Chapter 2 #2
She gave me a warning look, overly worried about people finding out she was sleeping with the Draker. Some rumoured that Riven was the king’s favorite. Oftentimes, if there was a message needing to be sent to the capital, he was the one who rode to Lyonscliff.
I scoffed. “No one is listening to us.”
“You never know.”
There was a reason Drakers were disliked. They were Natureless people who did not care when we were sent into the Waywards. Beneath the masks were our old neighbors, business partners, and even lovers. It was a money-making opportunity for them.
When Luna was twelve, a lord’s family bought her out of the capital orphanage to keep the house clean.
She had three adopted brothers and was impossible to console the day she found out one of them was under a Draker mask himself.
She wouldn’t have ever known if he hadn’t bought her time at Miss Soryl’s.
She never hated Riven for being a Draker, though. She had him over to the apartment so often that he was the only one I recognized easily when maskless.
While Riven was quiet and likeable enough, he was not to be trusted.
He was here to keep the Dark Natured in line and to maintain the peace.
Any hint of an uprising and they burned everyone involved.
The punishment was always swift. They’d slice the perpetrators' guts open and push them into the flaming pile of flesh.
My throat tightened.
“Did you hear about Arielle?” I whispered to Luna.
My discreet efforts were for nothing as the most prying Nightcastor I knew turned his attention to us.
“Where is Arielle?” Beck purred, slyly scooting his stool closer to Luna.
She smacked his arm and huffed. “Beck, you nosy bastard.”
While the tall, bronze Nightcastor didn’t frequent the brothels, he was a regular at most taverns. The low light caught glints of caramel in his soft curls. He tugged his full lips into a mischievous smile, the softness in his hazel eyes contrasting the sharp angles of his jaw and nose.
A regular or not, it was none of his business. “I’ll tell you later, Luna.”
“You two are the worst gossips I’ve been around in ages.” He laughed and flicked me a coin for another round. Most Nightcastors loved gossip. They also all shared the same birthmark, a crescent behind their left ear. Some rumored the mark was actually a thief's hook for stealing secrets.
Every Natured person was born with some kind of indicator, making it impossible to conceal oneself.
Mine was a dark design on my left hip. Some described the Blackheart mark as a flower entangled in sharp vines.
Others described it as death overcoming its victims. Every Blackheart’s marking was unique, but the hip placement was a telltale sign.
I refilled Beck’s glass. “How about we trade? You tell me something, and I’ll tell you something,” I offered.
His inquisitive features relaxed into a saccharine smile.
“Deal.”
I set his glass down as the three of us leaned in, our voices hushed within the blaring tavern.
“Go on,” I nudged.
Beck’s mouth twitched.
“The king is ill. He will not make it to summer.”
Luna’s eyes narrowed. “A lying little loser is what you are. Go away,” she ordered, shooing him with sweeping hands.
I crossed my arms. The king was healthy enough, and only ten winters older than I.
“Tell me about Arielle,” he pleaded, any trace of playfulness disappearing.
I’d never seen Beck in any sort of desperation.
I sighed. “She’s dead.”
Luna spat her ale out. Beck did not react beyond the slightest flare of his nostrils.
“I thought you’d say that,” he said, turning back and scooting his stool away from Luna.
I was aware of the loudness of the room in a way I had not been before. Luna rubbed her temples.
“You look distressed,” I noted.
She eyed me, dumbfounded. “Of course I am. Miss Soryl is going to make me take Arielle’s customers. I’m going to need another drink.”
“Oh, hell.” I refilled her glass, offering loose promises of prayers and sympathies.
The front door flew open, and an unwelcome Witchlord sauntered in.
Third night in a row.
My frown settled promptly as he faced me at the bar, two coins in hand.
His tunic was noticeably wrinkled, bearing the marks from the day. His sharp eyes were framed by soft black hair, while his cheeks were cold and blotched. He was possibly the tallest man that had ever entered Widow’s Way Tavern, his head nearly scraping the ceiling.
He shifted, staring down at me impatiently.
I eyed the coins, the wet spots he’d trailed in from the snow, and lastly, his cold, blue eyes. “What can I get for you, Lord Ansel?”
Luna gawked from the other end of the bar.
“Water.”
“Water?”
He dropped two coins into my palm. “It's a clear liquid.”
I clenched my jaw. “I know what water is.”
He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Great. Water it is, then.”
I dropped the coins into my apron and fetched a glass. If he wanted murky water from a barrel, then fine. Luna caught my gaze, wildly motioning at the Witchlord. I shook my head.
Lord Ansel waited patiently. As soon as the glass was filled, I plopped it down in front of him.
“There's a seat at the other end of the bar,” I added, nodding towards Luna.
He leaned in to pick up the glass before standing to his full height. “I have a good view of what seats are available.” He settled in the back corner of the tavern, just as he had the past few nights.
I exhaled and marched back over to Luna.
She excitedly bounced in her chair, sloshing her drink. “Tell me everything.”
“He is not very fun.”
“Those are the most fun!” she playfully whined. Swiveling in her chair, she peered back at him.
I wiped the inside of a dirty tankard, gritting my teeth.
“He ordered water, then practically taunted me when I said he could sit next to you.”
She looked back again. “Perhaps I should go sit with him.”
My eyebrows nearly hit my hairline. Perhaps she should not. “You’re worried about being caught with a Draker? Imagine what the others might think, or do to you if you associate with a Witchlord.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’m going home then.”
I nodded, catching a coin as she tossed it. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
With Luna gone, there was no one to distract me from Lord Ansel’s peculiar behavior. For the rest of the evening, he sat alone in silence. He never asked for another glass of water; he’d barely touched the first.
Was he trying to catch me using my Nature? Did he so eagerly want a reason to add me to the burn pile?
He finally left towards the end of the night, like most patrons. While many went easily, there were always a few stragglers I had to practically drag out the door before I could clean up.
When I left Widow's Way, Charles the Imp was sound asleep on the icy street, and Lord Ansel stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a neighboring building.
“You’re still here?” I whispered, the Waywards chillingly quiet.
He gestured to the little green shit sleeping on the ground. “Waiting for the Imp to wake.”
The cold pricked my skin, snow dampening my hair. “He may not get the chance, exposed to these temperatures.”
Lord Ansel shook his head. “Imps have thicker skin than you and I. He’ll be fine.”
We both stared at Charles, whose mouth bubbled with spit on every exhale. As pleasant as it was to think about him freezing to death, I needed to get the precious little sleep I could before dawn.
“Well, enjoy watching the Imp.”
I had already turned on my heel when he spoke up.
“Do you want to know what he’s dreaming of?”
I cocked my head to the side. “You’re a Dreamsoul?”
All of the Witchlords had been Lyonhearts before, with magic of healing, light, and strength. Rare, especially in Drakington—Dreamsouls were the only Light Natured kind to exist aside from Lyonhearts.
He flicked out a wrinkle in his tunic. “With the gossip around here, I would’ve thought you’d know by now.”
“Can I speak freely, Witchlord?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t give a shit what your Nature is.”
Silence filled the space. Instinctively, I straightened my posture under his electric gaze. He was a Witchlord; I was a Blackheart.
“Respectfully,” I added.
“Do you want to know what the Imp is dreaming of or not?” he asked again.
I shrugged. “I’d rather be warm, but if you must share, go on.”
He rolled his eyes, flicking his middle finger and thumb together. A fuzzy grey cloud erupted from his hand and wrapped itself completely around me. Brief flashes of lightning buzzed gently, heating the Dreamsoul blanket.
I didn’t move or thank him. I stared only at the charmed cloud, breathing in the scent of crackling air before a storm breaks.
Lord Ansel nudged Charles’ head with his boot. “He's dreaming of Lyonsreach. Within the castle, he’s greeting guests for a ball. He’s wearing finery. A young maiden has called him handsome. He’s discussing politics with noblemen.”
The invasion of privacy was disturbing and fascinating, and all the more reason never to fall asleep near a Dreamsoul.
“Interesting.”
I also dreamt of castles and nobles, except I was never in the dreams. I just watched and woke up every morning sick from it.
“Go home, Blackheart.”
The word ‘home’ was laced with lies. I longed to escape, to even get a glimpse of freedom. But there was nowhere else to go.
I pushed against his cloud. “Are you going to take this back?”
“You don’t want to keep it? A gift after our… misunderstanding the other morning.”
Warmth flooded my body as the blanket held me tighter. I looked down at it, eyes narrowing.
“Take it back.”
The corner of Lord Ansel’s mouth twitched into an arrogant smile. “Very well.” He snapped, and the blanket was gone. Crossing his arms, he watched as the cold practically punched me in the chest, goosebumps spreading across my body like wildfire.
I never knew the authorities to play games or ensure Imps woke up. Furthermore, I had never met a single Dreamsoul in my twenty-three winters. To my knowledge, they preferred living in the bastard kingdom of Castivian. It was bizarre that he was our new Witchlord.
I gave him one last skeptical glare before turning away, hurrying home while cursing the cold.
When I returned, Luna was asleep on the couch, entangled with Riven. I quietly closed the apartment door and tiptoed across the room.
The Draker sat up, her head falling off his chest. He checked out the window, where the moon hung high in the sky, before turning back to me. His face twisted in confusion as he ran a hand through his tousled chestnut hair.
I should have looked away first, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Luna groaned, breaking the spell. “Elora?” she mumbled, voice muffled with sleep.
“Yes?”
“Goodnight,” she murmured, turning back into Riven.
“Goodnight, Luna,” I whispered, ducking into my room and shutting the door a little too fast. As I drifted off, I almost thought I could feel the cloud once again wrapping itself around me, soothing me to sleep.