Chapter 23 | Sephania
Sephania
We head to the Stiff Tabernacle following our eventful excursion at Lady Belola’s abode. The Tabernacle is a wayward tavern full of cutthroats and hardened thieves.
Rather than leaving a trail of bodies behind us, we decide on a more clandestine approach this time. Vallan and Garroway will stay outside so their pale skin doesn’t draw any unwanted attention. The place is packed full of rowdy drinkers and we’ve made enough scenes for one evening.
“The Bronzes will be investigating Perevis’ gambling den up north, since he had actual money and pull in Nuhavian society,” I tell them. “Then they might make their way down to Lady Belola.”
“I don’t like this, silverblood,” Vallan says. Judging by Garroway’s expression, he’s in the same camp.
“Your bloodsight will alert you if I’m in danger, no?” I ask.
He frowns through his beard. “It’s been at a steady hum all evening. Every step you take around these vermin puts you in harm’s way.”
I smile. “Then it’ll be easy to sense a spike of alarm if something truly goes awry, my big brute.” I peck him on the cheek and do the same to Garro before stepping out of the carriage.
“I’ll lock onto a rogue rat or something inside,” Garro informs me, “to keep a closer eye on you. Be quick, yes, badger?”
I give them an extravagant bow and salute with my arm against my breasts. “You have my word, my worried bloodsuckers.”
As I make my way across the street to the loud tavern, Garro shouts after me, “We’re not worried! We’re logical!”
His words leave me smiling to myself as I pull my hood up and push into the tavern.
The familiar stale stench hits me like a wall.
It’s stuffy and disgusting in here. I’m taller than most men, so I can see over their shoulders.
Taking a final glance at the picture on the page, I stuff the parchment away in my tunic and meander through the tavern.
No one pays me any attention. The dozens of vagrants in here can’t see my face, for the most part, which gives me easy access to theirs. I make my way past booths, tossing vague glances at every man I pass.
I stop at a table where three men sit, playing cards and yelling at each other. The table is amid a throng of drinkers. A fight breaks out in another part of the Tabernacle, drawing some attention in that direction.
At the table, I spot the man I’m looking for. With how wild and loud it is in here, it’s easy to glide behind him.
I pull a dagger from my belt, opting for the compact, quieter blade. Leaning forward, I whisper, “This is for Sister Cyprilis,” though I’m not sure if he hears me over the din of conversation around us.
Before he can turn his head, I plant my dagger into his neck from behind, severing his spine and leaving the blade there. There’s nary any blood or sound other than a quiet groan as I quickly vanish into the nearby crowd.
The man across from the dead slaver growls, “Hoy, you drunk, man? I said I call. Show me your hand—”
A loud thump as the man faceplants onto the table, sending coins and drinks clattering. The hilt of my dagger sticks up from the nape of his neck.
“Fuck!” The man launches to his feet. “Doyvon’s been killt!”
I slither through the front door before the search for the assassin can even begin, before the tavern erupts into chaos.
After our successful mission in Nuhav, we return to the mountains. At the end of the evening, Vallan informs me he will be making inquiries about the other four names on the list—vampires one and all.
“They may prove to be more difficult to dispatch,” he says. When he notices my disapproving glare, he adds, “Doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”
“Good. Thank you, boys. We did fine work today.”
“I feel better already.” Vallan stretches his bulky arms over his head. “Nothing like killing wretches to ease the mind.”
“Is there something . . . bothering you, Vall?”
He flaps a hand at me and wanders off toward a room in Manor Marquin. Dawn is swiftly approaching and we all need rest. “Nothing to worry yourself over, silverblood.”
Of course his words only make me more concerned, and I share that expression with Garroway.
“As you said, lass,” he starts once we’re alone in the foyer, “he will tell us when he’s ready, if that day ever comes.”
We’ve had an eventful evening, so the three of us sleep without any raunchiness. It’s sad, because I would love nothing more than a good tumble in bed after such an exhilarating evening, to wind down.
Alas, maybe tomorrow.
I have a strange dream that night, one where I know I’m dreaming, yet that doesn’t make it more palatable.
A woman screams in my ear, bleeding from her eyes, and I can’t tell if it’s Lady Belola or Sister Cyprilis.
Her face seems to morph between the two, diving in and out of shadowy recesses.
Then I’m running through a dismal alley, tripping up as howling laughter trails me.
The scent of unwashed men surrounds me, and I jolt up awake when they reach for my hair to pull me up.
It’s that yank of my hair that wakes me upright, gasping for breath. I look around the quaint bedchamber and realize I’m alone, safe. My heart pounds in my chest.
The last part of the nightmare seemed like a memory rather than nonsense. Cy’s memory, perhaps, of getting stolen by her handlers?
Over the next week, I make good on my promise to Sister Cyprilis and return to the Chained Sisters every evening, without fail. Part of my concern stems from the dream I had.
I give Cy a small sampling of my blood each night, with Iron Sister Keffa and my mother watching over us.
And each night, the nightmare returns. It becomes more vivid and horrible.
One night I’m reclined with my legs spread, a disgusting man pumping into me, and I realize my legs are not my own.
I see a dagger sticking out the back of the man’s neck with every thrust of his hips.
The next night, I’m locked away in a cell. Four shadows prowl the peripheries, their faces just out of sight. They laugh and throw wicked barbs at me, calling me a whore and breeding sow. They say I’ll never see my children again, unless I make them happy.
I tell my mother of these dreams one night.
Jinneth frowns. “I was worried about this.”
“About what, Mother?”
“About Cyprilis attaching her thoughts to you the more she sups from you, Sephania.”
We sit in a quiet room of the Chained Sisters’ abode. Skartovius is with me this evening, as Vallan continues to search for the vampires on Cy’s list and Garroway finishes up business in Nuhav.
We decided to tell Skar what we were doing and, as expected, he threw a fit. But the nobleblood quickly tamped his tantrum and said he would be joining me to the Chained Sisters from here on out, until we learned the outcome of my bloodletting. He’s too curious to be angry.
“I had this happen before,” I tell Jinneth. “When my blood was used to aid an enemy”—Dimmon—“and he began to call me his mistress, despite being turned by another vampire.”
Jinneth pulls at her chin, deep in thought. “Yes, it is quite troubling. I don’t want you to push yourself too far, my dear.”
“Push too far?”
“Don’t you see? This isn’t sustainable. I understand you wish to save everyone, Sephania, but at what cost? You’re starting to fuse Cyprilis’ horrid thoughts with your own. Can you imagine if five other threads invaded? Ten? Twenty?”
I understand what she’s saying. Still, I won’t let her talk me out of my calling. “Then we need to figure a way to make it more sustainable. I won’t stop trying to help these people, Mother.” I quirk my brow. “Isn’t that why the Chained Sisters first came about? To help people?”
She opens her mouth to speak, stalling when she sees the determined glint in my eye. Creases line my forehead, my lips set in a severe frown.
Slowly, Jinneth smiles at me. She lets out a soft sigh. “I miss it, sometimes.”
“Miss what?”
“Miss having the fire inside me that you do now, my dear.”
My mother is correct about one thing: Using my Loreblood to save anyone else could lead to catastrophe. A week after my final bloodletting with Cyprilis, I can hear her more noisily than ever in my head. It’s a steady stream of half-mad thoughts pulsing in and out of my ears.
If I try to use my Loreblood to save another person, I’m worried I’ll go mad myself from their interwoven memories and thoughts colliding with mine.
That evening, Vallan tells me he is close to tracking down the members of the bloodsucker quartet that kept Cyprilis a sex slave for years, after the human breeders.
“When I do, I will tell you,” he explains, knowing I’ll want revenge more than anyone. “We won’t act so careless with this lot like we did with the humans. They are a different breed, silverblood.”
“Understood.” I’m willing to let Vallan take the reins on this one. My thirst for blood has somewhat abated over the past fortnight as I prepare for my “meeting” settled by Skartovius, and as I lose my mind to the constant barrage of a vampiress’ addled thoughts in my head.
I tell Vallan I want to meet the silversmith in Nuhav.
“Vanison Shirin is a notoriously difficult man to get hold of. He’s slippery.”
“Are you saying you can’t do it?” I challenge.
His eyes glitter a bloody hue.
Three hours later, we’re in the deepest reaches of Nuhav, behind a broken-down tenement, underground, walking into the damp, dark corridors of Vanison Shirin’s workshop.
The cave-like room is a mess—compact, tables stacked high with papers, scrolls, and drawings.
A place that would be easy to abandon at a moment’s notice.
The man who rises from his seat behind one messy table is tall, with long dark hair and slight gray at his temples.
He’s a handsome man, and the top few buttons of his tunic are undone, showing a forest of chest hair.
The man reminds me more of a rake than a smith. He shoots Vallan a small smirk, showing none of the fear most men do when they lay eyes on the hulking bloodsucker. “Lord Stellos, a pleasure. Do you have something for me?”
I step out from Vall’s shadow, frowning menacingly. “I was hoping you might have something for me, sir.”
Vanison’s eyes narrow, dangerous and skittering between me and Vallan like he thinks he’s been betrayed. “What’s the meaning of this, Vallan?”
“She’s persuasive,” Vall quips. “You would do well to listen to her, Vanison. We came all this way to see you.” There’s a low threat in his tone, and I love him for it.
Vanison perks up like nothing is amiss, pulling his shoulders back so we stand at eye level. “I’ve seen crude drawings of you popping up across the city in recent weeks,” he says. “Usually with a nasty title attached to them on the walls of alleyways and abandoned buildings.”
“Crude drawings?”
Vanison shoots me a charming smirk, but I’m not so easily disarmed. “Sometimes you are in a defiant pose, fist raised, a call-to-arms.” He shrugs. “Other times you’re bent over a barrel with a group of men—”
“Enough,” Vallan growls.
“You’ve made quite a name for yourself in Nuhav, Bitch-Queen Sephania. Especially given the eventful deaths spreading across town among the slavetraders, attributed to you.”
“You’ve built quite a name also, albeit more secretively, Vanison Shirin, brother to Indokkus.”
His pretty face crinkles. “Just how is my elder brother these days? Still causing a ruckus at Manor Marquin?”
I croak out a chuckle, realizing his play on words.
I’ve seen Indokkus at Skar’s parties. The vampire looks twenty years younger than this man, because I suspect he was turned when they were hardly past their youth.
Vanison has aged significantly, as all humans do.
His older brother has not. “He remains in good favor with Lord Ashfen,” I answer, unsure if that’s true.
“Praise the True,” Vanison muses in a tone that tells me he doesn’t give a shit. “Why are you here?”
There’s keen intellect in his eyes as they narrow on me. I suspect an outlaw silversmith doesn’t live for long without some expert survival instincts at his disposal. It’s clear he doesn’t trust me but he has no choice but to deal with me because Vallan stands like a gargoyle in my shadow.
It annoys me having to use my men for props. That being said, I’ll do it all day to get the results I desire.
Vanison Shirin is rather lanky, without the well-built arms of a blacksmith. His hands look soft—not like they toil with hammers and forges. He looks more akin to a serpentine politician than a maker of forbidden weapons.
It’s my hope this viper will become a great ally of mine.
I tell the serpent, “I’m in need of a new dagger. I left mine in someone’s spine.”
From the depths of the underground, Vallan and I emerge an hour later and make our way to the rooster-topped brothel. I’m hoping against hope that he will not be there, though I suspect he will.
Vallan stays outside as I enter, keeping eyes off his imposing stature that’s sure to scare everyone.
Sure enough, when I walk in, I spot Rirth hunched over the same spot as last time. Disgusted, I sneak up behind him. He lazily glances over at me, half-lidded eyes widening a fraction when he recognizes me through the bleariness of his mind.
Scowling at him, I reach over and produce the bag at my hip. I set it down gently in front of him, resting my hand on the oddly shaped sack.
“You said you once wanted to make a difference but lost the ability to,” I say, not bothering with a stern rebuke for finding him here again. My hand taps the bag lightly. “Let me give you something to help find your way again, brother.”
A knot forms between his brows. Scratching the dirty beard hanging off his cheeks like an unwelcome hamster, he glances down. “Sephania, what is—”
I rise from my seat, putting a palm on him and moving his hand to hover over the bag. With a quick pat on his knuckles, I say, “Don’t open it here, Rirth.”
I leave before he can respond.
As I make my way out, I hear a breathless gasp flow from his direction, and I know he’s gone against my wishes and opened the bag.
He’s seen the silver dagger inside.
Now I just hope he will use it in the right way—and that it will get Rirth out of his self-pitying rut.
Back at the carriage, Vallan frowns. “It’s done?”
I nod.
“A foolish notion, giving our enemy the strongest weapon against my kind, silverblood.”
Vallan does not see the whole picture yet. I don’t feel particularly virtuous about using my old friend to suit our purposes, planting the seed of rebellion in his mind with such a powerful gift.
I lean back on the bench as we wheel away, calculating. “It’s not foolish, Vall, so long as we guide him to point the bloody thing in the direction we want.”