3. Harlow
HARLOW
I normally change my glamour between meeting the client and the victim so I’m harder to identify if anyone spots me, but my necklace has limited uses, and the power went out when I was a few blocks from the bar.
It’s a common occurrence this time of year.
If the sunstone network along the walls doesn’t get enough light during the cloudy winter days, all nonessential power is shut down in the evening.
A candlelit bar will be too dark for anyone to notice my eyes.
Unlike when I put on my glamour—by focusing on how I want to look while pulling power from my necklace—to go back to my base appearance, I only need to take it off.
I remove the necklace, brushing my fingers over the delicate star that hangs from the chain, and tuck it into my cloak pocket before turning the corner and pushing open the heavy wooden door of Heartless Haven Pub.
I’ve never met a mark here, but I’ve snuck in a few times for the music.
I’m met with a wave of humid, ale-scented air and boisterous fiddle song as I step inside.
From the threshold, I glance around the room, searching for my mark. There’s a man in a navy coat sitting by the fireplace with a barmaid in his lap, but he’s pushing fifty and, upon closer inspection, his coat doesn’t have any embroidery.
I tug my hood a little farther over my forehead, scanning the crowd, until I see another man in a navy coat with gold embroidery on the far side of the room. I walk toward him, skirting the edge of the room.
My mark leans an elbow on the raw wood bar and laughs with a friend. I move deeper into the crowd, keeping a peripheral eye on him.
He’s younger than I expected. Only a year or two older than me, and, even from a distance, I can see how handsome he is.
He has a dusting of stubble over a strong jawline.
His dark hair is a little longer than most men in Lunameade wear theirs, but it’s styled neatly into perfect waves.
If it wasn’t for his faint sun kissed tan, I might believe he was a wealthy merchant trapped in a shop all day.
But I can tell he’s a laborer simply playing the part in his fancy clothes.
He looks handsome and at ease. Then again, the prettiest faces can hide the most vicious violence, and I’ve been fooled before. I ended up with a black eye and broken wrist for my doubts.
I walk farther into the room, sitting down at a table in a darker corner of the pub, right in his sight line. His copper-haired friend grins and claps a hand on his shoulder, then shuffles around the bar and down the hall toward the washroom. My mark’s gaze passes over the crowd.
I choose that moment to tip my hood back and unbutton my cloak.
My red silk dress is like a beacon. I feel his gaze immediately, but I force myself to look as if I’m fussing with my cloak before I finally meet his eyes.
Smiling softly, I wait for him to take in the truly absurd amount of cleavage I’ve put on display.
In my experience, men never suspect someone lovely could hurt them. The simplest enticements can get them into a room alone with me.
Men like a story of a woman humbled, so I play that part—dazzled by their charm, disarmed by their attention—a lamb stumbling dumbly to the slaughter. A girl wandering a wooded path, unaware of the wolves.
A year ago, before I started doing this secret work, I tried to get Kellan or the city watch to do more to help the women in our community. Both my brother and his guards were content to let women’s worries be women’s work .
But quietly accepting men’s violence was not the women’s work I wanted.
In the absence of a conscience, men need something to fear. I’ve made myself their monster.
I’m not searching for men who need mending. I don’t care for their penance—only their last gasping breaths.
Still, they have the nerve to look betrayed when the burn of poison hits them—outraged that they’ve been caught and bested by someone they expected to be weak. They may only ever be sorry that they underestimated me, but that’s something.
I twist my lips into a shy smile, which my mark returns. He stands, placing a coin on the bar and gesturing to my table. This is going to be easier than expected. I didn’t even need to work to get him to come over to me.
He holds my gaze, and there’s an arrogant confidence about him as he swaggers to my table.
“Excuse me, miss, are you waiting for someone?”
I grin. “Not anymore.”
He laughs and sits in the seat across from me. “Is that how it works for someone so striking? You wear an extraordinary dress and you’re never at a loss for eager company?”
“Something like that,” I say.
“I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but I couldn’t let another moment pass or I was certain you would have been set upon by at least a dozen other men. Those eyes put the stars to shame.” He reaches into his coat and hands me a white rose.
Excited fluttering fills my stomach. This is definitely my mark.
I smile as I take the rose. “Yes, well, I have my ways of dealing with men who see beauty as an invitation.”
He smirks. “I’m sure you do. What’s your name, lovely?”
“Stellaria.”
“As in the Divine who hung the stars or the harbinger of darkness?”
I lean back and take a long sip of my drink. “Why not both?”
He looks pleased by that response. “A woman who has it all.”
Everyone in Lunameade knows this myth because it’s the story of how the Drained were made. The Seven Divine beings who made our world were never supposed to fall in love .
Stellaria, the Divine of Stars, fell for Asher, the Divine of Endings, and their marriage blended their two magics so they could use both.
When her father, Polm, the Divine of Malice, kidnapped Asher, Stellaria stormed into the mortal realm and poured her darkness over the land and all her father’s worshippers.
Her wrath was even greater than Polm’s. She made the whole world dark for days while she grieved for her missing husband.
Polm was so angry, he cursed the ground where Asher was imprisoned so that no one of life or death could set foot on it. So, Stellaria breathed her magic and Asher’s into a man so he was neither entirely of life nor entirely of death, and sent him into the cursed land to free her love.
The couple were happily reunited, but the man Stellaria had animated couldn’t fit in with the living, nor could he pass through the veil of death. He was cursed to live in the land of the living with an insatiable thirst for blood, and eventually he became the first Drained.
I look at my mark. “And what shall I call you?”
“I suppose I should say Asher.”
There’s an ease about him. A confidence and intensity I wasn’t expecting. He looks back to the bar, where his friend has returned. Asher raises a mug of ale in his companion’s direction, and the man rolls his eyes and slumps against the bar.
“You’ve abandoned your companion,” I say.
“He’ll be fine. He’s just upset that I won’t let him lose any more of his money to me tonight, but I’ve had enough cards for the evening. And I suspect you’re better company in a dimly lit room.” He places a hand on my knee.
The heat of the touch sinks through the fabric, and he looks at me expectantly. A flicker of doubt bursts to life in my mind. A mark has never looked for approval to touch me.
A buzzing warmth spreads over my hand. I swear I see a hint of an aura around his skin, but the candle on the table gutters and I’m sure it’s a trick of the light. I brush my thumb over what I can only assume is a wedding band.
He tracks the movement. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“And what does it look like?” I ask, playfully tracing a finger across the ivy vine etching .
“I’m not married. It’s just something I wear so the barmaids don’t get too touchy for tips.”
“Of course.” I make it clear I don’t believe him.
He tenses as if waiting for me to tell him off. Instead, I interlace my fingers with his, and his shoulders relax.
A barmaid appears, holding a bucket of ice with a bottle of sparkling wine. Both items are luxuries in a walled-off city. I try to hide my shock, but I can tell I’ve failed by the look of satisfaction on Asher’s face.
“I’ll admit I was trying to impress you, so I sprung for the expense of a chilled bottle.”
The Heartless Haven Pub has some wealthy clientele.
It only takes a glance around the room to spot them, but I’m surprised they have the resources for ice and such expensive wine.
Over the years, the selection of wines from beyond the mountains has dwindled drastically.
If we didn’t have a full cellar of it at home, I would be more impressed.
I suppose this was why Asher’s wife wasn’t concerned about paying me so much. He’s quick to spend his money wining and dining other women.
He pours me a glass, and the foam rises to the lip, stopping just short of spilling over. I take a long pull, the bubbles sharp and sweet on my tongue. My lipstick leaves a red imprint on the glass. Asher looks from the glass to my mouth as he takes the world’s tiniest sip.
He’s going to make me work for this. The longer we spend sitting here, the more likely it is someone will recognize me. I suddenly regret not wearing a glamour, even though it makes me feel powerful to enact justice with my own face.
“So, were you and your friend out to celebrate something this evening?” I ask.
“Yes.” He casts a glance at the bar, but his friend has already made himself scarce. “We came out to celebrate his last night as a single man. Were he not already disgustingly in love, he’d probably be here trying to win you over as well.”
“Nothing wrong with a man who knows when he’s met his match.”
Asher takes a longer sip of his wine. “Maybe someday soon I’ll know the feeling. And what are you celebrating?”
I grin and lift my glass in a toast. “The slow, unwitting defeat of my enemies. ”