The sound of her boots fades down the hall, leaving me alone once more.
That was another parallel soul of Duchess Emberthorn.
I shove the tray aside, the stew now cold and unappealing. My stomach is a knot of anxiety. I've bought myself time, but how much?
Only stars would know that.
I slump against the bed, the relief almost making me dizzy. I kick away my shoes, unbutton my shirt taking deep breaths filled with murk and whatnot. I release them from my mouth.
Still, the pillow and mattress are softer than the inn.
It's really happening.
The room is pretty spacious since it is an attic. Wooden floors and walls, peeking pipes here and there, a fire stone with a great fire poker, a lot of candles, and a small crystal chandelier. The floorboards don't creak but I think they hear my steps downstairs.
The centerpiece of the room is a massive arched window that dominates the far wall, its glass panes slightly fogged and smudged from years of grime. It stretches from the floor almost to the ceiling, framed in wrought iron that's twisted into delicate, intricate patterns like curling vines.
Through the window, the view is nothing short of breathtaking: the sprawling maze of the undercity with its crooked rooftops, flickering gas lamps, and winding alleys, all swallowed in a perpetual haze. Above it, the towering peaks of the uppercity pierce through layers of smog, their marble spires shimmering faintly in the pale light that filters down.
I have a desk, two chairs, a bed and a cupboard with rats to myself. On the second day, Draven comes into my room with some old blankets when I am unpacking my novels. I cannot stop flinching every time I see him even if I want to.
He places the blanket on the window sill and pats them heavily to flat. Then places a pillow on top of the bundle. "You can stay until I find a safe place," He says and does not look at me.
"I don't want to see you perish here in filth again, child. I would be glad to keep you in my sight but I have enemies here. You will not be the prey,"
He does know that Iza likes to watch stars and storms. I pat the blankets he brought and nod. The bloodhound has been starving with loneliness. "... I know. I'll try to be less nuisance,"
"That's not it. Look at yourself. You're a jewel in this mud. Many would-"
"I can protect myself," I say to him sitting on the blankets peeking outside the narrow window. "I did well so far... This place is great!" It really is great. So comfy and all I need is a hot coffee and a trashy novel to read.
He sighs looking around. "Remember, As soon as I find a place, you are moving. And it will be free from anyone who dares to harm you," I hear him but I pretend not to. I lean outside of the window and find out that I can jump to the balcony from there.
Or just fall from the third floor and die.
"I'll take care of the rats. And I will be going to Crossreach every weekend or I can send someone up there any time if you need anything." He really acts like someone who is looking for a safe place to send me away.
I look back at him. Candles flickering in his brown eyes. I can almost see where Iza's caring devilishness came from. I wish I was her.
I give him what he is expecting, a small smile that reaches my eyes and soul. "Thank you so much," I say to him. "Can I help you with anything?"
"No, rest. Would you like to have dinner with me? You're skinnier than anyone I have seen here."
"Of course," I say. He nods and gets out. I melt on the blankets staring at the shadowy figures moving at the next door. Since I am going to be busy, I decide to breathe a little, watching my horizons.
But my neighbors are romantic as their shadows tingle together for a long time.
Damn it.
I get down and go back to unpacking and hiding vials in the room and busy myself with the communication and future plans.
********
I've never been one for theatrics. Well, that's a lie—I absolutely adore them. Life is dull, and people think it's all about power.
The endless struggle to be the one with the knife pressed against someone else's heart. Fools. Power's a fickle mistress, and far too many are obsessed with keeping her satisfied. Me? I find far more pleasure in... the little things.
Like now.
The dim glow of flickering gas lamps dances off the grimy walls of the underground chamber, casting shadows that move like wraiths. The air is thick with the coppery tang of blood and the acrid scent of fear. I tap my fingers rhythmically on the edge of the stone table, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room.
The man before me is barely conscious. His wrists are bound to the chair with leather straps, his head lolling forward, blood dripping from his broken nose. I tilt my head, watching a crimson droplet roll down his cheek like a tear.
"Now, where were we?" I murmur, though I don't expect an answer. Not in his state, anyway. "Ah, yes—you were just about to tell me about the shipment"
The man's eyes flutter open, and for a moment, I see something in them. Hope, perhaps? Pathetic.
"Please..." he rasps, his voice little more than a whisper. "I... I don't know... It was just— cough! cough!"
The man's screams echo off the stone walls, a satisfying symphony of desperation and futility. Really, I should bottle the sound and sell it—it would make a fortune.
"For those hard-to-sleep nights," I'd advertise, "one scream and all your neighbors will leave you alone."
I lean back in the chair I've pulled to the center of the room, the legs scraping across the blood-slick floor with a shriek that competes with his. "That's enough," I say, waving a lazy hand at his writhing body.
I sigh dramatically, rolling my eyes. "I have to say, the whole 'I don't know' excuse is getting rather old. At least try to be original."
I stand, slowly circling the chair, my boots clicking on the stone floor with each step. "I'm not interested in your reasons. What I care about," I lean in, my breath brushing his ear, "is whether you can make this interesting."
There's no answer, only the sound of his labored breathing. Disappointing. I grab his chin roughly, forcing him to look at me. His eyes widen, reflecting the candlelight like a trapped animal's. Good. Fear makes people creative, and I do enjoy creativity.
"Here's the game," I say, my tone almost cheerful. "I ask a question, and you have two choices: you answer it, or..." I let the silence hang in the air, savoring the way his eyes dart around the room as if searching for a way out. "...you scream. Loudly."
The dagger in my hand is a delicate thing, its silver blade catching the light as I twirl it between my fingers. It's not meant for messy work—no, this one is for precision. A quick slice here, a puncture there.
I rest the blade lightly against the tender skin beneath his ear. "Now, let's see if you can keep me entertained."
I barely have to apply pressure before he breaks, sputtering out the words like a cracked fountain. "Eastern docks! Midnight... on the new moon!"
I arch a brow, feigning interest. "Now that was quick, You know, if you wanted a break, you could've just asked. I'm not a monster." I press the tip of the knife against his ribs, just enough to make him wince.
I tap the knife against the chair's armrest, each click slower than the last. My patience thins, stretching like an old thread.
"Wait!" He yells. "Wait! I have a tip"
Of course, why not? They all have tips. I don't think the devil is whispering them to him at the death door since I don't whisper with men. It's bad for their health—makes them think I care.
"Alright! Go on," I say since I have nothing else to do after this.
"There's a-" He chokes on his blood. I take my hands off of him frowning.
I swear I didn't do anything to him. "There's- a... cough!" He is gross. "There's a spy!" He manages to yell.
"There's— a... cough!" He pukes blood, the sound wet and gurgling, and then he slumps forward. My blade is clean, untouched. I am very irritated. Weak men ruin all the fun.
Or black magic.
It's almost anticlimactic, the way his body goes limp without so much as a scream.
I click my tongue breaking the unexpected silence. Not this fuckery again.