Hathwell eventually leads me upstairs, stopping in front of a polished oak door. My stomach leaps again at the thought of what he’s expecting. I try not to let my alarm show as Hathwell clears his throat.
“This will be your room for now. I’m down the hall,” he stands poised in front of the bedroom. I’m as tense as a coiled spring, waiting for him to move in—but to my shock, he takes a step back. “I’m afraid there’s still a lot of preparations I have to make for our trip. So would it be all right with you if we postponed the wedding night?”
My eyes widen. “Yes, of course,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. “I mean…” I remind myself I should avoid insulting my husband on the very first day of our marriage. “I would appreciate the time to get settled in, thank you.”
He nods, offering me a wry smile. “Samuel will bring up your things, and you can take supper in your room. Frances will see you’re looked after.”
I enjoy the soup the maid brings me at first, but as I settle into bed and my mind starts turning, it curdles in my stomach.
In some ways, I got what I wished for so many times in the past—I’m not under Ada’s thumb anymore, and I don’t have to work myself to the bone each day, or bend to her every whim. Yet I’m a million miles from where I wanted to be, and I’m in a situation that is entirely new and strange.
I don’t know what the rules are here. I don’t know how to protect myself or what liberties I’ll be allowed. My father’s house hasn’t been any kind of home to me in years, but at least most of my time was mine, to spend as I saw fit. I had friends, scavengers and dealers who I trusted. But that chapter of my life is over. It’s not like I can claim to have a job to go to or sneak off anytime there’s a battle raging when I’m busy being a wife. I can’t go scavenging anymore.
The realization that I might miss something as dangerous and dirty as roaming the plains—simply because I felt some shred of independence out there on the blood-soaked battlefields—that’s what breaks me. The hot tears slide from the corners of my eyes, wetting my hair and making my pillow damp. By the time the tears run out, I’m exhausted. I drift off quickly, hoping things look brighter in the morning.
My eyes fly open as strong hands grab my shoulders and legs, pinning me down hard against the mattress. I can’t see anything but several vague shapes moving in the darkness, my joints crying out as I try in vain to wrench myself loose from the many grasping fingers.
Then even the shapes are gone as a tight cloth bag with a sharp chemical smell is pulled down over my head. Cool air hits my skin as I’m yanked from my bed, and I open my mouth to scream—for the servants, for Hathwell, anyone.
But inhaling is a mistake. The chemical smell fills my lungs, hitting my head like a battering ram. It shakes me loose from my senses until I’m beyond all this, floating away from my own body into the waiting nothingness.
“…no mistakes…”
“I’ve double-checked…”
“…needs to work…hell to pay…”
The snatches of conversation worm their way into my ears, but I can barely understand them through the pounding pain in my skull. It feels like my head has been buried in the dirt and hit with a spade a few times. When I inhale, my breath stutters as I discover a tightness across my chest. I can feel the same pressure around my wrists and legs too. I’m tied up, likely surrounded by the group of people that grabbed me.
A question beats its way to the surface of my mind as I crack my eyelids open.
Who arethe people who grabbed me?
Whatever was covering my face before is gone now. The light streams in between my eyelashes, bright enough after the darkness that I slam my eyes shut again, trying to protect my aching head.
Did they attack Hathwell as well? I already know his card playing netted him a wife. Did it gain him enemies too? When I was my father’s daughter, I wasn’t worth asking a ransom for, but now I’m Mrs. Reed, maybe I’m going up in the world.
I attempt to open my eyes a second time, bracing against the lamplight until I’m blinking up at the room around me.
And it’s so much worse than I imagined.
“She’s awake,” someone says to my right. I can’t see his face. I can’t seeanyone’sface, because everyone—all twelve figures in my line of sight—is wearing a cowled robe, the black hoods drawn high so their features are swathed in shadow.
The whole effect is very cult-y. Not at all what I’d expect from regular criminals. Crap. Plain old burglars or thugs would’ve been a relief right now.
I’m lying on a wide wooden table in a chamber I don’t recognize. There are no windows, only an open doorway at one end I can’t see through and a set of thick stone pillars holding up the low ceiling surrounded by lit candelabra.
It looks like a tomb.
But it doesn’t smell like one. Amid the lit candles there’s an acrid, earthy scent, like burning incense but sharper and less pleasant. After the chemical they drugged me with, it makes my head spin.
“Now we can begin,” says another voice—a female one this time. The robed figure lifts a cup and approaches the table. I have to tilt my head and squint to get a proper look at the object. It’s an ornate thing with carvings on its rim—the kind of marks I’ve seen many times on the objects I’ve pulled off the plains: Cyrax runes.
Shit. These people are sorcerers, and it looks like they’re planning to mess around with some seriously black magic. As the figure presses the cup to my arm and another produces a knife, the picture becomes all too clear.
This isn’t a table I’m lying on. It’s an altar. And I’m the sacrifice.
“W—wait,” I gasp, digging up words from somewhere beneath my terror. “You don’t need to—ah!”
