28. Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
The tavern door creaked as Emmaline stepped inside, the air thick with woodsmoke, fried roots, and a trace of burnt cacao beans.
The place leaned traditional with age-warped beams and floors uneven enough to trip the unwary, but flashes of modernity glinted between the cracks.
A brass espresso machine hissed behind the bar while a tarnished human jukebox flickered in the corner, stuttering through its playlist. Most of the crowd looked fresh off a farm, but one fiddled with a pocket weather scanner, while others adjusted enchanted ear cuffs streaming the latest gossip.
At the far end of the bar, Ursula sprawled across two stools like she was holding court, her laugh booming loud enough to shake the dusty antler chandelier.
Her palm slammed down on the counter, sending silverware clattering, and the pretty bartender—wearing a crop top that read Goddess Bless This Mess—grinned back, clearly unfazed.
“My dear!” the witch’s voice carried across the tavern the second Emmaline walked in. “Over here!”
Emmaline slid between tables, sidestepping a tray-laden server and narrowly avoiding a trader showing off a pocket-sized crystal projector that was glitching mid-image. She reached the bar just as Ursula shoved a glass toward her, amber liquid sloshing close to the rim.
Picking it up, she sniffed cautiously, her nose wrinkling at the memory of that gods-awful blood-tainted beer Ursula had poured her back at the club.
“This isn’t…?” She gave Ursula a look.
“If I recall, I did warn you not to drink the D?r Anwn.” She pressed a hand to her chest, dramatic as a stage actress. “But no. You had to prove you weren’t afraid of a little troll rotgut.”
Emmaline muttered into her glass. “I wasn’t stubborn. I was resolved.”
“Sure, darling. And I’m a delicate woodland flower.” Ursula clinked her glass against Emmaline’s before tossing back half of it in one go.
Emmaline snorted. “You’re about as delicate as a warhammer wrapped in lace.”
“Oh… I like that!” She cackled, then braced an elbow on the counter, leaning in toward the barmaid.
“If I didn’t have places to be, I’d beg you to pour me another, and maybe stay to watch me drink it.
” Her fingers brushed the back of the barmaid’s hand as she dropped a gold coin onto the counter—far too much for a single drink or even ten.
The young woman’s blush lit up her ears as Ursula pushed off the counter, already heading for the shadowed corner at the back of the room. Glancing over her shoulder, she tossed Emmaline a quick, “This way.”
“So much for discretion,” Emmaline muttered, trailing after her.
The corner table was almost invisible from the bar, tucked so deep into the shadows that Emmaline wouldn’t have noticed it if Ursula hadn’t pointed it out. The candle at its center sputtered weakly, the wax pooling in uneven lumps across a scarred wooden surface.
“They’ll remember me.” Ursula dropped into a chair, the wood creaking beneath her. “But not you.” She held up another gold coin. This one’s surface rippled with magic Emmaline couldn’t quite identify.
“Oh.” Emmaline settled into the other seat. “You always have the best toys.”
“Not the best,” Ursula said, eyes sweeping over Emmaline like she was debating saying more. Whatever thought crossed her mind, she sighed instead. “Besides, I’ve built my whole reputation on showing up places I’m not supposed to be.” Her grin went roguish. “At this point, people expect it.”
“And you’re not worried?” Emmaline swirled her drink. “About the Patrol? The nobles?”
“They need me more than they’d ever admit.” Ursula shrugged, unbothered. “Despite the fanatical lurch toward the Light these past few centuries, we’re still Ellyllon. We’re still bound to the Goddess.”
“And the Balance.” Emmaline frowned, then let out a slow breath. “I worry about you anyway.” She lifted her glass before arching a brow at Ursula. “You’ve gotten cocky lately. And this plan? It’s not exactly your usual quiet, backroom kind of trouble. This is front-page shite.”
Ursula’s grin faded. “Not many would dare call me cocky to my face.”
“Exactly.”
“Fair enough.” Ursula’s nod was almost regal. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Thank you.” Emmaline leaned back. “Now, where’s my present?”
Ursula reached into her leather vest. “I like this version of you, Emmaline. Very demanding.”
Emmaline raised a hand in mock salute, eyes locked on the small black velvet bag Ursula withdrew.
“Why keep that part of you buried all this time?” her friend murmured, flipping the bag upside down, letting three small, unremarkable objects tumble onto the table.
Emmaline nudged the first item, a ribbon, with the tip of her finger, its thin black silk soft against the worn wood. “I was a sponsored student at the School of Light not long after the War.” She ran the ribbon between her fingers, feeling for any texture or pattern, but it was smooth as water.
She set the ribbon aside and picked up the fingernail—red, polished to a wicked point—turning it slowly between her thumb and forefinger. What was she supposed to do with a ribbon, a fingernail, and… she squinted… a human-styled wedding band?
“Seemed like the pertinent thing to do at first.” She frowned at the nail, brow furrowing.
“I thought if I did what I was supposed to do and did it better than anyone else, I would… I don’t know.
” She placed the fingernail down with care, then took the small silver ring between her fingers, rubbing her thumb along the inner band.
“I guess I thought I’d get what I deserved.
” She sighed. “Soon, that careful, polite version I pretended to be became who I was. Even the Caelith thing was wrapped up in that identity.”
She set the ring back, her hands resting flat on the table, fingers splayed like they didn’t quite belong to her. Her gaze stayed fixed on the objects, but it was distant, like she was seeing through them, or past them, or not seeing them at all.
“Then I met Deyric.” The words slipped out, too even, too measured, like someone else had decided to offer a clinical report on her own life. “And piece by piece, he unraveled me, peeling back every layer until there was nothing left but the truth I’d buried underneath.”
“You still want him.” The voice came from behind, low and calm, but it might as well have been a thunderclap.
Ursula was on her feet, knives already in hand, as shadows crawled up her arms, hungry and ready to strike. “Who the fuck are you, and why are you here?”
Emmaline shook herself free from the numb fog that had settled over her, rubbing her eyes like she’d been underwater too long. She turned just in time to see Aeren standing at the edge of the table, hands raised in empty-palmed surrender, though she didn’t back up an inch.
“Who are you, and why are you here?” Ursula repeated, her stare never leaving the green-haired woman.
“She’s my friend.” Emmaline stood, grabbing Ursula’s arm to pull her back down.
Shaking her off, Ursula raised a fistful of shadow. “Doesn’t look like Margo or Cassidy to me.”
“Emmaline?” Aeren’s voice stayed even, but instead of retreating, she slipped into the third chair, the movement smooth as pouring water.
She leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, facing both of them head-on.
“Maybe you should have told your very large, very stabby friend that I’d be joining you in your little endeavor. ”
“You told someone?!” Ursula hissed, and the shadows flared darker, darting toward Aeren like vipers. But before they could rend flesh from bone, a shield of pale light snapped into place, catching the dark tendrils with a crackle like ice freezing over.
“Shadow witch,” Aeren growled, flexing her fingers.
“That’s Shadow Queen to you, bitch.”
Emmaline groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “Goddess, give me strength.” She reached across the table, grabbing Aeren and Ursula’s hands and slamming them down onto the scarred wood. “You’re both drawing too much attention!”
The tavern had gone deathly quiet, with every eye locked on their table.
Ursula’s mouth twisted. “Fuck.” She shot a sheepish grin toward the bar. “Sorry about that, Jerri! The wench owes me money. We’ll be leaving shortly.”
A door creaked open behind the bar, and a man built like an ancient oak stepped out of the kitchen, one meaty hand settling protectively on Jerri’s shoulder. “Make it sooner rather than later. We don’t need trouble here.”
“Of course.” Aeren turned the full force of her smile on him. “If you’d be so kind to give us a few minutes to finish our drinks, I’d be most grateful. You wouldn’t want to see The Violet Menace here when she’s underhydrated.” She stage-whispered the last bit, eyes twinkling.
The man’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Ten minutes.” Then, he disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Violet Menace.” Ursula huffed a laugh, shaking her head the moment the door swung shut. “Sounds like a burlesque act I’d actually pay to see.”
“Better than The Forest Fart, which is what my brother used to call me.” Aeren followed with a roll of her eyes. “As if his hair wasn’t greener than mine.”
“Brother?” Ursula’s brow lifted, her gaze sweeping over Aeren. “All right. That tracks. The hair and eyes give it away.” She tapped her knuckles on the table. “And you want in on this?”
“Yes.”
“And Emmaline told you—everything? You know what we’re planning?”
Aeren’s smile was all teeth. “I want my pound of flesh. For both me and Deyric.”
Ursula pressed her lips together like she was weighing options, then shrugged. “Fine. I trust Emmaline’s judgment.”
Emmaline choked on her drink.
“In this, at least.”
“Hmm.” Emmaline hummed, the tension in her neck easing. Maybe these two wouldn’t kill each other after all.
Then Aeren’s eyes snagged on the objects Ursula had laid out on the table, her breath faltering like she’d walked face-first into a wall.
“Who—” The word rasped out, strangled. “Why the fuck do you have those?”
Ursula placed the velvet bag over the grisly collection, fingers splayed wide like she could physically cage the energy seeping from them. “Light users are so squeamish.”
Aeren’s breath shuddered out, her shoulders dropping like a weight had been lifted. Whatever magic had lashed out at her when she saw the items had retreated under the shielding cloth.
Emmaline frowned. “What are they?”
“Trophies.” Aeren nearly gagged on the word, hand gripping the table like she needed the solid wood to anchor her. Her wide eyes cut to Ursula. “Please tell me they’re not yours.”
“Of course not,” Ursula growled. “I am many things, but I’ve never sunk to that level of depravity.”
“Depravity?” Emmaline’s brows knit together. “Ursula, what exactly are we dealing with here?”
The big woman slouched forward, elbows on the table, her bulk folding inward in a way that made her look smaller than Emmaline had ever seen her. Her voice dropped to a whisper that still felt too loud for what she was saying.
“Apparently, the late Lady Allistair had herself a little side hobby of luring supposedly ‘lesser’ fae to a hidden lair, trapping them, and bleeding them slowly for days. She would then bathe in their blood.”
“Lyra’s breath.” Emmaline’s fists planted on the table. “Are all nobles that rotten, or do we just have the good fortune of seeing the worst of them? Besides Margo, of course.”
“Truth. And I’m the dark witch.” Ursula’s smirk was razor-sharp.
“Meanwhile, Lady Bloodbath back there was literally marinating in fae guts, and nobody said a thing.” She drummed both hands once—loud and sudden—against the tabletop.
“But here’s the kicker. The Patrol was actually planning to close the case once they found out.
If Caelith had managed to pin this all on you, you’d be a folk hero. ”
“Okay…” Emmaline bit at the edge of her nail. “At least something good came out of this mess, I guess. Her death, I mean—even if it wasn’t on purpose.”
“The Goddess moves as she wills.” Aeren bowed her head.
“Convenient.” Emmaline hugged herself. “For all the people She forgot to save.” She turned to Ursula. “But why do you have her trophies? And what does any of this have to do with me?”
“We couldn’t find a way to take Isolde, at least not without the whole thing blowing back on us.
” Ursula swung the velvet bag once, then tucked it back into her vest. “But now, when the Patrol comes knocking for Caelith tomorrow, even though they won’t find him, they will find these.
” She patted her pocket. “In Lady Isolde’s private chambers.
Unwarded. Bare to the air. Any Corgi will scent them before they even step inside. ”
“She’ll go down.” Emmaline’s heart kicked hard, something dangerously close to glee bubbling up in her chest. “They’ll think all three of them—Allistair, Caelith, and Isolde—were running a noble rape and murder ring. Especially with Margo, a Lady of a great house, filing the accusation herself.”
“Exactly. The other houses will have no choice but to cut ties and let her fall. Isolde will either be executed or exiled, if they’re feeling unusually merciful. All the while, a manhunt is launched for Caelith.”
“Who will, of course, never be found.” Aeren finished the sentence.
“At least not in anything bigger than a souvenir vile.” Emmaline traced a fingertip along the rim of her glass, the certainty in her voice leaving no room for argument, dark and absolute as a death knell.
Before either Ursula or Aeren could respond, Jerri approached their table, hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. “I’m so sorry, ladies, but it’s time to go. Wren insists.”
Ursula stood first, bowing low with exaggerated flair. “Thank you for the kind hospitality, beautiful.” She pulled a small pouch of coins from her pocket, pressing it slowly into Jerri’s palm. “For any trouble our… enthusiasm may have caused.”
Jerri’s blush crept back, but she didn’t let go of the pouch.
Emmaline and Aeren followed as Ursula led the way toward the door, her wide stride cutting a clear path through the room. They’d almost reached the exit when Jerri’s voice rang out again.
“Wait!” She twisted her apron between her fingers. “Can I—will I see you again?”
Ursula paused, turning just enough to flash a mischievous grin over her shoulder. “Not tonight, love. Very busy. But tomorrow? Tomorrow’s the solstice, and I’ll be celebrating in all the worst ways.” She winked. “You’re welcome to join me if you think you can keep up.”