
Cassius motioned to the cells around them, his cloak whispering as he moved. Mister Kindly’s fear was eating into Mia’s belly, the shadows writhing across the floor. She glanced up as another scream echoed down the corridor. Swallowing hard and searching for her voice.
“So Shahiid Aalea’s trial was just a ruse?”
“O, no. The acolyte who gifts her the finest secret will still finish top of Masks. And all of you will be sent to this city time and again in search of them, have no doubt. We simply take this opportunity to test the waters, so to speak.”
“The other acolytes who came to Godsgrave? You’re testing them, too?”
“We test you all.”
“… Did any break?”
“Someone always breaks.”
The man searched Mia’s eyes. Waiting, perhaps, for some kind of rebuke.
Mia remained mute, meeting that bottomless stare, fighting the illness in her gut. The greasy tang of bile hung in the back of her throat, her hands shaking so badly she was forced to grip the chair to still them. What was it about this man that affected her so? Was it because he was of her kind? The dark in him, calling to the dark in her?
She heard soft, padded footsteps behind her. That low wolf growl.
Eclipse …
“You’re the first darkin I’ve ever met,” she finally said. “Ever spoken to.”
“Perhaps the last,” he replied. “You stand many a nevernight from initiation. And if you think our kinship will buy you favor in the Mother’s halls, you are sorely mistaken.”
The Black Prince’s eyes were deathly cold. His beauty colder still. Mia could feel the shadowwolf behind her, prowling closer. Mister Kindly puffed up in her shadow and hissed, and a low chuckling resounded from the stones at her feet. The question clawed at her tongue until she gave it voice; a thin whisper hanging in the air like smoke.
“What are we?”
“What do you suppose we are?”
“Mercurio, Drusilla …” Mia swallowed. “They say we’re the Mother’s chosen.”
The hair on back of her neck stood on end as the Lord of Blades laughed.
“Is that what you believe yourself to be, little darkin? Chosen?”
“I don’t know what I believe,” she hissed. “I was hoping you could teach me.”
“What to believe?”
“What I am.”
“It matters not what you are,” Cassius said. “Only that you are. And if you seek an answer to some greater riddle of yourself, seek it not from me until you’ve earned it. In one measure, and one measure alone, you should be content. For in this, if nothing else, we are the same.”
Mia’s stomach surged as the Lord of Blades leaned in closer, drawing a dagger from his sleeve. And reaching down, he sliced through the rope at her wrists.
“We are killers, you and I,” he said. “Killers one, killers all. And each death we bring is a prayer. An offering to Our Lady of Blessed Murder. Death as a mercy. Death as a warning. Death as an end unto itself. All of these, ours to know and gift unto the world. The wolf does not pity the lamb. The storm begs no forgiveness of the drowned.”