Page 36 of The City Of Fractured Memory

The man’s eyes flick down, then back up quickly, his expression unreadable save for the faintest twitch of his jaw. “No. Never seen it.”

I lean forward, resting my hands on the desk. “Funny,” I murmur, tilting my head. “A lot of the citizens of Aethermere said the same thing when I asked around.”

His smile cracks, the smooth veneer slipping into something harder. “Then perhaps they spoke the truth. I don’t tolerate branding on my girls. Not here.”

“Here’s what I think.” I lean back, crossing my arms as I pointedly look him up and down. “I don’t think this tattoo is some random scrawl. It’s a claim, and not just of their skin. I think maybe the girls who wear it don’t choose it, and I think you know exactly who put it there.”

He grits his teeth as his fingers curl into fists on the table.

I tap the parchment impatiently when he remains silent. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve seen this before. Tell me what it means.”

“I said I haven’t,” he hisses through his teeth, his knuckles whitening.

I huff in frustration. “You’re lying. How can you sit here, claiming ignorance, while your girls are branded like cattle? Is someone paying you to keep quiet?”

Behind me, Xavier shifts, tense, but silent. Stryx’s hand hovers near my arm, ready to pull me back if things sour further.

“So here’s how this works,” I continue. “You can keep pretending you don’t know what it means, and when the next girl ends up dead, that blood is on your hands. Or, you can tell me what you know right now, and maybe I don’t tear this entire warren apart stone by stone until I find the mark myself.”

The master’s throat bobs as his defiance finally flickers, but it’s quickly replaced with ruddy, shaking fury. He pushes himself abruptly to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor. His anger is barely leashed, his voice sharp now. “Enough. If you don’t believe me, then allow me to prove it. I’ll show you myself that not one of my girls bears that ridiculous mark.”

He storms past me and yanks open the door with a sudden motion and gestures sharply for us to follow.

I throw a side-glance at Xavier, who gives me a grim nod. I tuck the parchment back into my cloak and step after the parlour master, heart thudding. If he is telling the truth, we’ve just reached another dead end, but if he isn’t, I’ve managed to manipulate him into giving us access to the back rooms.

I prepare myself, straightening my shoulders as I follow his heavy footsteps, hoping my gamble pays off.

“You’re absolutely certain you’ve seen that tattoo here before?” I whisper to Xavier, my confidence wavering as the three of us follow the master into the depths of the dimly lit halls.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says, though his tone is less than convincing as his eyes dart about the place, never once landing on me. I share a loaded look with Stryx and she shrugs gently, as clueless as I am. For all my bravado, I truly have no idea what that tattoo could mean; I just hope my confident tirade back in his office will help get us some answers. If we’re wrong, not only are we back to square one, but we’ve also succeeded in pissing off a powerful player in Aethermere.

The master swaggers along in front of us, eventually stopping on the threshold of a back room, arms spread wide as though presenting a prize exhibit. “See for yourself.”

Inside, the women look up from powdering their faces and straightening their skirts, eyes sliding over us with wary detachment before lowering again. My gaze darts between them, searching frantically, but my heart starts thudding painfully in my chest as I quickly realise not one bears the tattoo. Not a single one. Their scantily clad bodies leave little skin covered, and none of them seem to have any marks at all, not even bruises.

I close my eyes briefly, running through the possibilities with the speed of habit. Either Xavier is wrong—and the thought needles me more than I care to admit—or someone has made the evidence vanish. But tattoos don’t fade overnight. Could they be covered by glamour? Or maybe Xavier has simply mistaken this brothel for another…

My gaze flicks towards him as doubt creeps into me, whispering at the edges of my mind…No. That doesn’t make sense. He was so reluctant to admit it at all, so why invent something so humiliating only to be inevitably caught in a lie? Either he was mistaken, or the master is hiding something.

Xavier steps forward, his jaw clenched in frustration as he shoves himself into the master’s personal space. “Don’t play games with us,” he snaps, his voice low. “I know what I saw. You think you can clean this place up and parade your best faces like that erases the truth? Try harder.”

The master’s smirk falters, but he raises his chin in defiance. “Your lady friend’s eyes work as well as yours. Do you see the tattoo anywhere, detective?”

My fingers twitch, itching to lash out at his condescending tone, but I force myself to stay silent. My thoughts are racing too fast. He’s hiding something. Whether he’s covered the evidence or it’s something else entirely…he’s hiding something.

“You’re lying!” Xavier shouts, pushing the master back forcefully and the doorframe shudders as he bounces off it. Before the man can recover himself, Xavier launches himself at him, the crack of his fist against the master’s jaw ringing through the silence like a whip as I watch, frozen in shock.

Panic immediately ensues, the girls screaming and scrambling to get out of the room, and my ears ring with the chaos. The master reels back from the blow, cursing loudly, and the room erupts as six men come bursting into the room with weapons raised. Shouts, the crash of overturned furniture, the panicked squeals of girls scattering… I barely register any of it as the master’s household guard thunder towards us, steel flashing in the dim lamplight as they swing their knives down to clash with our own.

The guard closest to me swipes his blade towards my chest, and with a surge of terror, I realise they aren’t aiming to capture.

They’re aiming to kill.

Fucking Xavier. Now who’s the reckless one?

My instincts scream to move, to fight, but there are too many. A meaty hand slams into my shoulder, sending me sprawling across the floorboards. Dust and incense stings my eyes, and the world pitches sideways as I skid into a chair leg, my head colliding with it painfully. I twist, reaching for the blade at my belt as my vision swims and my head and shoulder throb, but a shadow looms over me before I can pull it free.

The guard above me sneers, raising his boot high. “You shouldn’t have come poking around here, detective.”