Chapter 7
Seven
There’s no sign of Falcen downstairs and no telling when he’ll return to the inn.
Vowing to be back in the room by sundown so as not to induce Falcen’s wrath, I descend the staircase.
My long, damp hair soaks the back of my tunic.
I don’t bother to plait it, considering the innkeeper and her patrons didn’t bat an eye at a young, unmarried woman sharing a room with a male, even if he is a Soulren.
I doubt they’ll gasp at my untended hair. Or my breeches, for that matter.
The main room is more crowded as I quietly move down the stairs, taking in the atmosphere.
It buzzes with the din of boisterous conversation and raucous laughter as workers fresh from the fields and tradesmen done for the day crowd around the long tables, tankards in hand.
It’s so different from Belgrave, where most of us are too tired to celebrate much of anything at the end of the day.
I suppose that’s the difference between a soul-powered town and a soulless village like mine, too poor and on the outskirts to catch much Soulren attention, never mind their magickal abilities.
The scent of sweat and earth mingles with the aroma of roasted meat and fresh bread. Serving girls weave through the throng, deftly balancing trays laden with steaming bowls and frothy mugs.
I pause at the foot of the stairs. In one corner, a group of men huddle over a game of dice, erupting into cheers and groans as the bones clatter across the table.
A red-faced farmer pounds his fist, sending ale sloshing over the rim of his cup.
Nearby, a wiry man with a patched cloak nurses a mug, his eyes darting furtively as he leans in to whisper to his hooded companion.
At the bar, a pair of off-duty town guards guffaw at a bawdy joke, their cheeks ruddy from too much drink. They lean heavily against the stained wood, their mail clanking with each unsteady shift. Behind them, the innkeeper bustles about, her face shining with exertion as she fills orders.
Falcen is still nowhere to be seen, and I release the muscles tensing my stomach at the thought of running into him, then being sent up to my room like some disobedient child.
A stool opens up at the bar. I weave through those standing and others flinging around their tankards as they narrate their tall tales to their table.
“A giant Void hound, I swear! He was yay big, and determined to nab my sheep until I scared him off with my rake…”
The innkeeper catches my eye when I slip into the vacant seat.
She finishes filling a flagon with frothy ale and slides it down the bar to a waiting patron before making her way over to me, wiping her hands on her stained apron.
“You’re the girl who came in with the Soulren,” she says, her tone more statement than question. Her sharp eyes take in my damp hair and fresh clothing. “Is everything alright? He didn’t… the Resonant hasn’t done anything untoward, has he?”
I blink, taken aback by her concern. “No, no, everything is fine. He’s been a perfect gentleman.”
The words taste strange on my tongue, but they’re not entirely untrue. For all his brusqueness, Falcen has never crossed any lines of propriety with me.
The innkeeper harrumphs, clearly unconvinced. She leans in, lowering her voice. “Listen, girl, I’ve seen my share of Soulren come through here over the years. They’re a dangerous lot and not to be trusted. If you’re in some kind of trouble…”
I am, but it’s nothing you can help with unless you, too, have discovered latent soul-eating abilities.
“I swear to you, I’m fine,” I reply with a tight smile, then rest my elbows on the sticky bartop. “Have you seen him in here?”
“No, lass, he stormed right out of here with nary a head turn. Probably headed to the brothel down the way, if I’m to bet. It’s what most of them do when they’re in town, though it’s been some time since I’ve laid eyes on an Elite.”
The innkeeper’s words knock the air from my lungs. My fingers curl around the edge of the bar, knuckles whitening as I struggle to keep my expression neutral.
The brothel. Of course. Where else would a man like Falcen go to slake his appetites?
Unbidden, my mind conjures images of Falcen tangled in the sheets with a faceless woman, his body moving over hers, his hands on her bare skin, his lips trailing down her neck. It sears like a brand, making my stomach re-clench and my throat tighten.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that what Falcen does with his time is not my concern. He is my captor, my unwanted guide, and nothing more. Yet the thought of him seeking pleasure elsewhere, of his attention focused on someone else, stings in a way I can’t quite rationalize.
The innkeeper reads the dueling emotions on my face. Other than a raised brow, she keeps silent, likely well used to the ins and outs of fetishes in here. “May I interest you in another bowl of stew? You look like your skeleton is trying to escape from the confines of your skin.”
I force a smile. “That would be lovely.”
I am still ravenous.
The innkeeper returns with a steaming bowl of stew, the rich aroma of tender meat and savory vegetables wafting up to envelop me. She sets it before me along with a hunk of crusty bread, still warm from the oven.
“There you are. Get some meat on those bones if he’s the type of company you keep.”
I thank her and eagerly dig in, alternating between spoonfuls and tearing off pieces of bread to dunk, the crust a satisfying crunch between my teeth.
As I eat, snatches of conversation drift by, the topics ranging from crop yields to local gossip.
“Heard the blacksmith’s daughter ran off with a peddler from Ashfall...”
“New tax on soul-infused goods, bleeding us dry...”
“Voidspawn attacked a caravan on the north road, barely anyone survived...”
I let my gaze wander to the man who spoke of the attacked caravan. It’s the wiry man in the patched cloak who speaks in undertones, yet as soon as I attune to him, I can hear every word.
A perk of my new magick, maybe?
Listen.
The wiry man leans in closer to his companion. “The shipment arrives tonight. Six head, all prime stock.”
His hooded companion grunts. “As long as we get our cut. These jobs are getting riskier. The academy is cracking down. I hear there’s an Elite in these parts, even.”
“Aye, but the payoff is worth it. A single soul can fetch a thousand tokens. Our client will pay double for the pleasure of eating them whole.”
My spoon falls from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering against the bowl. A cold sweat breaks out on my skin.
Soul-trafficking. They’re talking about soul-trafficking. Ripping normal people from their homes and families to sell to the highest bidder. Innocents, condemned to a fate worse than death.
And if they have a rogue Soulren working with them, they don’t even need to travel with the bodies. Just the resonance, extracted and bottled while the victim is still screaming.
I think of Falcen, of the academy’s insignia that marks him as an Elite. Is he aware of this threat? Does he even care?
My vision blurs at the edges, a strange pressure building behind my eyes. The low-grade ache I’ve grown accustomed to since burying Noxie sharpens, turning jagged and scorching.
It becomes hard to breathe.
Oh gods, not now.
The room spins. I grip the edge of the bar, my knuckles turning white. Pressure behind my eyes builds to a blinding intensity, making colors unrelated to my environment burst and swirl in my vision.
I can feel it rising within me, the bottomless hunger, the twisted magick that marks me as an abomination. It writhes beneath my skin, seething tendrils seeking to break free, to latch onto these men’s souls and feast.
In my mind’s eye, I see the faces of the innocents these traffickers plan to sell. Frightened eyes in dirt-smudged faces, hands reaching out for help that will never come. Children ripped from their mothers’ arms, lovers torn apart, and lives destroyed in the blink of an eye.
All to feed the insatiable appetites of those who see souls as currency, as energy to be consumed and discarded.
A strangled gasp escapes my lips as I double over, the edges of my vision darkening. The innkeeper’s face swims before me, her mouth moving, but I can’t make out the words over the roaring in my ears.
She reaches out, her weathered hand gripping my shoulder. With her other hand, she snaps her fingers in front of one of the serving girls.
“Jessa, take over. I need to tend to this one.”
The girl nods, hurrying behind the bar as the innkeeper guides me off the stool, half carrying me through a door behind the bar into a small back room. She eases me down onto a low bench, then bustles about, filling a basin with water from a pitcher and dampening a cloth.
The cool press of it against my forehead jolts me back to myself. I blink up at the innkeeper, my breath coming in shallow pants as I struggle to regain control.
“Easy now,” she soothes, her voice low and steady. “Deep breaths. You’re safe here.”
I do as she says, forcing air into my lungs, holding it for a count of three, then releasing it. The roaring in my ears gradually subsides to a dull throb.
“There now,” the innkeeper murmurs, her hand cool against my feverish skin as she brushes back strands of damp hair from my face. “Just keep breathing. It will pass.”
I nod weakly, my throat too swollen for words. The pressure behind my eyes recedes, the murky vines of hunger retreating back into the depths of my being. I slump against the wall.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
I flinch, panic flaring anew.
She sighs, settling onto the bench beside me. Her hands twist in her apron, worrying the stained fabric. “I’ve seen that look before. The hunger, the struggle. My son had it, too.”
I hold very still, scarcely daring to breathe.