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No one breathed when her final note was sung. They simply stared in awe as the stunning woman leaned all the way back in her swing until she was parallel to the floor and screamed just as the light flickered out. Seconds later, the stage was lit, and the woman and her diamond swing were nowhere to be seen.
I scanned the shadows, looking for her, refusing to let my mind be tricked by the Maestro and his show. But as if he’d anticipated that, the drums began to beat, and the stage filled with men, completely naked, covering their fronts with varying shades of feathers. My heart thrummed in my chest with every pound of the drums. Each turn the muscled men took awoke something inside of me, their lithe bodies every bit as alluring as their master had promised.
They moved together, faces fierce and forward as women in matching feathers cascaded onto the stage from either side. The audience erupted into cheers, breaking my trance enough to spy on Bram Ellis. His only movement since last I looked was the slackened jaw. I took a step away, but the second I considered leaving, the music took a sharp turn, and a row of spotlights turned red, pouring down onto a giant birdcage.
The men on stage trailed their fingers over the bodies of the women, stretching their muscles and bending as they danced together in a way I’d never seen before. They moved as one pulse, one beat at a time toward the cage until the women were all inside. The men slipped into the darkness at the back of the stage as all eyes were meant to follow the women. Feathers were removed one by one until the cage held fourteen completely bare women, still dancing with the rhythm of the haunted music pouring over us.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I forced myself to listen and not watch. To focus on reality until I realized the truth behind Drexel Vanhoff’s sensual show. Magic. A thick layer crept up the walls and permeated the air, gripping every patron by the throat and holding them in their seat, forcing them to sit, to stay, to drown. And most of the people in this room didn’t have enough experience with magic to recognize its talons.
As the night carried on, Death's magic thrummed below my skin, hunting for violence and begging to be unleashed. My fingers trembled as I fought the madness within me. Distracting myself, I studied the footwork of the dancers, pushing away the compulsion to kill.
I’d trained with my father’s guard until I could best ten at once, and it usually came down to footwork. A fighter’s tell was either in his feet or his eyes. When I stopped, he’d told me it was because I had nothing more to learn, but years later, I’d heard it was because the men grew scared. That’s when the Maestro’s henchmen slowly started circling. As if he’d heard I’d stopped training and it would somehow make me weaker.
Drexel used to send lavish gifts to the castle when I was a child. My father would make me sit and watch as he burned every single one. A lesson in self-indulgence he’d said, warning me that the Maestro was the most dangerous person in Requiem, and should I ever be captured by him, I’d never be welcomed home, and if I came back, he’d find a way to seal me in a box. As if I was ever truly welcome in the first place. But still, the lectures had wrapped around my heart like steel until the Maestro became a common enemy between me and my father. And as I grew, I’d learned the reason. If captured and bound to the Maestro, my life, my free will, would be lost forever.
His men had closed in a few times, but it became clear early on that, though the Maestro could have forced them to capture me, and they’d be magically bound in a never-ending pursuit, none were relentless enough. He hadn’t used his power. Not yet, though I wasn’t sure why.
Eventually, sweat beaded, coating my heated skin.
Look at the name, the internal voice of madness demanded.
I could look if I wanted. I should look. Appease the pressure to move. To get my weapons. To hunt. To kill.
To kill.
Time was nearing for Bram Ellis. I rose, eager to leave, denying the magic that tried to keep my eyes glued to the stage. When the cool night air kissed the back of my neck, I sighed in relief. There was something unsettling about Misery’s End and the Maestro’s curated world of choreographed lust. It was one thing to witness a tupping in a dark alleyway, but it was quite another to see it dished up for entertainment.
The carriages I needed had been perfectly tucked away right where I’d planned for them to be. And though one of Drexel’s guards paced before them, it was nothing at all to sneak past after I’d gotten my hidden blades and helped myself inside the carriage trimmed in gold. I waited in the shadows, wishing I’d brought my mask. I found a modicum of comfort in killing as the Death Maiden, and not as Deyanira Sariah Hark.
Death’s magic coiled down and down, the anticipation taking over every last ounce of control I could muster. When the door swung open and the drunk man crawled inside, resting his head across from me with bloodshot eyes, the magic burst. I tried like hell to fight it, even though I’d prepared myself. The monster, Death’s weapon, would not be deterred. The slice across his throat was clean. The blood spatter was not. He gasped and gurgled as the cart lurched forward. Somewhere far, far away I heard the sound of a haunting cello pouring over the night as I watched and waited for Bram Ellis to die and Death to steal his soul while I sat in a carriage smothered in blood.
“The name. Give me the name so we can be done with this.” My father’s cold eyes bore into my soul as I clasped my hands, no longer burdened by a name, behind my back. I hadn’t wanted to tell him. Of all the names in the world, not this one. Still, I obeyed. “Bram Ellis.”
He shot off his throne faster than I’d seen him move in years. “Surely I’ve misheard you.”
I shook my head.
“You killed the fucking king of Silbath, Deyanira?”
Chapter 5
Ihadn’t eaten for two days. My callous father told the cooks to refuse me. I could have gone into Perth and fed myself, but I found more comfort in solitude than I ever had before. No maids entered my room; Regulas hadn’t been perched outside of my door. I was alone. And content. Though the hunger pains had started this morning.
War was imminent regardless, but there was nothing I could say to my father now that would make him see that it wasn’t my fault. Death’s Maiden, true enemy to all.
Standing before the filagree-trimmed mirror, I called Ro once more, but she still didn’t answer. Not unlike her, but disheartening. She was the only one in the whole world who made me feel worth my death. The only person that didn’t seem to fear me.
My entire life was a compilation of patience. I waited for my father’s summons. I waited for the Maestro to order my capture by his henchmen. I waited for Death’s visits to my dreams. I waited for the magic to consume me on a repeated cycle, and these days, even after I’d killed a king and turned the world upside down, were no different. I’d never contribute a thing to this plagued realm of two cities. Instead, I’d always take. Lives and love and happiness.
Three knocks on my bedroom door shattered the respite I’d found in my coveted isolation. “Princess Deyanira, your father summons you to the council chambers. You’re to leave all weapons behind.”
Whoever’d been charged to deliver my father’s message hadn’t bothered to open the door. And, as the small footsteps hurried down the hallway, it was clear I was not to be escorted. Which was likely better. I’m surprised he hadn’t posted a full guard outside my doors, just to keep me in, as it were. I didn’t go anywhere without Chaos, and his order wouldn’t change that. Especially when he was so angry with me.
I walked the buzzing halls lined with paintings, keeping my chin high, all the same. Listening to the court whisper. The fallout of killing a king was never going to be peaceful silence.
“Ah, the king slayer, war bringer,” Regulas said from his seat at the lengthy table when I entered. “I see you didn’t bother dressing up for the occasion. Join us, won’t you?” A hint of glee sparkled in his typically dull eyes.
I glanced at my black leather pants and collared shirt hidden mostly by an expensive green jacket with golden stitched vines. Not improper, but also not a dress, though it was likely the blade on my thigh that bothered him and not the casual attire.
