Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
ALLETTE
Jeston and I don’t speak as he swipes the oars through the black water, the heaviness of what we’re about to do hanging like a dark cloud above us. The dock he stops at ten minutes later is no different from the one in the burrows, with colorful boats tethered to wooden pegs. Jeston hoists himself onto the dock, and I hand him the thick braid of coarse rope.
Once we’re both on dry ground, he glances around the dark cave before stepping closer. “Let’s go over the plan once more.”
I nod, my heart already in my throat, and I haven’t even shed my cloak.
“I’ll go and speak with Cadoc,” he says. “While he is distracted, I’ll retrieve the key. Before we leave, I’ll pass you the key to hide in your sash. You’ll leave first, and I’ll follow you out shortly after. If for some reason we get separated, we meet here at the boat.”
A simple plan at face value, but if there’s one thing the last four years have taught me, it’s that plans rarely go smoothly.
We only have one shot to make this work.
If we’re caught, we’ll end up as rooftop ornaments.
I’m still shocked that Senan didn’t put up more of a fight over me leaving. That he trusts me to do this means more than he will ever know.
Together, Jeston and I follow a well-worn path toward a small tunnel that spits us out in a tiny shed. We emerge onto a grimy street cloaked in shadows. Each inhale of the damp air feels like a sip of cold tea. There are far more people out and about than I expected. Almost all of them are men in leather trousers and jerkins, like Jeston’s attire. A few women loiter in doorways, but they are wearing…considerably less.
With my head down, I focus on keeping up with Jeston’s long strides until we round the corner, where a large mound rises like a boil from the ground. A black snake carved into a wooden sign hangs from a stake, staring at us through ruby-red eyes.
Jeston stops and turns to me, his shadowed eyes searching. “Are you ready?”
No. But will I ever be?
I reach for my cloak, unfastening the clasp. The chilly night air prickles against my skin. Jeston balls up the fabric and hides it around the corner while I take a deep breath…and head inside.
Part of me thought perhaps the Serpent’s Den wouldn’t be as bad as everyone assumed. I mean, look at the Black Hole and the burrows. The former wasn’t so different from any other pub and the latter is downright lovely. If they had a bit of sunlight, I’d happily live there for the rest of my days.
This place, however, is exactly as awful as its name. My slippers stick to the drink-splattered floor, and every time I try to breathe, the cloying air, ripe with sweat and perfume, swells in my throat.
Bodies writhe in corners and atop stools. Some women wear clothes similar to my attire, and others wear nothing at all. There are a handful of male workers wearing tiny leather shorts, their bare chests painted in black and red whorls, glowing gold from the dust in their veins.
This place makes the Black Hole look like a children’s funfair in comparison.
Card tables and dealers in black and red masks fill the center of the room, surrounded by men hunched over their cards with sweat leaking from their brows.
Some glow. Some don’t.
Their eyes feel like scales sliding across my skin. What I wouldn’t give for my maid’s uniform and mask as I meander through the tables, trailing Jeston without making it obvious that the two of us are together.
Occasionally, I stop at a gaming table or throw a flirtatious smile at an unsuspecting male who doesn’t seem to be getting as much attention as the others. It’s what all the other workers are doing, after all, and I don’t want to stand out. Nearly all of them have hair as dark as mine, but there are a few blondes in the mix who appear to be in high demand.
Then there are the three women at the back with fuchsia, emerald, and ochre colored hair. Their skin glows brightest, like they’ve been painted by the stars. One turns to open the curtain at her back for a man as tall as a tree.
My chest tightens.
Behind her shoulder blades rest two scars exactly like mine.
Did the king exile her as well or did someone else steal her wings?
I would love nothing more than to ask but now is neither the time nor the place. Not when Jeston just entered a section along the far wall, cordoned off by black velvet ropes. A tall man sits on an onyx throne carved with the heads of serpents. Two bare-breasted women sit atop tufted red pillows on either side of him, rubbing his toned chest and feeding him grapes ,while a third kneels between the man’s spread thighs, her head bobbing beneath the table.
The sight is enough to make me blush to my toes.
The guards pat Jeston down before allowing him to approach the man.
They’re too far away for me to overhear their conversation, but from the rigidness of Jeston’s back, I assume Cadoc isn’t happy to see him. Perhaps if I move a little closer?—
A hand lands on the back of my thigh, sliding up to my arse. My body freezes in place, the air leaving my lungs with a tremble.
“Ten quid for a lappy,” the man slurs, leering at the pale skin of my exposed thigh through glassy eyes.
“You know the rules, Daffid,” a chiming voice croons. “This den is worker’s choice.” A dainty hand slips around the wrist connected to the hand still on my arse. “And no one in their right mind would choose a pig like you.” The woman jerks his hand. A sickening crack rings through the crowded space, followed by the man’s howl of pain.
I’m grateful for her assistance, but now everyone at the table is staring at me.
“You all right, pet?” she asks, the sash at her waist laden with coins.
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
Her perfectly arched brows come together over flawlessly made-up green eyes. “Don’t put up with any shite from this lot, yeah? Give ’em a chance and they’ll ruin you.” She glances down at my sash. “This your first shift?”
I nod, slowly trying to distance myself from the now-whimpering man clutching his trembling hand to his chest.
I hope she broke it.
“How long have you been exiled?” the woman asks, twisting to show me the marks on her back as well.
After hiding them for so long, it feels strange to wear my scars so boldly. “Four years.” Four long, exhausting, grief-filled years.
A breath whistles through her gapped front teeth. “Impressive. I only made it six months without mine before burrowin’ down here. Hardly an honest livin’, but at least it puts food on the table and a roof over your head.” Leaning forward, she whispers in my ear, “You don’t have to sleep with ’em. Sit on their laps, give a few wiggles, show a tit or two. That’ll earn your dinner. But if you do decide to go the whole hog, make ’em wash first. Showers and bedrooms are upstairs.” She jerks a chin toward those velvet curtains where the emerald-haired woman is now missing from the bunch.
Imagine this being your life. Coming to this underground den of heathens, night after night, letting men look at you and touch you in exchange for coins.
No one should be forced to decide between starvation or life in a flesh den.
I’m not judging this woman or any of the other fae for doing what they must to survive. If I hadn’t found my way to the castle, I very well could’ve ended up somewhere like this as well. I only wish there was a different way for them to support themselves if this is not the life they want.
I thank the woman and then turn back around, only to find the man on the serpent throne watching me.
He lifts a hand and crooks his finger.
Nausea roils in my gut.
The naked women with the grapes have left, and Jeston sits on one of the cushions, his already pale face white as bone and his eyes bulging as I step forward. At least the woman beneath the table is…um…finished, and the man’s pants appear to have been pulled up. She’s still sitting on the ground though, her head now resting on Jeston’s knee as she strokes his leg.
Scars adorn her back as well.
Two burly men as big as the king’s guards unhook one of the ropes to allow me past.
Cadoc is far handsomer up close, with a hint of gray kissing the dark copper at his temples and striking brown eyes. “You’re new,” he says without inflection. “What’s your name?”
My voice only wobbles a little when I respond. “Wynn.”
Cadoc pulls a heavy purse from behind him, dropping it onto the tabletop. “How would you like to make a bit of gold, Wynn?”
What do I say? I don’t want to get caught, but I am not going to sleep with this man or let him touch me or sit on his lap and… wiggle .
“What would I have to do?” That’s a perfectly valid question, isn’t it? Surely no person here is so hungry for gold that they would agree blindly.
His lips twitch as he withdraws something else, slamming a dagger next to the purse, the silver blade gleaming where it sticks out of the wooden tabletop. “Kill the man who touched you.”
My heartbeat roars in my ears, screaming for me to run far and fast. I lick my trembling lips as tension coils at the base of my spine.
He cannot be serious. “I’m not going to kill anyone.”
His thick black brows rise toward the sweep of his copper hair. “Why not? Don’t you want to? He put his hands on you without your permission. Now I’m giving you permission to kill him.”
Who does this man think he is? He cannot give me permission to take someone’s life. Yes, I may be angry and indignant, but I refuse to let that anger control me. Besides, that woman already wounded the blackguard. Surely, he learned his lesson and will never let it happen again.
“I’m not a…” I’m about to say killer, but that isn’t true, is it? I’ve killed two men, haven’t I? First, the guard in the caverns and then Eason Bell. “No, thank you.”
Cadoc shrugs. “Suit yourself.” With a click of his fingers, one of the guards at the entrance stalks toward the man who touched me. He whips out a dagger and carves the blade along his throat. Blood sprays like a fountain across the cards on the table. The dying man’s mouth falls open, and he slumps onto the floor, convulsing a few times before falling still.
No one bats an eye.
The women step over the body as if it isn’t there, and the men who were playing cards with him divvy up his chips and continue their game. One of the guards next to Cadoc carries over a saw to cut off his arm, wrapping it in brown paper once the limb has been severed.
A new rooftop ornament, no doubt.
Death is nothing to these people.
And if Jeston gets caught slipping that key from the man’s pocket, there is no doubt in my mind that Cadoc Carew won’t hesitate to end him.