Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
MONTY
E very step that takes me away from Daphne fills me with the most soothing relief. Not because I’m leaving her but because…I did it. I took a step toward mending something I never should have broken. That doesn’t mean I want to linger, for I do tend to ruin good things. Might as well leave before I make an ass of myself.
I exit the lobby of Fletcher-Wilson to the streets of downtown Jasper, untucking my cigarillo from behind my ear and placing it between my lips. The late morning sun warms the air to the perfect climate, and I make haste to doff my jacket and roll up my shirtsleeves.
Verbena Street is in the heart of the business district, lined with modest brick offices interspersed with the occasional public house or restaurant, catering to professionals on lunch breaks or out for meetings. The sidewalk bustles with activity from those like me going about their workday. Meanwhile, coaches fill the streets with sounds of horse hooves and wagon wheels on cobblestones. Most everyone is dressed in semi-casual work attire, though there are a few fine suits and top hats in the crowd.
Jasper is primarily a human city, but there are plenty of seelie fae too, noted either by their pointed ears, animal features, or other notable fae characteristics. Fae in their unseelie forms can be elemental, spiritual, or animal in nature, and evidence doesn’t always carry over to seelie forms. Many fae show no physical change between the two forms—or can’t shift at all—and merely have access to their own unique magic. The hardest to differentiate at a glance, however, are those who were born with both human and fae blood. Human-fae hybrids bear rounded ears and rarely show any outward signs of their fae lineage. They can blend in, lie, and heal slightly faster than a pureblood human. Some can even shift between forms. One can be acquainted with a human-fae hybrid their whole life and never know it, should the other person choose to keep it a secret.
As I move through the crowd, I extract my cylindrical silver igniter—a handy new invention, thanks to Star Court technology—from my waistcoat pocket. I press the wheel that strikes the yellow crystal, creating a spark. Then a flame. I bring the flickering warmth to the end of my cigarillo. With a long drag, I draw in the soothing lavender-flavored herbs that mingle with the fresh Earthen Court air. Every muscle in my body relaxes.
I blow out a breath of smoke, and my mind returns to thoughts of Daphne. A smile spreads over my lips, even as I take my next drag.
So she’s an illustrator now, and for Edwina’s new book covers. How did that happen? I always knew she liked art, particularly the sexy kind, as I often caught her salivating over the illustrations in Edwina’s books. But I had no idea she possessed artistic talent of her own. A pang of regret weighs down my chest, disrupting my sense of calm. It’s my fault I’ve missed out on whatever she’s been through over the past year. Even before that, in the months that followed The Heartbeats Tour, I never made much of an effort to see her. In fact, I avoided her.
A purposeful distancing. A habit. A necessity.
I’ve learned the value in cutting ties with those around me, from friends to enemies and everything in between. My father. My first paramour. My former fiancée. Lovers who cling too tightly. Those who get too close. Those who want more from me than I can give. Those who deserve better than me. Those who hurt me and call it love. Those I hurt and call it love.
There was a time, near the end of the tour, when I feared Daphne was becoming one of those people. Someone who wanted too much. Someone who looked at me with an innocent hope that made me painfully aware of the vast discrepancy between the man I am in her eyes and the man I really am. She was the kind of person I wanted to tell all my secrets to—the most dangerous kind of person. Because sharing my secrets would mean breaking a bargain. And breaking bargains means death.
I take another drag of my cigarillo, the Moonpetal working wonders on my nerves. Blowing out a breath, I shake my head. There’s something different about Daphne. I feel better after having apologized to her. Better after seeing her. Very few people whom I’ve distanced myself from have sparked such regret. Or such elation upon seeing them again. It was like no time had passed at all.
Small things have changed, of course. She seems more comfortable in her seelie form than she did before, though I can still see the uncertainty in the way she holds her hands, her arms. The slight hunch of her posture. Like she’s constantly battling a yearning to be smaller. Apparently she’s entered the world of courtship, or has at least tried to. What the hell was that with Brad? Who waits two months to answer a man’s request for a date?
There was a slim moment, as I witnessed her awkward interaction, when it struck me that Daphne could be the perfect subject for my case study. I didn’t humor that idea long. She may be naive when it comes to courtship, but the thought of coaching her with my advice makes my blood boil and my stomach churn. It just feels…I don’t know. Exploitative, or something.
One thing that hasn’t changed is how she speaks to me. That wry tone, always ready to lash me, berate me, scold me. She has always been brutally honest with me in a way very few people have ever dared to be. Yet her jabs have always come with a dash of care, a barbed whip meant to bring me to heel and let me know when I’m taking my often-twisted proclivities too far. She tames me in a way that feels like a hug.
I’ve missed that in my life. Desperately.
Because it’s the opposite of how my father has always tried to tame me.
My mood sours a little at the thought of my father, so I take another long drag of my cigarillo. The Cedar Hills Gazette is across the street on the next block, and it’s about time I started my workday. As I join the pedestrians waiting for a break in coach traffic to cross the street, I catch a dreaded yet familiar sight from the corner of my eye. Two fae males in bowler hats, one with a cane, the other with meaty fists, approach from several feet back, their eyes on me.
“Fucking Friday,” I mutter under my breath. “Of course.”
Every Friday I have the displeasure of chatting with these unfriendly blokes, neither of whom I know by name.
I cross the street, not bothering to outpace my stalkers. Instead of heading for my workplace, I slink into the quiet alleyway behind the building. The last thing I want is to invite thugs into the Gazette . Not that they’re the most intimidating folks, considering one knits scarves in his free time and the other is as skinny as a pole, but they aren’t exactly friendly either.
With a deep inhale, I finish my cigarillo and crush the butt under my heel just as the two men slink into the alley. I give them a humorless grin. “What kind of warning is it today? Fists or words?”
“Words, you fucking ingrate,” says the one with the cane, a lanky bloke with tufts of red-brown hair that peek from beneath his bowler hat. From his fidgety movements paired with his beady eyes, I’d guess he’s a squirrel fae. “Payment’s due today.”
“You truly don’t need to remind me.”
“How are you going to pay?” asks the one with meaty hands. This one has no unseelie characteristics to suggest what kind of fae he is, but he’s a broad, bulky fellow with a fleshy face and a thick neck that’s always hidden beneath a knitted scarf. Today it’s a blue scarf patterned with rows of little white daisies.
“The usual way,” I say with a sigh.
“Right,” says Cane. “You know what to do then.”
“I do. I’ll be there tonight as fucking usual. So do we really need to do this every week?”
“Boss’ orders,” says Meathands.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure,” I say, tone flat, “but I’ve got places to be. Kindly fuck off, dear gents, and I’ll do what I’m supposed to do.”
The two give me menacing glowers—which might be unnerving if I hadn’t been on the receiving end of them every week for months on end—before skulking off.
Meathands, however, peers back around the corner. “Do you want to buy a scarf?” he rushes to ask, pointing to the one around his neck. “Eight emerald rounds, special deal for ya.”
“For the hundredth time, no.”
His face falls, and he curls his lips into a parting snarl. Siegfried Financial must not pay its cronies well, considering one is desperate to launch his handmade scarf business.
I lean against the alley wall and release an aggravated breath. It’s been almost three years since I took out a loan from an admittedly unsavory source, and the rising interest has made my weekly payments impossible to maintain for the past year. Had I understood just how long it would take to pay back said loan, I wouldn’t have resorted to taking one out in the first place. Yet I didn’t have many options. I was newly disinherited without a single emerald chip to my name and asking my father for aid was out of the question. Turns out one needs money to function in the world. I needed fine clothing to get a job, food to survive. I didn’t exactly need the luxury apartment I leased for a year or a high-spending lifestyle like the one I grew up with, but that’s only in retrospect. At the time, opulence was akin to breathing. My idea of a downgrade was another man’s picture of perfection.
Regardless of what I wanted to spend my loan on, most reputable lenders weren’t keen on handing funds over to a disinherited aristocrat without a guarantor. I was grateful when I came across Siegfried Financial, which only needed collateral.
Not just any kind of collateral, but its specialty of choice.
Secrets.
After being raised amongst the elite, I’d gathered my share of secrets over the years. Who’s sleeping with whom, whose business is crumbling, who dabbles in illegal investments, who harbors amusing kinks. I entered the lender’s office fully prepared to hand over any number of these minor yet shocking secrets. None would cause direct harm to me or anyone I truly cared about, so they were fair game as far as I was concerned. There was only one secret I kept that could wreck the lives of those I loved, but it was locked behind a bargain. I was magically bound to never tell that secret to anyone. Which meant it was safe.
Or so I thought.
It turned out the goblin in charge of Siegfried Financial could read one’s deepest, most closely guarded secret with a single look. I didn’t have to say a word or break my bargain. Just like that, my lender had control over the only secret I wanted to keep safe.
So here I am, twenty-some-odd thousand emerald rounds in debt, the original funds from my loan long since spent. I’m stuck with a weekly payment I can’t afford, interest that increases at an astounding rate, and only three months left before my lender cancels the remainder of my debt in exchange for spilling my secret. A secret that could destroy my family.
I can’t let that happen.
Not for my father’s sake. Not even for mine.
It’s my sister’s reputation I care about. Mother’s. Our estate’s staff. All the lives that could be thrown into turmoil should this secret get out and drag the Phillips name into scandal.
That’s the real reason I need the publishing deal and the six-year contract of employment at the Gazette . With proof of long-term employment, I can secure a legitimate loan with a reputable bank. I can use my signing bonus and publishing advance as collateral. I can free myself from this awful loan before my secret gets out.
Curling my fists, I exit the alley and head toward the Gazette . All the relief and pleasant feelings from seeing Daphne evaporated during my chat with Cane and Meathands. Yet the reminder that I’ll see her tonight sets the most jagged edges of my nerves at ease. I won’t be able to impress my friend as thoroughly as I wish, thanks to the job I have to do tonight, but it’s not about me anyway.
It’s about Daphne. The problem that I hope I have the solution for.
If I focus on that, I can ignore the fact that this life I’ve built—this life of my own, regardless of debts—is at risk of getting royally fucked.