Chapter 38
The guards took note of important individuals and their departure times.
Grastelian vassal nobles. Chancellor Valdren. Lady Milena, elegant and composed, on King Karsan’s arm as they slipped through a private exit.
After escaping the garden, Ksenia retired for the night herself, resting a hand on the shoulder of a young Envorsen with a shock of silvered hair.
Her laugh was soft and genuine as she bade him good night, his face flushing red from her attention.
Ksenia didn’t bother to change out of her dress.
It drew less suspicion if she appeared to be a happy, drunken maiden stumbling back within the halls of Hearth for a late-night meeting with her paramour.
Her second mark.
Valdren’s room was deep in the eastern wing of Hearth on the third floor.
Ksenia knocked softly.
A ruddy-faced Valdren peered through the cracked door, his eye twinkling when he spotted Ksenia’s devilish golden eyes peering back.
He beckoned her forth with a pudgy finger.
The curtains were drawn closed, and an excessive number of candles in varying-sized candelabras were clustered against the walls by the lit fireplace. At a large oak table, a spread of breads, cheeses, and an assortment of wines awaited her.
Despite the stifling heat, Ksenia’s skin chilled when Valdren’s damp palm settled upon her shoulder, sliding down to grasp her hand.
She pasted a saccharine smile upon her face and let him lead her to the table.
His eyes flicked between her and the wine glasses. Ksenia groaned inwardly and poured the liquid woodenly into the matching crystal.
Just a little longer yet and you’ll be rid of him… Vornaya’s voice in her mind was comforting for once.
On the bed, Ksenia noted lengths of silken rope and a matching scarf, placed deliberately.
She could taste the bile on her tongue, but she summoned a playful gleam to her eyes instead, leading him handily to bed.
Valdren chuckled, low and anticipatory. “Forward, aren’t we? I knew you would be a delight…”
She worked quickly—trussing him with a rope, tying down each of his limbs, strung tightly to the pillars of the bed with his back against the headboard.
She deliberately removed her stocking, letting the silk slide down her leg. Then stuffed it in his mouth.
His eyes darkened with anticipation as she bound it tightly with the scarf.
She produced Caromir from her hip.
The yellowed whites of his eyes ringed with fear.
She dragged the razor-sharp tip against the folds of his neck as he quivered.
The stench of fear rolled off him—pungent, acrid, thick enough to taste. A muffled whimper pressed through his gag.
You’ve terrified the poor thing, Vornaya admonished.
“Oh, Valdren,” Ksenia simpered, her hand stroking his face as she settled between his spread legs. “I thought you had darker appetites, but maybe I was wrong. I didn’t mean to cause panic…” Her smile was poisonous honey.
A relieved sigh pressed through his nostrils, his body slackening—foolish man, chastising himself for thinking such dark thoughts about her.
The whites of her teeth glowed in the candlelight and she slammed a hand over the gag, pinning his head back. The sapphire brooch at his neck bobbed.
Caromir plunged behind his collarbone, severing the artery with a precise thrust.
His scream was muffled against her palm as he writhed like a salted slug.
White-hot, incandescent power sang through her veins. She gasped, eyes fluttering, lost in the heat. And for a moment, she was invincible.
This feeling never grows old.
He struggled for half a minute before losing consciousness. The blood pooling within his chest cavity kept the crime nice and clean.
Slowly, she withdrew from her euphoria and back to the task at hand.
Ksenia calmly removed her blade to clean it in his bathroom sink before sheathing the weapon.
Only a minute or so had passed, and she spent the remainder of her time within his chambers, arranging him to be a picture of peaceful slumber, his head angled to cover the fatal wound.
His eyelids were drawn over his watery eyes.
She retrieved the stocking from his mouth, the lengths of rope, and the scarf before surveying her work with a critical eye.
She tossed the binds and gag into the fireplace and slipped from his chambers like any other courtesan into the night.
The next evening, screams rang out through the third floor of Hearth.
Valdren was an incorrigible drunk on the best of days, and the maids tended to wait until late morning before easing the door to his quarters open.
Word had traveled that his curtains were drawn tight against the light, and no one had paid any attention to his slumped form in bed—still sleeping off the alcohol from the celebration, no doubt.
It was when he hadn’t roused for lunch and skipped the treasury dinner with Karsan and some Grastelian diplomats that a poor servant crept closer to the bloated man and discovered Valdren Kovar dead in his chambers.
“Well, at least it didn’t happen at Kindling, right?” Ksenia offered.
Her attempt at improving the situation was met with silence. The line of Bohdan’s back was stiff and unyielding as he walked before her toward Valdren’s chambers.
They entered the empty bedroom, where the corpse still lay prone with the covers drawn.
Valdren’s eyelids were shut peacefully, his mouth gently parted with all the pretense of a soft snore. But no breath came from his lungs.
His face was jaundiced, and his fingertips were beginning to purple.
“Do we have any witnesses who saw when he left Kindling?”
Ksenia flipped through sheafs of parchment in the middle of the room. “He left shortly after you and I saw him, according to the guards.”
“Did they mention anyone he walked out with?”
“No. He left by himself.” Ksenia scratched her chin thoughtfully.
Bohdan pressed his finger against Kovar’s arm. “Valdren Kovar was assassinated no more than a few hours later, judging by the rigidity of his body and the pooling of blood in his extremities.”
He turned to Ksenia. “Did anyone see him entertaining guests last night?”
“No, nearly all of our guards were managing Kindling, so security patrol was sparse within the castle, and servants were busy with food and drink at the ball.” Ksenia kept her gaze neutral, cocking a hip.
By my design.
Bohdan pinched his brow, then reached to press Valdren’s face away, revealing a nondescript puncture wound behind the collarbone. “Effective.” He clicked his tongue.
I know.
“Guards reported you leaving shortly after Valdren.” He began rolling his sleeves, unhurried. “Explain.”
Her eyes tracked the movement, his fingers folding the fabric over his taut forearms with that infuriating precision before she caught herself and looked away.
“If I must.” She sat back against the edge of Valdren’s oaken desk, arms crossing over her chest. “You tore my corset while you were being unnecessarily rude. I couldn’t spend the rest of the evening clutching it to my chest.”
He stilled, one hand hooked in his pocket.
“Though I’d suspect you’d find that entertaining,” she said, tossing the papers on the desk behind her without looking. “So, I left.” A flask appeared in her hand. “Ask Lev, we had quite the conversation about it before I turned in for the evening.”
Bohdan traced the sallow skin of Valdren’s forehead, blistered with that same calling card, then held her gaze before he moved past her to the door.
Click.
Curiosity tilted her head.
“Empty your pockets.” He turned to face her.
Better put on a show.
She laughed, then raked a hand through her hair. Her fingers grazed the nape of her tunic collar as they settled at her neck, closing on the maker’s mark tucked there.
She let it drop into the back of her tunic as her hand fell away.
“What?”
“Everything on your person.” His eyes roved her body. “Pockets. Whatever you have tucked in that corset.” He stepped closer.
She slowly set her flask on the table behind her. The mark pressed warm against her spine, nestled between her tunic and the top edge of her corset.
“Since you asked so nicely, Captain.”
He stilled.
She bit the fingertips of her lambskin gloves, yanking them off one by one before presenting her hands front and back with theatrical innocence.
Then, she unbuttoned her cuffs.
“Be careful to avoid cutting yourself on that,” she said sweetly, setting Caromir on the table.
She fixed her half-lidded golden orbs upon his with a bemused smile.
A throwing knife. Poisoned needles arranged in a neat row. A pair of dice. A playing card from the winning hand at the Crooked Lantern. An unlabeled vial of blue powder.
His green eyes narrowed fractionally.
Chin tilted toward her waist. “The corset.”
“So eager.”
Her fingers looped through the suede ribbon and loosened the contraption. She lifted it away, and the warm metal stamp slid down to her waistband and tucked tunic, settling against the small of her back.
“I should thank you for this, actually.” With a groan, she pressed both hands against the back of her hips, fingers curling briefly inward, tucking the object lower until it slipped into her trouser leg and fell into her boot.
“Focus, Senka.” His voice was soft but heated.
“Of course, Captain.” She bent and loosened the laces on each boot. “Every minute we spend here, the killer slips further away.”
Her fingers closed around the maker’s mark as she reached inside the back of the left one and retrieved a throwing knife in her right, placing it on the table.
She turned back to face him. Arms crossed, shoulders tilted jauntily. “Satisfied?”
“No.” He closed the distance between them. “Hold your hair up. Both hands.”
In the crook of her elbow, she quickly wedged the metal object atop her middle finger with her ring and index finger holding it still.
“This is doing wonders for our trust-building.” A smile curved her mouth as she thrust both palms forward and slid her hands into her messy tresses, twisting them into a bun atop her head.
Silence.