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Her smile was genuine but careful. “No.”
“So, I’m free to leave? Or will I be stabbed and dragged back to this prison again?”
“The Syndicate house is not a prison. It’s a home, and I won’t stand by and see it become anything else.”
I replayed the map of the home I’d seen in my mind, calculating how many steps to the knives in the kitchen, and how many more to the door. I could jump out a window again, though preferably something closer to the ground. A single pulse of power reminded me I would need to leave sooner rather than later. But I had no intention of staying, anyway.
Rising, I dusted my hands on my pants, only then realizing I wasn’t in the same clothes I’d been stabbed in. Nor the wedding dress. But still my wardrobe. Something from my closet… in my father’s castle.
Confused, I looked back at the woman, and a trill of a laugh escaped before she covered her mouth with her hand. “Don’t worry, Maiden. Paesha and I dressed you. Not Orin.”
“Who are you?” I asked, drawing back.
Green eyes stared into mine, but no answer came.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. It’s better if I don’t know.”
I walked away, leaving the woman on the floor as I made my way to the kitchen. Another woman, older, with dark hair and a nose that matched Orin’s, spun the second I entered the room. His mother, maybe. She gasped and backed away, arms gripping the counter.
“I won’t hurt you. But it’s dangerous to travel completely unarmed.” I swiped an abandoned kitchen knife off the table and made to leave.
“Wait,” she called after me.
My throat closed. I was already on edge, and whatever she would ask of me, of my dealings with a man who was potentially her son, I wasn’t ready to answer. Nor did I trust that she wouldn’t find another blade and plunge it into my skull if she was anything like her asshole child.
“Here.” She held out a dagger. “I’d prefer to keep the other one. If it’s all the same to you.”
I studied those dark chocolate eyes for only a second before carefully handing back her blade, handle first. She gave up the dagger, and something about it felt a little too easy. Why would they have captured me last night, only to let me leave today? Each interaction in this house became more and more odd as I made my way to the door, wondering if he was the only one who demanded I stay.
“Will you come back, Maiden?” the redhead asked, following me as I snaked my way through the next hall, searching for the front door.
“No.”
“If I asked nicely, would you consider it? Please?”
“No,” I growled.
“Here, then,” she said, tossing my coin bag at me the second I faced her. “My name is Althea Washburn, and if you need a friend, you can find me here, outside in my forge, or in the warehouse behind Misery’s End.”
She tucked her cropped hair behind an ear. The loose sleeve of her shirt fell just enough to show the blue band around her wrist. I’d never been more confused in my life. The mystery of this so-called Syndicate intrigued me. The temptation to ask her why she was being so nice that it felt like a trick sat waiting on my lips.
But the magic pulsed again, pushing me out the door, and though I half-expected a group of Drexel’s armed lackeys waiting to trap me again, standing with cigarettes hanging from scared faces, no one was there. Only a worn path through a long grass field that led into the line of oak trees.
I turned once, looking back at the gables and turrets of the home in waves of distrust and confusion. The charcoal dwelling, a relic really, held its own sort of mystery; a tapestry of varying styles and mismatched levels, which seemed to fit the occupants of the strange house. Dilapidated windows, adorned with ironwork lattices, peered out from the depths like watchful eyes. Also fitting. But what the fuck was the Syndicate for?
Snaking through the dried-up alleyways, the sun that rarely shone in the cities revealed every nook and cranny of disrepair. Silbath’s bricks crumbled, and walls cracked. There were fewer shadows to hide within and more people to avoid. Hunting during the day felt like more of an intrusion on my victim’s life. Still, Lady Visha’s women, though fewer, perched on streets and leaned against the walls, wiping sweat from their brows, adjusting melting makeup in silver compacts, and eyeing every person, man or woman, that ambled by.
The rutting was calmer in the day, and less gritty from the rooftops. Moaning danced through the alleyways at night in fervor because alcohol was a cheap escape, and so was an orgasm. Three men poured from the door in an alley, each wearing long coats and leather gloves similar to what I’d expected to see of people lingering outside the Syndicate house. The Maestro’s gangsters circled another man thrown from the same doorway. The squelch of leather resonated as they moved like vultures, rubbing their fists into their hands. One pulled a crowbar and lifted it above his head with a snarl. I turned away, feeling like it was too early to see two acts of violence this early in the day.
Arabella Grenwich leaned against a lamppost, oblivious to the starving raven scavenging around her as much as the murderer perched above her. The apron at her waist served as a place for her to wipe the ink from the newspapers she sold. She’d swiped the sweat from her face twice. Each time left a black mark almost as dark as her eyes upon her golden skin.
“The king of Perth has fallen. Slayed by his own daughter moments after he denounced her. Read all about it. Two coin. The Death Maiden is on the run!”
I was pretty sure anyone standing close enough to me could hear my eyes roll. “Old news.”
Still, a little old couple crossed the uneven street and traded their coin for the gossip, standing to read the paper, hunched shoulder to shoulder.
“Icharius Fern joins the realms. Two coin. Read all about it. Written in his own words!”
