Текст книги "The poison daughter"
Автор книги: Sheila Masterson
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 48 страниц)
My father smiles indulgently at the whispering crowd, as if we are all just a bunch of naive children. Finally, he holds up both hands and the room quiets.
“Liza and I are delighted to accept their request to come back into the fold after thinking they were lost to us for so long. They arrive tomorrow.” He looks at my mother, who rises and takes his hand, lifting her wine glass with the other. She nods, and my father continues. “We’d also like to offer a toast. After much misfortune, this is a moment of hope.”
The guilt placates everyone, and a wave of solemn nods goes through the crowd, all eyes shifting to me. I refuse to meet any of their gazes. It’s so hard to fake grief over my horrible, dead husband. I do my best impression of a weary widow.
My father clears his throat, indicating the end of his performance of solemnity. “We are certain that whatever has allowed them to thrive in such dire circumstances makes them a great asset to strengthening our resolve against the Drained. We are pleased to announce that we’ve agreed to a preliminary marriage contract between their son and our youngest daughter, Harlow.”
Kellan tenses beside me and Aidia’s jaw drops across the table, but it’s not until every gaze in the room shifts to me that I register that my father said my name.
I choke on my wine, sputtering into my napkin. I stare at my father, trying to master my expression. All the years of practice and gritting it out through pain fail me; I can only manage a tight smile.
There’s a challenge in his eye, as if he’s daring me to argue in front of everyone, knowing I would never break the first rule of the Carrenwell Family—present a united front in public and save dissent for behind closed doors.
I force a smile to my face and nod.
My father holds up his glass. “Now we’d like to offer a toast to our daughter for solidifying this alliance and ensuring a stronger future for all of Lunameade. To Harlow.”
The crowd repeats after him, and glasses clink. I knock back the stinging bubbles and enjoy the sharp burn that slides down my throat.
My parents want to trade me to some savage from beyond the walls, but I have every intention of getting something for my trouble.
OceanofPDF.com
2HARLOW
The new moon is my accomplice, blanketing the city in a velvet dark perfect for getting away with murder.
I cast a glance over my shoulder at my home. Night grants the mansion sharp teeth made of darkness. Few secrets are safe from their bite.
Fortunately, my sins are well hidden.
I turn back and tread the path I’ve walked down many times before. The twists and turns of the alleys in the southern half of the city are so familiar, I can walk them by muscle memory alone, which is good because I’m distracted by the announcement of my impending nuptials.
Of course my parents didn’t warn me ahead of time. If they’d told me without an audience, I could have objected. They trapped me into agreeing.
The more congratulatory well-wishes I received, the more my stomach churned, and the more pain pressed against the back of my eyes. I wasn’t willing to risk an episode, so I’d excused myself early and snuck out as soon as Gaven dropped me in my room.
The dark alleyway dumps me out into the center of the city. The glowing sunstones around the base of the Blood Well make it a beacon in the dark. Calling it a well is not entirely accurate. It’s more of an underground river. Though it’s been expanded to accommodate the growing size of the city and the need for so many children to be blessed every month, the large cavern in the center of the square marks the original location of the founding of Lunameade.
Two guards are posted at the sacred site, one at the entrance ramp that spirals down to the water and one where it spirals back up to the exit.
I pull my hood higher and skirt the edge of the square as quietly as possible. The last thing I need is to be spotted by someone who knows who I am.
One of the guards takes notice, forcing me to improvise. I pause at the altar of candles in front of the founding mural. The colorful painting takes up the entire side of a bar at the edge of the square, portraying the story of the discovery of the well.
I take a long match from the cup on the right of the altar, strike it, and light one of the votives in its ornate glass jar. Then, I hold up my hands like I’m praising the Divine, and gaze at the face of my ancestor, Alistair Carren, spilling his blood in the well. I’ve heard the story so many times I could probably act it out by now.
Centuries ago, Alistair was the leader of the nomadic clan. He was the one person in the clan who was born with magic. Small as his gift seemed, his ability to see magic in the world allowed him to steer the clan clear of magical traps set by rival tribes throughout their travels. His Divine-blessed sight kept his people safe and earned him the place as their leader.
When the territory his people traveled was ravaged by wildfires, they were forced to move beyond the land they knew. They stumbled upon the Drained Wood, where they were beset by monsters and scattered through the forest. Alistair prayed to the Seven Divine, the deities the clan had worshipped for years.
That night, while his people were fast asleep, Harvain, the Divine of Fortune, answered. Alistair was woken from a dream by a golden glowing orb. He heard Harvain’s voice tell him to follow it and he would be blessed with a way to protect his people by Vardek, the Divine of Protection.
Alistair followed the glowing light through the woods until he stumbled upon a spring that pulsed with a strange blue aura.
Harvain’s voice returned and told him to cut his hand and spill his blood into the stream and then submerge himself in it. With no better option, and afraid fear was driving him out of his mind, Alistair did as the Divine asked. As he submerged himself in the water, he felt a new power rush through him.
When he rose, a monster was waiting at the woods’ edge, and Alistair shot his magic out at the beast. Blue fire sparked from his hands, lighting the beast and turning it to ash in seconds. That holy fire allowed Alastair’s people to build a settlement and protected them while they worked.
It’s by that power that our family name morphed from Carren to Carrenwell, and is how we became the ruling family of this walled city in the middle of the Drained Wood. And it’s our ability to see magic that ensured we were prepared for any magic-blessed person we encounter, and, thus, kept us in power all these years.
Once I’m certain that I’ve performed my fake devotion to an acceptable level, I cast a glance back at the guards and rush into another alley on the east side of the square.
At the end of an alley, I pause and listen for thieves that might be waiting for an unsuspecting victim, but there’s nothing but my own breath puffing out in little white clouds, and the distant sounds of merriment from the pub around the corner.
I wonder if there’s a man in that pub sitting up a little straighter tonight, eyes a little more suspicious, hair on the back of his neck standing on edge because he worries that someone is coming for him. It’s unlikely, but I like the idea that men in this city might feel a hint of fear for once.
I was six years old the first time I killed someone. Back then, it was an accident. Unfortunately, my power doesn’t require intention to take a life. It simply came on one day at the least opportune moment, making my eagerness for my magic to show up feel foolish. I should have enjoyed childhood while I could.
As the youngest of the Carrenwells, I’d been dunked in the Blood Well at one month old and in the Family Well once a week since I was born.
The occasions during which I was allowed to interact with children who weren’t my siblings were very infrequent. But several of the women of the high houses had brought their children to a party in my mother’s garden.
Timmy was the son of my mother’s best friend and the one boy Aidia and I knew. Naturally, when Aidia suggested we play wedding, she cast him as the groom, me as the bride, and herself as the officiant. I wore a lace table runner as a veil and walked down the grass covered in flower petals to Timmy. When Aidia lifted her hands and pronounced us married, he kissed me, and in a few gasping breaths, our make-believe happily-ever-after turned into a nightmare.
I was confused and horrified. I braced myself for a punishment that never came. Instead, my parents rejoiced in my “gift,” delighting in the way that it could help solidify our family’s reign.
His parents didn’t attack me or blame my parents. His mother cried quietly over his body and his father stood behind her with a firm hand on her shoulder. I waited for them to rage at me, but they didn’t even meet my eyes.
That was the day that I learned true power is in the silence. The threat was implicit in the power imbalance. Timmy’s parents didn’t bother to fight because they knew they wouldn’t win.
It was a good lesson for me. I couldn’t stop my tears then. Great, wracking sobs shuddered through me, but Aidia stepped up beside me and squeezed my hand. She already had her magic, and she had learned something I didn’t yet understand.
She whispered to me to not let them see me be weak and gripped my hand so tight the bones creaked. There in our family garden, holding on to my sister’s hand and standing over the body of the first boy I ever killed, I learned how to swallow my pain.
I’m not sure I’ve ever really learned how to let it go. Perhaps that’s why I’m plagued by this strange, sporadic agony.
My sister Electra used her magic to erase the memories of Timmy’s family and anyone other than my siblings who had witnessed my kiss. They let his family think he’d been taken by the Drained.
My secret died with Timmy that day, and now it dies with the abusers of Lunameade several nights a week.
I’ve turned my bad luck into other women’s good fortune. This world is plagued with men who only know how to speak with their fists, and I have made myself a monster for them.
Shaking off the thought, I tug my hood up and dash down the adjoining alley, following the path to my secret mailbox.
I pause and bring my fingers to the star pendant on my necklace. This gift from Aidia is imbued with the ability to change my appearance to whatever features I see in my mind’s eye.
Objects like this necklace are the one loophole to seeing auras, because even when I’m borrowing this magic from my sister, my aura doesn’t show it. Magic-infused tokens can be used by anyone, both blessed and unblessed, which makes them especially dangerous.
My parents keep a registry of all magically blessed objects that are created in the city, for the sake of keeping our family safe. I suspect, though, that most people don’t share their creations since there’s no way for us to track them, and it strips our family of an advantage. This gift from Aidia is a good example, because I have no intention of registering it in my parents’ records.
Before we were married off, I used to use it for fun—changing up my hair color for a night or making myself look exactly like Aidia so we could mess with men at bars.
But now I see her too infrequently to waste it. Not when I need it to take out my fury on a nightly basis, so that I don’t take it out on the one untouchable man in this city.
The magic flows through my body. A fierce, tingling itch spreads over every feature I’m changing. The eyes are the worst of it, but they always have to change. While many escorts in the city glamour their eyes violet for men who want something exotic, it’s still an unusual eye color. Even if anyone who sees me assumes I’m a sex worker instead of a Carrenwell, it will draw unwanted attention when I’m trying to be forgettable.
It takes ten deep breaths for the glamour to settle in. I picture my face with ash-blonde hair, slightly rounder cheeks, and dark brown eyes until, finally, the itching abates.
My safety and the safety of the women I’m helping requires this discomfort. It’s the only way we can safely meet face to face, and the easiest way for me to check my mailbox regularly without being found out.
I lift my hair from the shadow of my hood, relieved to see the raven-black locks are now golden. With the glamour in place, I step out of the alley and cross the small square to my mailbox.
Lunameade is not as quiet as I expected it to be, given the attack on Southwest Hold earlier. Perhaps the frequency of the attacks lately is making people more apt to continue business as usual. Then again, there’s only so little living one can do inside these city walls, and there are plenty of citizens who would rather risk life and limb than miss a fun party or a moonlit tryst.
My mailbox—or, rather, the Poison Vixen’s mailbox—hides in plain sight, among a collection of others. I also own several boxes around it to avoid suspicion of always visiting the same one. The trouble with my popularity growing is that I have to be extra careful when checking for messages. If some husband or lover is on to a woman seeking my help, I could just as easily find him waiting in the shadows.
The lock clicks and the door creaks open. I snatch the small piece of parchment inside and hold it up to the light pouring from a nearby bar window.
GX Client Meet.
I frown. That’s odd. I was expecting a location for a target we vetted three days ago, but Bea wants me to come straight to her bar.
Footsteps behind me startle me into action. I slam the mailbox shut and dart down the nearest alley. I follow the twists and turns until the familiar facade of Guardian’s Crossing comes into sight. The watchful painted eyes of a warrior look out over the heads of two men leaning against the wall, smoking. The man in the painting has his sword drawn, like he’s ready to cut down the men for daring to smoke so close to the front door, but for all the painting’s handsome menace, he’s just a folktale for the people of the city. The greater threat to the smokers is the bar owner.
I ignore their leering as I shove open the front door.
Guardian’s Crossing is an easy choice for meeting clients. It’s full of potent cocktails, loud music, and discreet liaisons. Pushing through the crush of people, I make my way to the bar.
Beatrice Grange looks up from behind the bar and meets my eye.
Even in a glamour, she recognizes me. I try to ignore the way her smile hits me in the chest. No matter how many times I remind myself that we’re just friends now—that she’s moved on—my heart still kicks up a beat for her.
Bea always looks so confident and beautiful behind the bar. Her hair is short but styled impeccably into a shiny bob. Her high-waisted trousers accentuate her full hips and narrow waist, and her shirt sleeves are rolled up to show off flawless brown skin and strong forearms that she’s earned pulling pints, hauling casks, and tossing out any man foolish enough to get too handsy with her barmaids.
I walk to the end of the bar, dodging a waitress with a precariously stacked tray of drinks, and lean over the bar toward Bea.
“You summoned?”
She smiles tightly. “I did. I have a new client here for you. There’s just one problem.”
I groan. “Please, no more problems today. I’ve had a long night already.”
“It’s a rush job. She wants it done tonight.”
Of course. This couldn’t just be a normal job and a normal night.
“Fine,” I grumble. I rub the bridge of my nose, the ache from earlier growing worse with the sudden rush of noise and scent.
Bea’s brow pinches in concern. “You’re not doing this if you have a headache.”
I sigh. “It’s just the itch of the glamour.”
The lie comes easily because it’s born out of years of pretending I feel fine when I’m in excruciating pain. It used to make me feel powerful—that I could hide such wretched agony from the world. Now it just makes me feel lonely.
In truth, it’s not that bad right now, and I don’t have the bright, shining aura that I sometimes get around my eyes. Tonight, my pain is manageable, and I have to push through because there will be too many nights when I can’t.
Bea’s doubtful frown suggests she doesn’t believe me, but she nods toward the table tucked behind green velvet curtains in the back corner as she hands me a pint.
I grab it, but she tugs it back.
“I don’t like this,” Bea says, her low rasp cutting through the bar noise. “We agreed no rush jobs. We have a vetting process for a reason.”
“Don’t go soft on me now. You’re the one who summoned me here to meet a new client instead of sending me out to take out a vetted target,” I snap. “I suppose it’s for the best. I have so little time.”
Maybe it’s foolish to think that one last kill will be enough to calm the restlessness that’s settled in my stomach since my father announced my betrothal. Killing violent men has allowed me to temper my rage for the time being, and it’s given me some semblance of control. I can’t stop Rafe from hurting my sister, but I can stop other violent men, and at least that’s something.
But that could all end tomorrow. Maybe one more abuser choking on his dying breath won’t make a big difference in the city, but it will make a big difference to one woman.
“Why don’t you have time?” Bea presses.
I yank the pint glass from her hand and take a long pull. “Well, Bea, it seems I’m being married off.” I offer her a brief rundown of the earlier events of the evening.
A muscle in Bea’s jaw clenches. “I thought once would have been enough.”
“You and me both.”
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t served as my parents’ beautiful assassin before—discreetly flirting and sneaking away with anyone they deemed knew too much about our family. Keeper of the Well getting too big for his britches? That’s a job for Harlow. An old tutor drinking until his lips loosened about my brother’s magic? Harlow will take care of it.
I hated every minute of it, but I never complained because our survival relied on unified strength. The only time I ever hesitated was when they asked me—or, rather, told me—to marry Marc Beckley.
I may be toxic to a chosen few who deserve it, but that man was a poison to the entire city. He’d managed to carve out a place for himself as a sort of antagonist to my father, and before he could gain too much political strength, my father proposed a marriage alliance. He accepted because he wanted a pretty, powerful wife who was half his age.
I’d hoped I could just kiss him and get it over with quickly. But my father didn’t just want Marc gone. He wanted the man discredited entirely.
Though the magic at my lips is ever-present—coming to life with the swift and deadly poison of the Nightsong flower any time I anticipate a kiss—I’ve learned that with a little focus, I can summon other types of plant poison instead. All I have to do is read how the plant works and take the time to touch it.
I’ve been careful not to let my family know about the nuances of my skill. As far as they are concerned, all of my poison is the same and it’s only how much I use on a victim that affects whether they die immediately or slowly.
Poisoning Marc was delicate work—a huge test of my concentration as much as my ability to wield my magic.
We courted for three months, during which time he incessantly pressured me to go to bed with him and I feigned chastity while sabotaging his political campaign. Every time I served him tea, I dipped my poison fingers in it and watched him slowly unravel to the point of madness. A week after we were married, his political career and bid for mayor imploded. Finally, I made it look like he’d poisoned himself in his shame.
The city is better without Marc, and I don’t regret what I did, except it means that I’ve had to accept condolences with some semblance of faux grief for the past six months. That is the truly exhausting part.
While much of the family’s magic is bold and dazzling, mine is invisible unless you’re looking for the purple tinge to my lips. That said, there’s no secret so closely guarded as how each Carrenwell’s magic manifests. We only ever show off as a family unit so that it’s impossible for adversaries to tell who would make easy prey. The only magic they know for sure is Vardek’s protective blessing of holy fire that my father and Able wield.
Bea’s eyes dart around the room. “So you’re to be married again? To who?”
“Apparently Fallen Hold has come in from the cold and their heir needs a wife,” I say. The words taste bitter on my tongue.
Bea’s shock is an echo of my own. “I don’t understand. They’ve rebuilt?”
I nod.
“From complete annihilation?”
I shrug.
For almost ten years, Mountain Haven has been Fallen Hold, a dark fairy tale—a threat whispered by parents to naughty children at the market—you better behave or I’ll ship you off to the haunted Fallen Hold where they’ll steal your soul and keep you as a little ghost puppet.
I was twenty when the wall fell—old enough not to believe the macabre folklore—but I can’t help but wonder what kind of grim things the people of Mountain Haven had to do to survive all these years in hiding.
Bea stands a little straighter, her interest piqued. “Does that mean we could get trade back with the outside world?”
I cock my head. “I thought you loved me, and here you are willing to offer me up for a chance at importing wines from beyond the mountains.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I do love you, but those wines make me money. You just cost me.”
The words are more teasing than barbed, but they still sting.
Bea glances at the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. “Sorry. It’s just been so long. It’s hard to imagine what trade routes could do after almost ten years of isolation.”
“Yes, I’m delighted for you, but I have more pressing concerns than you being able to stop making your terrible wine,” I say.
When the fort fell, the visiting traders that used to come biweekly dwindled, their visits stretching longer and longer, until finally they stopped because of the lack of shelter and the growing number of Drained.
Bea brushes her dark hair behind her ear, her brow pinched with concern. “But why marry you to their heir? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
I laugh bitterly. “It’s less punishment than bad luck. I’m the last Carrenwell available to marry off. Offering a wife from one of the other magical families would have been an insult. Plus, Kellan thinks my parents want me to spy on the Havenwoods. It’s suspicious that they haven’t made contact for ten years and the first thing they ask for is a wife for their son.”
“You’re not a spy.” Bea shakes her head. “They can’t do this. Haven’t they learned after Aidia?”
Aidia’s bruised face pops into my head, and I fight the urge to tell Bea about the latest injury. It’s not the first time I’ve lamented this to her. She started helping me vet clients a year ago when I first found out about what Aidia was going through. I can’t help my sister, but I can help the client in similar circumstances who’s probably already sitting in the curtained-off booth in the back of this bar.
“I can take care of myself,” I say.
Bea’s eyes narrow, her cheeks flushing a dark berry color. She rounds the bar, drags me into the back room, and shoves me up against the wall.
The storage room had once seemed dark and romantic, but now it just seems dingy. A water spot stains the plaster ceiling, and the scent of stale beer hangs in the air. The room is dim, but I can still see the fury in her eyes.
I bite back a startled laugh. “This is familiar, but I thought you and Josie were exclusive now.”
Bea scowls, but her gaze drops to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. “Just because you and I are not together anymore doesn’t mean I don’t care.” She swallows thickly. “You’re my best friend.”
Bea’s tough bartender exterior is completely gone, and seeing the raw concern in her eyes is too much. I shouldn’t tease her. It’s not her fault that she couldn’t do without the intimacy of being kissed. I wouldn’t choose it myself if I could help it.
I cross my arms. “I’m not here about that, and I didn’t anticipate you being so sentimental about it. You left a note in the box. There’s a client here and my days are numbered in town.”
Bea dries her already dry hands on her apron. “When do you meet your betrothed?”
“Tomorrow, when our families sign the contract and share our blessings. Tonight might be my last chance to help, so I want to do what I can. Is there anything else before I get going?”
Bea rubs the back of her neck. “Another woman in the pleasure district went missing. A friend of one of Josie’s old friends. Morgan something. I don’t know her personally, but Josie’s friend seemed confident that she’s not the type to disappear on her own, and that’s the ninth woman in the last two months.”
The sheer volume of violence in the city is exhausting. Some days it feels like, for all our efforts, we’re barely making a dent in the problem.
“I’ll talk to Kellan, see if he knows anything about it—but let me know if she turns up in the meantime. Or if anyone else goes missing,” I say.
It’s hard to make someone disappear in a city this size. Bodies show up eventually. But all of the women who have gone missing have left no trace, and we haven’t recovered any remains. It’s a disquieting mystery, but one I can’t solve at this moment.
She grabs my hand. “Wait. There’s more. The client—I have a bad feeling about this one.”
“Of course you do. She’s being abused.”
“You made the rule about rush jobs,” Bea says. “If we’re going to be both judge and executioner, we take time to vet the client’s story and location.”
Normally, our process starts with a letter in a mailbox that requires the client to give us their address so we can observe them. Once we’ve validated that there’s ongoing abuse, we invite them in for an interview confirmation. Usually, Bea takes care of this for me. Then, once she’s confirmed the woman’s story and where to find the abuser and we have enough time to track his movements and vet locations, I go to work.
I nod. “I know. I’m going to see what she has to say, but I’m also more concerned with doing what good I can while I can. I’ll make an exception.”
Bea’s lips press into a thin line, but she lets me go. I cut through the crowd toward the back of the room.
The bar is loud, hectic, the air stuffy with perfume, beer, and a hint of sweat. Barmaids flirt in the laps of wealthy patrons. Fiddlers play by the fire as couples dance, the percussive beat of their boots loud on the old wood floors.
Women bustle about the room, silken hems swishing against the floorboards as they bat their lashes at suitors.
They all murmur about being loved, but they really mean being wanted. When I was younger, I was just like them.
Being wanted is the way out, a ticket that will carry them beyond their family home to a house they run, their own haven in a bustling, walled-off city. They don’t know the way want sours into control. They’ve not seen how men use wanting to excuse their violence. They haven’t seen the things I have.
I don’t dream of being wanted anymore. I’d rather be feared.
I want eyes wide and full of terror as I whisper the name of the woman who sentenced them to death for their crimes. There’s always a moment of shock as the poison spreads through their bodies, but it quickly turns to a bargaining, choked “I’m sorry.”
They never mean it. Sorry is a thing people feel in their hearts—a regret born of realizing a wrong and wanting to repent.
They’re not sorry for the harm they’ve done. They’re sorry they’ve been caught.
I duck behind the curtain at the back of the bar, and the woman at the table jumps. I sit down across from her.
From what I can see under her hood, she’s young and pretty, with dark eyes and smooth brown skin complemented by a light blue cloak. One look at the hunch of her shoulders and I know she’s my client even without the purple ribbon on her wrist and Bea’s confirmation.
For a moment, she just stares at me, her eyes wide in fear and doubt.
“Miss…Vixen?”
None of these women suspect that the person helping them is the youngest Carrenwell daughter, but they like to have something to call me. They’ve nicknamed me the Poison Vixen on account of the almost-empty vials I leave at every scene wrapped in a small purple ribbon. The clues have become my signature, and I’ve left a trace of a different poison in each one to throw Kellan off my trail, since he and the rest of my family think I only have access to a singular poison.
“No names, please, except your intended target,” I say.
The woman withers, nodding in the shrinking way that only women who have taken regular beatings do. I can practically feel the poison pulse beneath my skin as my anger rises. I take a long pull of ale, hoping to calm the burning in my lips.
“Go on, tell me your story,” I continue.
Her eyes dart around the bar before she tips her hood back slightly. Without the shadow of her hood, I can see a bruise around her right eye and an older fading one along her jaw. She shifts the clasp of her cloak so I can see dark blue fingerprints dotting her throat.
“It’s getting worse,” she says in a harsh whisper. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt, but last week when he did this,” she gestures to her neck, “my vision went so dim I thought he was going to kill me. And my oldest jumped in and Ron put a beating on him too. I cannot watch the pattern repeat with them. I have three children, miss. Please.”
I study her closely. There’s a natural cadence that most victims have, a line they go up to where the words don’t seem to come and I can hear what’s unsaid in the silence. The fear is bigger than words, and that’s something I understand.
But this woman speaks it all and leaves nothing unsaid.
She slips her hand under the table, dumping a heavy pouch into my lap.
My eyes dart to hers. “This is too much.”
She shakes her head, tears forming in her eyes. “I swear it’s not. I will do whatever I must to keep my children safe. Put it toward another woman who can’t afford your help.”
I press my lips together. I only charge a fee to those who can afford to pay something. I donate most of it to women who need support after I dispose of their abusers, or to relocate young girls who need to escape their violent parental homes.
