Corien. Near. And angry.
He stalked toward her, yanked her body up roughly against his own.
Is this really what you want? he murmured. She blinked, and he was gone, though she could still feel his tight grip. She blinked again; he returned, his furious gaze on her lips.
They are what you want? He jerked his head behind him, at the flood of figures rushing toward her across the Flats.
Corien made her look at him. He wound his fingers in her hair, pulled her head gently back so that her throat was bared. His lips ghosted across her skin.
They are nothing, he told her, his voice rich and low. And you are everything. What must I do to make you understand that?
For a moment, Rielle closed her eyes and gave herself up to his dream-grip, caught in the shifting soft place between the solid reality of the Flats and wherever in the world it was that Corien truly stood.
Then she turned her face away and closed her eyes.
Let go of me, she whispered.
He did, at once. The vision faded, and all that was left of him was an echo of his touch on her arms and a dark voice sneering in her mind:
I will not always be this patient, Rielle.
That made her bristle. She opened her eyes and watched the approaching crowd. You will do as I tell you, she replied—and then tried not to think too hard about the coy shiver that grazed its claws across her skin when Corien did not answer.
32
Eliana
“It was while passing through Rinthos from the eastern coast that my daughter disappeared. I’d heard of these vanishings. Even out in the wild, there are ripples. I thought, surely, that won’t happen to us. Haven’t we endured enough? But these girl-snatchers, they have no hearts, no pity. No souls. I’ve heard rumors of what is done to them, these missing girls, and I hope my daughter is safely dead.”
—Collection of stories written by refugees in occupied Ventera
Curated by Hob Cavaserra
Later that night, Eliana waited until she heard the slight knock from Camille on the door to her room, then slipped out from underneath Remy’s arm, snatched her daggers from the floor, and stepped into the hallway.
Camille waited, her face drawn and tense. “Are you ready?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Lead the way.”
They moved silently toward the front entrance. Eliana slid Arabeth into the holster at her hip, slipped Whistler into the one under her left sleeve and Nox into her left boot, then tucked Tuora and Tempest into the inner pockets of her jacket.
At the door that led back out into Sanctuary, Camille stopped her. “I can’t afford to lose any more of my people. You get in trouble out there tonight, you’re on your own.”
Eliana nodded once. “And if I don’t come back?”
Camille’s expression softened slightly. “I’ll give your brother your message. Don’t worry, Dread.”
“I never worry if I can help it,” Eliana replied smoothly, then slipped out the door and listened to Camille close and lock it behind her.
She crept down the carpeted corridor and onto Sanctuary’s broad third-floor mezzanine. Immediately, the stench of the world outside Camille’s apartments overwhelmed Eliana—the hot reek of dirty bodies, spilled ale, plates of food left out to sour. At half past nine, Sanctuary crawled with hundreds of souls seeking distraction from the world above, and the night had only just begun.
Two women brawled in one of the fighting cages. A raucous game of cards had taken over half the second floor, onlookers shouting out their wagers as the players rolled dice in clouds of smoke. Between two pillars in a dark corner, two half-naked figures writhed against the wall.
Eliana made a pass through the entire third level, which housed dozens of other apartments besides Camille’s. On the fourth level, red-curtained doors lined with beaded fringe led the way to a brothel, out of which floated the sounds of shrill music and unrestrained laughter. Eliana’s bile rose at the coy gazes of the children with collars around their necks, the keening distant cries that bordered the line between pleasure and pain.
She hurried through the fifth level, then back down to the second and first. There, the noise of the fighting pits—punches, cheers, shouted obscenities—drowned out all quieter conversation. Eliana could not move without brushing up against a stranger. Hot drops of sweat from the cages and from the yelling spectators above scattered across her arms.
If Fidelia wants to snatch girls unseen, Eliana thought, this is the place to do it.
She made straight for the bar and slapped three coppers onto the slimy bar top. “The best ale you’ve got.”
The barkeep curled his lip. “We don’t have any good ale.”
Eliana smiled, flicking her jacket aside to show him Tuora’s gleaming blade. “Find me some. Quickly.”
The barkeep sighed and rolled his eyes. But he did as she asked, sliding a dirty tin mug of ale down the countertop with a disdainful flick of his wrist. She caught the mug, tossed him another copper because she was feeling generous, and moved away.
Eliana brought the mug to her lips as she walked. After the first sip, her mouth puckered in disgust. The barkeep hadn’t lied; the drink tasted like piss.
She slid into a narrow wooden booth against the far wall, the backs of the benches high and private.
Already an hour had passed since she’d left Camille’s apartments, and for all the woman’s talk about fear of Fidelia running rampant in Rinthos, Eliana had seen nothing noteworthy. The shadowed booth was as fine a place as any to sit and observe, unremarkable and unnoticed, until she had become as much a part of the room as the ancient, grimy furniture.
Sometimes, she thought, the hunter must not prowl, but rather wait. And watch.
She slid low in her seat, propped her boots up on the table. It felt good to be working again, to settle in and watch the dirty cogs of Sanctuary turn around her. Since her bombardier attack, she had felt unlike herself, shaken loose and off-balance. But this…this was familiar.
It was a good spot: she could still see the bar, the fighting pits, and at least one of the entrances to Sanctuary, though not the one they’d come through two days before. She imagined there must be all manner of rat holes leading in and out of such a vile nest. Twenty feet away, a brown-skinned woman brooded over her cup. Two tables away and to the left, a group of men and one pale woman with a head of wild black braids howled with laughter.
To Eliana’s right: an ebony-skinned man and a freckled woman, finishing off bowls of stew. One of the fights had ended. A singing crowd raised the bloody winner to their shoulders and began an impromptu parade.
Eliana took another sip from her drink, eyes roving about the crowded dark room over the rim of her mug—then froze.
She blinked a few times as if trying to clear her vision of a speck. A sudden, heavy pressure pinned her to the bench, making her head spin. A feeling of wrongness filled the air, a faint sour scent, like someone had lashed a whip of ill intent through the room.
Hard chills surged through her body.
She remembered that feeling, that scent, from Orline—from the night she had tried to save the abducted child, and from the night her mother had disappeared. It was more violent now, the feeling. Closer. Urgent. She gripped the table’s edge, fighting the desire to lay her head on the table. The world teetered, knocked askew.
Beneath the table, Eliana found Arabeth and felt a little better as her fingers wrapped around the dagger’s hilt.
The chill across her shoulders became a sharp pang of warning.
She forced up her gaze.
The woman who’d been sitting alone, frowning over her drink, was gone. Her ale lay spilled on the tabletop, dripping onto the ground. Her mug rolled to a stop under the chair in which she had been sitting.
But she could have simply left the table.