Текст книги "The poison daughter"

Автор книги: Sheila Masterson

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 48 страниц)

But this woman doesn’t seem wealthy enough to afford so much coin. Warning bells ring in my head.

“What about your children? How can you afford to sacrifice so much?” I ask.

The woman hesitates. “Mabel at Ink and Willow told me that your time is largely donated. I won’t ask how you can afford that if you don’t ask me how I afforded this.”

I nod. Mabel is an excellent judge of character and a trusted part of our network. I could postpone until tomorrow and check with her in the morning to be sure.

I tie the coin purse to my belt. “All right. Where will your husband be tomorrow night?”

The woman’s eyes go wide. Now I see the raw desperation in her face. She’s truly afraid. “Oh no, miss. Please. I already took a huge risk just being here. If it doesn’t happen tonight, he’ll find out I had a neighbor watch the kids. Worse, I had to follow him to find out where he’ll be. I doubt I could do it again tomorrow without getting caught.”

I hold up my hands. “Okay, calm down. I’ll do it. Just tell me where to find him and what he looks like.”

“He went to Heartless Haven Pub with some friends. They’re thick as thieves, but be careful of them as well. He has dark hair and olive skin, and eyes like a dark blue stormy sky. You’ll know him by his coat, though. It’s finely made, dark navy with gold leaf embroidery on the lapel. When we met, he told me the stars had nothing on my eyes and gave me a rose. He has such easy charm, but don’t be fooled,” she says bitterly.

“The truest monsters are always the most at ease,” I say. I take her hands across the table and give them a squeeze.

“Thank you,” she gushes, taking my hand between both of hers. She blinks back tears. “I promise I’ve learned my lesson, and without him gambling and drinking our money away, I’ll be able to take better care of the children. I can’t tell you what this means.”

I nod, pulling my hood farther forward. “Now do me a favor and go have a drink at the bar. Strike up a conversation with both the bartender and the person next to you, and make sure they both know your name. Then, leave in an hour and make your way home. Stay with your friend who is watching the children until ten bells, and then take them to bed.”

“Why?” she asks.

“So you have an alibi when the watchmen come.”

She swallows hard and nods as I hand her back a few coins.

“Good luck,” I say.

I rise from the table and head to the Heartless Haven Pub and what might be the Poison Vixen’s final victim.

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3HARLOW

Inormally change my glamour between meeting the client and the victim so I’m harder to identify if anyone spots me, but my necklace has limited uses, and the power went out when I was a few blocks from the bar. It’s a common occurrence this time of year. If the sunstone network along the walls doesn’t get enough light during the cloudy winter days, all nonessential power is shut down in the evening.

A candlelit bar will be too dark for anyone to notice my eyes.

Unlike when I put on my glamour—by focusing on how I want to look while pulling power from my necklace—to go back to my base appearance, I only need to take it off.

I remove the necklace, brushing my fingers over the delicate star that hangs from the chain, and tuck it into my cloak pocket before turning the corner and pushing open the heavy wooden door of Heartless Haven Pub.

I’ve never met a mark here, but I’ve snuck in a few times for the music.

I’m met with a wave of humid, ale-scented air and boisterous fiddle song as I step inside.

From the threshold, I glance around the room, searching for my mark. There’s a man in a navy coat sitting by the fireplace with a barmaid in his lap, but he’s pushing fifty and, upon closer inspection, his coat doesn’t have any embroidery.

I tug my hood a little farther over my forehead, scanning the crowd, until I see another man in a navy coat with gold embroidery on the far side of the room. I walk toward him, skirting the edge of the room.

My mark leans an elbow on the raw wood bar and laughs with a friend. I move deeper into the crowd, keeping a peripheral eye on him.

He’s younger than I expected. Only a year or two older than me, and, even from a distance, I can see how handsome he is. He has a dusting of stubble over a strong jawline. His dark hair is a little longer than most men in Lunameade wear theirs, but it’s styled neatly into perfect waves. If it wasn’t for his faint sun kissed tan, I might believe he was a wealthy merchant trapped in a shop all day. But I can tell he’s a laborer simply playing the part in his fancy clothes.

He looks handsome and at ease. Then again, the prettiest faces can hide the most vicious violence, and I’ve been fooled before. I ended up with a black eye and broken wrist for my doubts.

I walk farther into the room, sitting down at a table in a darker corner of the pub, right in his sight line. His copper-haired friend grins and claps a hand on his shoulder, then shuffles around the bar and down the hall toward the washroom. My mark’s gaze passes over the crowd.

I choose that moment to tip my hood back and unbutton my cloak. My red silk dress is like a beacon. I feel his gaze immediately, but I force myself to look as if I’m fussing with my cloak before I finally meet his eyes. Smiling softly, I wait for him to take in the truly absurd amount of cleavage I’ve put on display.

In my experience, men never suspect someone lovely could hurt them. The simplest enticements can get them into a room alone with me.

Men like a story of a woman humbled, so I play that part—dazzled by their charm, disarmed by their attention—a lamb stumbling dumbly to the slaughter. A girl wandering a wooded path, unaware of the wolves.

A year ago, before I started doing this secret work, I tried to get Kellan or the city watch to do more to help the women in our community. Both my brother and his guards were content to let women’s worries be women’s work.

But quietly accepting men’s violence was not the women’s work I wanted.

In the absence of a conscience, men need something to fear. I’ve made myself their monster.

I’m not searching for men who need mending. I don’t care for their penance—only their last gasping breaths.

Still, they have the nerve to look betrayed when the burn of poison hits them—outraged that they’ve been caught and bested by someone they expected to be weak. They may only ever be sorry that they underestimated me, but that’s something.

I twist my lips into a shy smile, which my mark returns. He stands, placing a coin on the bar and gesturing to my table. This is going to be easier than expected. I didn’t even need to work to get him to come over to me.

He holds my gaze, and there’s an arrogant confidence about him as he swaggers to my table.

“Excuse me, miss, are you waiting for someone?”

I grin. “Not anymore.”

He laughs and sits in the seat across from me. “Is that how it works for someone so striking? You wear an extraordinary dress and you’re never at a loss for eager company?”

“Something like that,” I say.

“I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but I couldn’t let another moment pass or I was certain you would have been set upon by at least a dozen other men. Those eyes put the stars to shame.” He reaches into his coat and hands me a white rose.

Excited fluttering fills my stomach. This is definitely my mark.

I smile as I take the rose. “Yes, well, I have my ways of dealing with men who see beauty as an invitation.”

He smirks. “I’m sure you do. What’s your name, lovely?”

“Stellaria.”

“As in the Divine who hung the stars or the harbinger of darkness?”

I lean back and take a long sip of my drink. “Why not both?”

He looks pleased by that response. “A woman who has it all.”

Everyone in Lunameade knows this myth because it’s the story of how the Drained were made. The Seven Divine beings who made our world were never supposed to fall in love.

Stellaria, the Divine of Stars, fell for Asher, the Divine of Endings, and their marriage blended their two magics so they could use both. When her father, Polm, the Divine of Malice, kidnapped Asher, Stellaria stormed into the mortal realm and poured her darkness over the land and all her father’s worshippers. Her wrath was even greater than Polm’s. She made the whole world dark for days while she grieved for her missing husband.

Polm was so angry, he cursed the ground where Asher was imprisoned so that no one of life or death could set foot on it. So, Stellaria breathed her magic and Asher’s into a man so he was neither entirely of life nor entirely of death, and sent him into the cursed land to free her love.

The couple were happily reunited, but the man Stellaria had animated couldn’t fit in with the living, nor could he pass through the veil of death. He was cursed to live in the land of the living with an insatiable thirst for blood, and eventually he became the first Drained.

I look at my mark. “And what shall I call you?”

“I suppose I should say Asher.”

There’s an ease about him. A confidence and intensity I wasn’t expecting. He looks back to the bar, where his friend has returned. Asher raises a mug of ale in his companion’s direction, and the man rolls his eyes and slumps against the bar.

“You’ve abandoned your companion,” I say.

“He’ll be fine. He’s just upset that I won’t let him lose any more of his money to me tonight, but I’ve had enough cards for the evening. And I suspect you’re better company in a dimly lit room.” He places a hand on my knee.

The heat of the touch sinks through the fabric, and he looks at me expectantly. A flicker of doubt bursts to life in my mind. A mark has never looked for approval to touch me.

A buzzing warmth spreads over my hand. I swear I see a hint of an aura around his skin, but the candle on the table gutters and I’m sure it’s a trick of the light. I brush my thumb over what I can only assume is a wedding band.

He tracks the movement. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“And what does it look like?” I ask, playfully tracing a finger across the ivy vine etching.

“I’m not married. It’s just something I wear so the barmaids don’t get too touchy for tips.”

“Of course.” I make it clear I don’t believe him.

He tenses as if waiting for me to tell him off. Instead, I interlace my fingers with his, and his shoulders relax.

A barmaid appears, holding a bucket of ice with a bottle of sparkling wine. Both items are luxuries in a walled-off city. I try to hide my shock, but I can tell I’ve failed by the look of satisfaction on Asher’s face.

“I’ll admit I was trying to impress you, so I sprung for the expense of a chilled bottle.”

The Heartless Haven Pub has some wealthy clientele. It only takes a glance around the room to spot them, but I’m surprised they have the resources for ice and such expensive wine. Over the years, the selection of wines from beyond the mountains has dwindled drastically. If we didn’t have a full cellar of it at home, I would be more impressed.

I suppose this was why Asher’s wife wasn’t concerned about paying me so much. He’s quick to spend his money wining and dining other women.

He pours me a glass, and the foam rises to the lip, stopping just short of spilling over. I take a long pull, the bubbles sharp and sweet on my tongue. My lipstick leaves a red imprint on the glass. Asher looks from the glass to my mouth as he takes the world’s tiniest sip.

He’s going to make me work for this. The longer we spend sitting here, the more likely it is someone will recognize me. I suddenly regret not wearing a glamour, even though it makes me feel powerful to enact justice with my own face.

“So, were you and your friend out to celebrate something this evening?” I ask.

“Yes.” He casts a glance at the bar, but his friend has already made himself scarce. “We came out to celebrate his last night as a single man. Were he not already disgustingly in love, he’d probably be here trying to win you over as well.”

“Nothing wrong with a man who knows when he’s met his match.”

Asher takes a longer sip of his wine. “Maybe someday soon I’ll know the feeling. And what are you celebrating?”

I grin and lift my glass in a toast. “The slow, unwitting defeat of my enemies.”

He pauses with his glass halfway to his lips and laughs. “Well, that calls for a serious celebration. Perhaps we could find somewhere more private to speak? I have a room upstairs.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that he was so certain he’d succeed in finding someone to cheat on his wife with that he rented a room ahead of time. That makes things easier. No nosy barmaids or boarding hosts to get a glimpse of me.

Still, I prefer my marks a little drunker than he is. Booze makes them more handsy, but it also makes them clumsy and more malleable. However, the less time I spend in public with him, the better.

I trail my fingers down the neckline of my dress before letting my hand rest on his. “So eager?”

He leans forward, running his fingers up the inside of my forearm. “I’m really enjoying this conversation, but I’d love to take it somewhere more quiet.”

I smile demurely. “That sounds perfect.”

He presses a brass key into my palm discreetly. “Go up now and let yourself in. It’s the last door on the left by the other staircase. I’ll wait a few minutes before joining you so no one suspects anything, and I’ll bring the refreshments with me.”

Strange that he’s concerned about preserving my reputation. Normally, these men are groping me in the hallway before I ever make it upstairs. But I finish my glass and rise to my feet, letting him kiss my hand as if I’m leaving. Then, I turn and duck out of the bar. Instead of leaving, I turn left at the door and climb the staircase to the boarding floor.

The door creaks open and I step into a small, dimly lit room. The candles on the bedside table are nearly burned all the way down. Wax puddles in the candleholders, leaving the room smelling like burnt beeswax and smoke from the fire and a hint of something earthy and sweet. It’s the same smell that comes in off the north winds that blow down from the mountains. The scent stirs a memory of standing on the North Hold walls with Aidia as children and staring out at the snow-capped trees, wondering what it would be like to run into the forest.

I was so young and danger seemed a faraway thing. My parents’ caution felt excessive, smothering, and more violent than anything I’d seen from outside the walls. That is, until the night the blood mist came, when a horde of the Drained managed to break into Northeast Hold and drain two hundred Lunameade residents dry in mere hours. In a city of tens of thousands of people, that number was small, but it was the most casualties Lunameade had experienced at once since the wall was complete.

My parents brought us to see the dead—as if they could sense the restlessness inside of me and wanted to crush it. I stopped imagining leaving after that—the world narrowed to just Lunameade, and although the city had never felt safe to me, the forest felt far more dangerous. Better the violence you know than whatever lay beyond the tree line. I truly believed that until the first time I saw Aidia’s bruised face.

I fight the urge to rifle through Asher’s things, since he could come in at any moment. There will be plenty of time once my job is done. Instead, I hang my cloak on the hook by the fire and cross the room, smoothing my dress in front of the looking glass next to a small desk. I want to peek at his correspondence, but first, I check the window for an escape route.

I could climb out onto the tree branch there and shimmy down if I need a more discreet escape, though I’ve had enough sparkling wine to make that a less-than-ideal option. Not that I’m particularly concerned about discretion. I have no clue what will happen after tomorrow. I may have a few more days here, but there will no doubt be too many events and expectations on my time for me to easily sneak out. I’ll be married and shipped off to Fallen Hold, or I’ll be shipped off and then married far from friends and family.

The door swings open and I jump at the groan of hinges.

His smile is playful as he bolts the door and tosses his coat on a chair. “Sorry, lovely. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Asher seems so sincere—clearly one of the finer actors I’ve had the misfortune to interact with. The dissonance between what I expected him to be and what he is scratches at the back of my mind. I steel myself with the memory of the bruise on my client’s cheek.

“Suddenly at a loss for words?” he asks.

“I didn’t really think I’d need to do much talking,” I say.

Anticipation twists in my stomach as he removes his cufflinks, a smug smile on his face. “A woman who knows what she wants.”

“A woman in demand.” I run my fingers along the edge of my neckline. My magic pulses like a heartbeat in my lips.

He unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing a pale, straight scar on the side of his neck. I stand on the opposite side of the room, watching. He really is handsome. Maybe in another life, where he wasn’t an abusive asshole and I wasn’t a poisonous woman, I might take him for a tumble.

“You remind me of a silver maple tree,” he says.

I laugh. “Your flirting could use work.”

His smile grows wide as he closes the distance between us. He reaches out, and I fight not to flinch. It’s a reflex of being indiscriminately toxic. I don’t let people get close because I’m afraid they’ll forget they can’t kiss me.

He runs a lock of my hair between his fingers. “Silver maples are lovely in the fall because of their vibrant leaf color, but they have these incredible, fast-growing roots. There’s so much going on beneath the surface, and I get the impression that you are much the same. So lovely, one could easily forget that there’s so much unseen.”

“But not you,” I say, my voice softer than I expected.

His gaze drops to my mouth. My heart is thunderous in my ears as he leans closer. I’ve never been attracted to a mark. Usually, the threat of violence is enough of a turn-off.

Normally, it doesn’t take this long. I’d kiss him quick and get it over with. I wouldn’t feel the nervous flight of butterflies in my stomach—but he doesn’t just kiss me. His lips brush along my jaw, his nose skimming down my neck. The touch is so intimate, I can’t decide if I want to push into it or shrink away.

Bea is the only person who has ever been so tender with me, but with her, it was dangerous. I could never really relax into it because her safety required my vigilance.

Though my lips are always poisonous, the rest of my body is safe to kiss. But for anyone who isn’t me, kissing is natural. I’ve had enough close calls to know that partners tend to forget themselves when lost in the throes of passion.

I don’t need to be careful now, and I’m acutely aware of how much more intense everything feels when I’m not consumed by vigilance.

He nips at my neck, and I gasp.

“You even smell like Stellarium Blossoms,” he murmurs against my pulse.

One of his hands slides into my hair, angling my head to the side so he can kiss my neck. I shiver as he presses his lips to the space behind my ear. None of my other marks have been so sensual. They’re usually anxious to get right to it, but he seems set on savoring every touch.

The slowness is torture. Somewhere in the back of my brain, the fear that he could strangle me right here is blaring like a warning bell, but I can hardly breathe as his lips brush back up my jaw.

His other hand grips my hip and he pulls me closer, meeting my gaze, a question in his eyes. “Can I do more? I’m afraid if I kiss you I’ll lose myself. I think maybe I want to.”

It takes me a second in my lustful haze to realize he’s asking permission. None of my targets have ever done that before.

I nod dumbly, and his lips brush mine, tentative and then harder. His enthusiasm makes me gasp, and he takes the kiss deeper.

I’ve so rarely been kissed, but never like this. Lust burns through my veins and my hands clench in his shirt as I drag him closer, his hips pressing into mine. He kisses me like his life depends on it, and it’s that thought that snaps reality into place.

He pulls back, and I meet his storm-cloud eyes, but instead of confusion and pain, I only find lust. He grabs my hips and lifts me onto the desk, sending his papers scattering over the floor. He should already be feeling the effects of the poison, but he’s just as enthusiastic as he kisses me again, harder. Yanking me to the edge of the desk, he hooks my thighs over his hips and starts to grind against me. I should be terrified, but I fist his shirt and tug him closer.

I groan, my head falling back, and he draws a blazing line of kisses down my neck.

What is wrong with me? Is my magic not working?

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the looking glass and sigh in relief. My lipstick is smeared; my lips are dark purple and tingling like they always are when I summon my magic.

I thread my hands through his hair, yank his head back, and kiss him again. His mouth is sweet with wine, mingling with the sweet tartness of poison on my lips. He pulls away, gasping.

This is it. He’s about to keel over. Only his eyes are filled with fire and his breathlessness seems entirely a result of the kiss. Panic sends my stomach tumbling.

He runs a hand over his face. “Divine dammit, woman, what are you doing to me? I don’t normally⁠—”

I kiss him again before he can finish. My lips are burning, the familiar sickening sweetness of the poison on my tongue, but he’s kissing me like he can’t get enough of it.

For so long, I felt certain that kissing was just a novelty—only appealing because I couldn’t do it. It was simply my curiosity and its illusiveness. I was certain once I finally got my lips on someone for longer than a moment, I’d discover the fuss was all anticipation. But the kiss is world-rending. I never want it to end. One moment tender and soft, the next hungry and eager. My surrender is entirely involuntary. My body softens against his.

It’s possible I’ll never get another chance to kiss someone like this. My victims usually die within a minute, but he must just be stronger. So, I kiss him back with the reckless abandon of someone who has waited thirty years to be kissed like this, rolling my hips to meet his movements. My skin is too hot and tight, my heart pounding in my ears. I let myself surrender to the fantasy of a life where I can have this any time I want.

Finally, he pulls back, resting his head on my shoulder.

“Something wrong?” I ask, trying not to sound hopeful.

He meets my eyes and grins. “I’m just trying to control myself because I’m struggling not to push you out of your comfort zone.”

Not the words I’d expect of a mark.

I search his face for a hint of pain. “Are you well?”

“Never been better. But your lips look quite dark, love. Are you getting enough air?”

I shrug. “It happens when I kiss someone.” Neither a lie nor the whole truth.

He scrubs a hand over his face, looking away before meeting my eyes again. “We don’t have to do more.”

“Don’t go soft on me now,” I tease.

He barks a startled laugh. “I promise I’m the very opposite of soft right now.” He tips my head back and kisses me softly. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

I grip his collar and drag his mouth to mine. This must be what people mean by a spark; I feel like my whole body is on fire, and even though I’ve been told this man is a brutal predator, I don’t care.

He grabs my thighs, and I thread my arms around his neck, and he carries me over to the bed, sitting on the edge with me in his lap. I summon as much poison as I can and push it into him, nipping at his lip until I taste blood.

He kisses me back harder, thinking it’s just passion driving me instead of a desire to kill him. The sweet poison mixes with the iron and salt in my mouth.

I shove him back on the bed and stare down at him. He’s grinning up at me like I’ve hung the moon, his lips streaked with blood.

He rolls us over so I’m beneath him, and my dress bunches up to my waist, baring my dark red garters. He groans as he takes in the sight of them, running his fingers over the patch of skin between the top of my thigh-high stockings and the lace of my underwear. Holding my eye, he bends and places a kiss on the skin there. He grins at the bloody mark left on my thigh. Then, he bites the soft, pale skin, and a pleasant anticipatory shiver tears through me. I want more.

Reality slams into me. This man is an abuser who is somehow immune to my magic. I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.

He must see something in my eyes. He frowns. “What’s wrong?”

I jump to my feet, smoothing my dress back in place, and he sits up.

“Hey, whoa. It’s okay, we don’t have to go any further. I didn’t mean to⁠—”

My eyes dart to the door, and he launches off the bed, hands up like he’s approaching a frightened animal. This is it—where I see the real him.

Only he stays where he is. He doesn’t reach for me.

“I’m late,” I blurt.

He barks out a startled laugh. “Late for what? Am I just one of many suitors this evening?”

I bite back a smile, my cheeks warming under his gaze. “Maybe.”

I’ve officially lost it. I’m flirting with him.

“Can’t say I’m surprised you’re so in demand, but I’m wondering if there’s anything I can say that might get you to stay.”

I shake my head, inching toward the door.

“One more kiss, then? I’m dying for it.”

I choke back a laugh. If only he knew.

I nod, and he steps closer, tilting my chin back and looking into my eyes.

“You’d be wiser to let me go,” I whisper.

He licks his lips like he enjoys the taste of my secrets. “Wisdom is overrated.”

He cups my face and kisses me, slow and deep, like he wants to drink me in until he’s had his fill.

“I could do that all day,” he murmurs.

How many times have I stared at other couples, wondering what it was like to feel something tender without fear of killing someone?

And yet, he looks like he’s at my mercy.

I stumble away and yank on my cloak, bracing myself to fight my way out. But he takes a step back.

I dart from the room, down the stairs, and out into the cool night air, like I’m running for my life instead of running from someone else’s death.

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