Chapter 11 Into The Lion’s Den #2
The city of Verloche doesn’t fail to meet my expectations.
Despite the evening hour, it’s crowded, busy, and mind-bogglingly loud.
Everything a person who's trying to slip off could hope for. What I wasn’t expecting was the amount of soldiers set up.
The Crusaders are posted around every building.
Their sleek naval ships line the harbors, bobbing gently on the eventide that’s kissed with ripples of moonlight.
If I’ve any judgment of time and distance, we’re miles from the Rift, a wide and deep trench carved into the earth where the borders of Triel and Eclen should touch.
It’s where most of the fighting takes place, or so I’m told.
I picture a blackened stretching cleft, stained with the blood of fallen men.
A place where nothing grows but hate and fear and disease.
Why Crow would choose a naval base to find a new ship is beyond me, unless he’s daring enough to steal from the Magistrate.
It could be anything from scheming to desperation. My hope is the latter.
His crew only brings the one wagon we’re riding into the city, and we stop outside of an inn, far grander than anything in Helgate’s Slags or Barrows.
One of the twins—Archer or Aizen, I still can’t tell them apart—hooks me around the waist and lifts me off the wagon with a crooked grin.
Before my feet even hit the cobbled road, his arm’s linked in mine.
Sabre does the same with Rowan and an edge of doubt starts creeping into whatever semblance of a plan I was throwing together.
They aren’t going to take their eyes off us—or in Sabre’s case, eye.
The rest of the crew, apart from Crow and Briggs, have already dispersed.
I barely even noticed them leaving, it happened so seamlessly; it must’ve been planned.
Clearly Crow's trying to avoid drawing attention to such a large group.
Despite the evening summer heat, he's dressed in a heavy black leather coat, the long hood pulled up around his face.
He leads the way inside the inn, Briggs filing close behind, pulling his own hood on, while Rowan and I are sandwiched between them and the rest.
The tavern hall is busy but clean. There’s a long bar and almost too many tables to count, filled with men being waited on by women in dresses that leave little to the imagination.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think the place was some sort of brothel.
And come to think of it, maybe I don't know better.
Crow and Briggs make their way to the bar, trade low words with the man behind it who glances up at us before wiping his hands on the rag flipped over his shoulder.
Rhyland mutters something again and the man looks back in his direction, eyes sharp and narrowed.
His lips press into a grim line before he gives an almost imperceptible jerk of his chin towards an archway leading into another room.
Briggs tosses a small coin purse that the man catches against his barrel chest. One look is all our captors need from them. Sabre motions to the twin holding me and we're pushing through the crowd to follow Crow and Briggs who disappear inside the archway.
"What is this?" I can't keep from asking, but the twin says nothing, just tugs me along after Sabre.
Could we signal someone for help? The patrons around us aren’t unkind looking, but there's a soft quality to most of them.
A finery. I'm not sure any one of them would be willing to stand toe to toe with Sabre, let alone the dark, mountainous Briggs.
The serving women have an air of indifference; they don't even look at us when we pass.
We reach the archway and go through it, too.
It leads to a hall and at the end is another room where smoke curls through the air and the low cry of a violin trills.
It's a dark, sensuous sound, like nothing I've heard before.
Something that makes my skin prick and blood rush wickedly in time with its tempo.
"That'll be Dorian." Sabre smirks back at the twin; her mouth barely moves around the words. He chuckles in response and tightens his hold on me when I falter a step, studying the high domed ceiling and velvet drapes that pool down from it.
If I thought the women in the main hall were salacious, they seem positively holy compared to these ones.
I’m disgusted to my core to realize they’re all nymph slaves: pointed ears, skin in variations of shades from deep tan, gold, pearly white, minty green, to soft indigo and everything in between.
Irons adorn their wrists, chests bared; many only have thin, shimmery cloths covering the lower half of their fronts and backs as they serve wine and platters of food to the men gathered around tables, playing cards trapped between their fingers. A gambling den.
Sharp revulsion roils through me. Sons and daughters are off fighting at the borders and this is how their fathers spend the long evenings?
Drinking, and spending, and fucking unwilling participants.
Not all look to be the soft, docile creatures that fill the tables in the main hall, though.
Some have rougher faces, more solid arms. The ones who don’t have guards standing nearby who do.
Sabre jerks to a halt when Crow reaches a table near the center where a small crowd has formed.
The twin doesn’t stop me from standing on my tip toes to glimpse the hosts of it—a strange mix of men.
What looks like an officer, two crown metals hanging from the chest of his uniform, sits next to an aristocrat with the thinnest mustache I’ve ever seen.
On the other side of him is a bored looking teenager, possibly the aristocrat's son by the similar cut of their noses and cleft chins. The fourth man is almost too easy to overlook, not because he’s plain, but because the shadows in the room seem to bend around him, half hiding his face, and he sits so impossibly still, stare fixed on the cards in his hand.
The final man is bearded, boisterous, and belligerently drunk.
A warm skinned woman with delicately pointed ears lounges across his lap, kissing at his neck and running her nimble fingers through his thick red beard.
His black, tricorn hat sits askew, as if knocked sideways at some point in the evening and he didn’t care enough to readjust it.
“I’m all in, Reave, you bloody bastard.” The exclamation is so loud it echoes across the room as the bearded man shoves high stacks of silver eyrir into the center and leans toward the shadowed figure whose sunglow eyes flash in response.
“You sure about that, Searle?”
The bearded man's face darkens and he leans forward, his smile cruel, studded with a single gold tooth that sparkles against the low burning lamps. At the sight, the woman who was in his lap stands, as if sensing something the rest of us don’t.
I watch her slip off, the shimmer of her skirt disappearing in the rabble.
The man fiddles with a coal black ring decorating the middle finger on his right hand in an obsessive, scheming sort of way.
“I want my blooming ship back. You were never worthy of the Serpent’s Breath, poor old girl. Where is she?”
The shadowed man’s laugh is deep and bewitching. My skin pricks and I feel the palms of my hands begin to sweat as the room grows hotter, silence spreading until only the music can be heard.
“A ship you say?” The aristocratic fellow shifts in his seat, oblivious to the tension, adjusting his monocle, attached to his suit from a thin, gilded chain. The younger man next to him perks up, more intent now.
Another nymph slave comes sweeping by, her tray laden with short glasses of amber liquid that the officer helps himself to before turning to the shadowed man. “We could always use another ship for the cause. Is that what we’re playing for, Reave? A ship?”
“No.”
The bearded man, Searle, shoves his chair back to stand.
His crimson silk coat, trimmed with copper and bearing russet buttons, almost matches the shade of his beard, but by the way it’s frayed and stained, I can guess it’s seen better days.
From his side, he draws a short, extravagant blade, staggering to his feet to drive it into the table.
“No? You dare deny a Captain Lord of the Dread Sea his fare?”
There’s a subtle shift. Some move closer, some further away. My eyes flit to Crow, who’s still hovered at the edge of the circle, watching.
“I won the Serpent’s Breath off you fair and square, Captain.” Reave’s last word is full of disdain and mockery.
“I was drunk when I made that deal!”
“You’re drunk now. Perhaps you should sit down.”
He turns as red as his beard. “Perhaps I should slice you balls to throat, you insolent sea brat!” he roars, wrenching the blade from the table.
Tension hums in the air, pulled taut like a string bound to snap any moment.
I reach for Rowan’s wrist not held tight by Sabre just as the sea captain grabs the edge of the table and flips it, silver eyrir and all.
The crowd surges back, wise enough to know lunging for the riches would mean death.
They pull away like a tide breaking from the shore and our little group is almost swallowed by it.
In the wreckage, the five men are left staring at one another until the sea captain Searle gestures at Reave. “This boy's a cheat. He’s been hustling us the whole game. Grab an arm; time to teach him a lesson.”
They hesitate, trading stares between Searle and Reave, clearly unsure who to believe.
The captain bears his teeth like an animal, a vein pulsing in his neck.
I watch as his fingers move to that ring again, twisting it more intently, with purpose this time, and alarm hums low in my ear.
A clear, gray mist flows like an undercurrent from the dark metal.
The sweet, sharp taste of magick stains the air, something I haven’t sensed in years—until I found the piece of the midnight crown.
The urge to run writhes under my skin, some natural instinct toward self preservation.
I know the moment that mist hits nothing good will happen.
Unfortunately, the others seem blissfully unaware, even as it spreads out, slithers in with the deep breaths of the men surrounding the piles of eyrir.
Their demeanor shifts the moment the mist makes contact.
A rage seems to blossom within them: lips curl, fists clench, and they advance.
The son and the officer each hook one of Reave’s arms—the aristocrat father surprises me by landing a blow across his jaw, a crack that rings hollow through the room.
An energy grows, morphing into something chaotic as the mist spreads out, invading the senses of everyone around me. Heat swells over my skin when it brushes me. Anger, agitation. The air is ripe with it. I've never felt so furious, so livid, even on the day Harlow Black tore me from my home.
The aristocrat continues to beat Reave, landing blows to both his face and ribs.
Searle’s smile turns willful again, flashing that gold tooth as he steps closer over the eyrir which slide and chink beneath his boots.
Deftly, he sheaths his dagger, unaffected by the smoky tendrils.
“You think because you’re one of Crow’s dogs I won’t gut you here and now? ”
The eyes of the other men are claggy, like the thin layer of white fog over Moortown has settled over them.
The father continues his assault on the shadowy Reave, who grunts in pain under each blow but bears it with a strange grin.
"I think you're afraid, Captain, because you know he'll come for you.
" He spits blood in between the blows and it splatters across Searle's boots.
My arms start to tremble. Anger. Fury. The emotions are carving their way through me from whatever Searle’s done. I don't care. I just know I'm fucking furious.
"Shit!" The twin swears and jerks away as a spark of heat ripples from my fingers.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but the white murk swirls over his pupils before the sentence is started.
His body stiffens and then, like mine, shakes with rage.
He turns and slams into the man behind us, who's not yet taken by the fury.
I try to fight it, to think straight, but it’s impossible. All I can feel is anger, a wrath as hot as a fireborn tempest. Sabre lets Rowan go, those deft hands twitching toward one of her many rifles before Crow reaches back to steady her hand.
He's the only one the mist has touched who doesn't look affected or downright murderous, eyes clear as a calm midnight sky. Whatever he's murmuring seems to calm Sabre. Bring her back a little. For some reason that makes me seethe. This is his fault. If it weren’t for him, I’d be one step closer to my móeir, to going home. These fucking men think they can meddle in the life of anyone, that we’re less important, mud beneath their boots.
He's just going to kill Rowan and I after torturing information out of me.
The heat of flames tingle at my fingers.
I look around. The twin and Sabre have broken off, busting the faces of those around them who are getting too close to us.
A discarded pistol gleams up at me from the chaos, forgotten.
I bend and scoop it up, savoring the rough feel of the handle.
Crow’s back’s turned to me, vulnerable. I lunge, just as he reaches for his blade and steps forward, grabbing the father who's pulverizing Reave by his shoulder and forcing the pointed steel just below the ribcage, driving it up and twisting.
The man's blood flows scarlet. He falls to the ground near his son's feet as my searing hand slaps against Rhyland Crow’s broad back.
The leather of his coat melts beneath it.
When he hisses, pivoting around to face me, my pistol barrel finds his stomach and my finger twitches against the trigger.
Bang.
There’s fleeting surprise swirling among the shadowy blue clouds in his eyes. “Nymph?” he whispers, a sound that chills me down to my bones, brings me back to myself right before a resounding crack splits the air near my head, and I collapse beneath a flair of blinding pain.