5
“Long before the ascension of the Regiment and the consolidation of state religion, there were whisperings of a creature that fed on demonic energy. Although indistinguishable from regular humans, diabolists were believed to have been created in the depths of hell itself.”
It’s immediately obvious that Tuonela’s is a speakeasy.
The scent of liquor assaults my nose the moment I enter.
Drugs and alcohol are illegal throughout Sundbourg—twenty or so years ago, the Regiment outlawed all varieties of both, claiming it would decrease violence and immorality across the country.
It didn’t work, obviously, unless the goal was to give organized crime countless new business opportunities.
The speakeasy’s popularity tonight is a testament to that, but the place nonetheless has a surreptitious vibe. Jazz music drifts from a turntable in one of the corners, and patrons congregate around groupings of velvet chairs and vinyl sofas. Many bear the marks of sinners.
It’s uncommon to work as a hired sinner full-time, the way I do for Gabriel, but that doesn’t mean the average person isn’t sinning for their own reasons.
Sometimes it’s necessary for survival. Those in a financial bind can even pick up one-time jobs from the wealthy—doing petty crime for hire can actually be a decent gig.
Overall, the establishments in the Trench are nothing like those in other parts of Valestadt.
Rather than being unnerved, however, I find myself relaxing.
This is a place where no one will eye my gloves suspiciously or wrinkle their noses at my hastily dyed hair.
In fact, nobody so much as turns in my direction as I follow my unwitting mark toward the bar.
The other patrons give him a wide berth.
He draws a considerable amount of attention in his all-black ensemble, and it’s obvious why.
Sure, he’s startlingly attractive, but in an unnerving way.
Not the kind of handsome you might see in an advertisement, but the kind most people are afraid to touch.
He looks like someone you might cross the street to avoid.
Someone you fuck once and never speak to again.
He braces his arms on the bar, flicking a hand at the man behind it. “An old-fashioned. And”—he shoots me a glance—“a corpse reviver.”
I nearly choke on nothing, though I’m able to discern it must be a type of drink. I’m irked he didn’t bother asking what I wanted. But arrogance makes for an easy mark, so I slink closer to him with a demure curve of my lips. “Should I take that as an insult?”
“Not at all.” The way he tilts his head is almost predatory.
As he reaches for the drinks—which arrived instantaneously—I notice his wrists and the backs of his hands are tattooed as well.
I can’t make out the designs in the dim light, but they narrow into cursive script that extends up his fingers.
I take the drink he hands me. It’s vile, but I level him with a sultry gaze over the rim of the glass. Swallowing deeply, I set it down, brushing my own gloved finger lightly over his knuckles. “I like these.”
“Do you?” He arches a dark brow—the color is at odds with his hair. “You’re going to love the rest of them, then.”
Arrogant and presumptuous. I want to laugh in his face. Instead I grin as though I find him delightfully witty, settling onto the stool at his side. “You haven’t even told me your name yet.”
Bemusement lifts one side of his mouth. “You didn’t ask.”
“I’m asking now.”
“Slade,” he says, taking a pull from his glass. That tattooed throat shifts. “And yours?”
I hesitate, but it isn’t like my name holds any real importance. I’m playing a game, after all, and I can’t shake the uncomfortable sensation that Slade is playing one too.
“Talin.” I lower my lashes. Time to steer the conversation. “You obviously come here often. What’s Rhamnousia?”
He props one elbow on the surface of the bar, leaning close so I can better hear him over the dull cacophony of voices. “A goddess of revenge. Retribution for arrogance, if you want to get specific.”
“I take it you admire her.”
“I admire anyone who enacts vengeance when merited.”
“I can drink to that.”
Slade’s glacial eyes lock with mine as he drags his tongue along the ridge of his teeth. Despite my earlier assumptions, he doesn’t look at me like a man possessed by lust. He looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether I might be good to eat.
“You obviously don’t come here often,” he purrs, and I know he isn’t just talking about the speakeasy.
I shrug. “I don’t have much reason to.”
“Not even for the alcohol?”
“I usually prefer to keep my wits about me.” The moment I say the words, I regret them. They belong to me, not my flirty alter ego.
“Always a good idea.”
Though he speaks mildly, it sounds like a threat. I narrow my eyes. My every instinct tells me to get away from this man, but at the same time I want to see just how close I can get. The two feelings are impossible to reconcile. I need to cut to the chase.
“So. You have your finger on the pulse of the Trench,” I begin, and Slade’s easy grin turns wicked.
“You have no idea.”
“Tell me, then.” I lean closer, conspiratorial. Our faces are mere inches apart now, each of us resting an arm on the bar. He smells like something spicy laced with smoke. “Have you heard the rumors about the Solemn Apostles?”
His sharp jaw twitches. There’s the barest shadow of scruff along it, further confirming my assumption that he’s naturally dark-haired.
“You mean how the community near Valestadt burned a few years ago? That’s not a rumor, sweetheart.
I always said the faithful were fools for holding their services by candlelight when every temple is made of lacquered wood. ”
Don’t I know it. The Regiment refuses to install electricity even in more recently built temples. “I mean the rumors that they’re back.”
“It’d take longer than three years for a new community to come together.
Most of the surviving children aren’t old enough to pick up where their parents left off.
” Slade cuts me a sideways look. “If it’s rumors you’re interested in, how about the one where they sacrifice their own to keep the devil at bay? ”
I scoff, tempering the sound at the last second. “And do you think it’s true?”
Slade lifts his glass to his lips again, studying me. Never have I seen such cold eyes; every glance seems to issue a challenge that I’m determined to meet.
You can’t frighten me, I want to tell him. I imagine drawing a finger across that pouty mouth. I don’t feel fear—I inspire it.
“I don’t think the devil would care for anything humanity has to offer him,” Slade says eventually, voice smooth. “Except, perhaps, for their sins.”
“And are you a sinner?” My question is teasing. The tattoos, the obvious vigilance, his familiarity with the Trench… Combined with the air of danger surrounding him, he’s surely someone’s prized weapon.
His teeth flash. “You have to ask?”
“For who, then?” Nobody high up in the Regiment would hire someone who looks so blatantly like a sinner. Perhaps I was right about a connection to organized crime.
“Would you answer me if I asked you the same question?”
I give him a sly look but remain silent.
“That’s what I thought.” Slade sets his drink aside, rising to his feet. There’s something about the way he moves—a sort of feral energy, yet at the same time each action seems carefully calculated. “Let’s take this someplace more private.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s propositioning me. No, that isn’t quite right—he didn’t ask a question. He simply assumes I’ll follow him. Obviously he isn’t accustomed to being turned down.
Part of me wants to say no for that very reason. Another part of me, though, suspects he has more information than he’s let on. And if there’s one thing I know to be true about men, it’s that they speak more freely once you get them thinking with their cock.
Besides, hooking up with Slade won’t be any hardship. There’s a third part of me that isn’t thinking strategically at all: a part of me that wonders how he would feel, how he would taste, and whether his tattoos continue all the way down his body.
He looks like a man who uses teeth. Which is, incidentally, the only kind of man I’m interested in.
“Lead the way,” I tell him.
Perhaps I should be more worried about being alone with Slade, but when the most powerful man in Sundbourg is your employer, dropping Gabriel’s name is usually enough to ensure your protection. If that doesn’t work, the pendant bearing the Markovich crest does the trick.
Eyes track our progress as Slade leads me to a door in the darkest corner of the speakeasy.
Several patrons are smoking here, blanketing the area in a light, acrid haze.
The record player spins something darker, quieter.
Slade circumvents the final group in our path, and I trail a finger up his arm as he wrenches the door handle.
The room adjacent is an empty lounge. An overhead light is on—a single bulb that flickers and sputters in its valiant attempt to cast a fluorescent glow over the space.
It alternates between buzzing dully, then more audibly, like a fly slamming over and over into a pane of glass.
I take quick stock of my surroundings. The lounge doesn’t deviate much from the rest of the speakeasy, though less care has been taken with the atmosphere.
The door on the opposite side of the room is clearly marked as an exit, which pleases me. I like to have an escape route.
The bulb flickers again as Slade shuts the door.
Up close, he’s even more severe-looking.
I can see every tendon in his tattooed neck down to the hollow at the base of his throat.
The harsh platinum of his hair has begun to fade on the sides, which are cut very short.
There’s a small golden hoop through one of his nostrils, and another through the cartilage of his left ear.
He looks like the physical manifestation of a bad decision.
“You know,” he says, voice silk-soft, “I could tell what you were from the moment I saw you outside. Someone is very lucky to have you.”
I remember him calling me little sinner, and how I’d fought not to let it irk me. I make my own voice teasing when I respond. “That they are. You’d better tread carefully.”
He takes a step closer, then another. I move with him, letting him shepherd me backward, stopping when my shoulders collide with the wall. I get the sense that he’s gauging my reactions, and I reach for him, impatience making me bold.
The lapels of his jacket are smooth beneath my gloves.
If Slade wonders about them, he doesn’t say as much.
He lets me pull him close, a low, bemused hum escaping his throat.
Heat erupts in my stomach at the sound, and I drag my gaze over the shadowed angles of his face.
Every part of him looks sharp to the touch.
I lift one hand, intending to caress his cheek, but he catches me by the wrist.
“I am not,” he murmurs, “careful.”
It’s a clear warning. An opening for me to back away.
Instead, I shutter my eyes as he turns my hand over, examining the discolored lattice of my veins where they disappear beneath the sleeve of my jacket.
I’m not a self-conscious person—not until it comes to the Bloodrot.
In any other encounter I might snatch my hand back rather than allow him to examine me, or else demand we turn the lights out.
This time, though, all protests dissolve on my tongue.
It’s been far too long since I was touched like this.
His lips don’t form a prayer, and there’s no disgust on his face.
No sadness or pity. There’s only desire.
That, I think, undoes me more than his appearance ever could.
The delicate underside of my wrist responds to his caress as if it’s suddenly become the most intimate part of me, and something feral builds within my chest. My breaths come faster as his grip tightens, bordering on painful.
I wonder if he can tell that I like painful.
He lifts my hand, slamming it to the wall above my head and pinning it there. Then, as if reading my mind, he lowers his head to bring his lips to my ear. “You don’t strike me as a woman who likes it gentle. Are you?”
“You don’t strike me as a man who cares either way,” I fire back, but I’m audibly breathless. I tilt my chin up, giving him better access to my neck, and shutter my eyes against the overhead light.
“On the contrary. I care very much.” So fast that I’m not quite sure how it happens, Slade’s body is flush against mine.
He presses against me, trapping me between him and the wall as ink-laced fingers wind into my hair.
I give an involuntary shudder as his teeth scrape my throat.
The pressure is delicate, driving me wild, and I huff a laugh.
I’m surprised at the intensity of my own reaction, especially when it comes to this man far too cocky for his own good.
When he shuts his mouth, though, Slade exudes a confounding sort of draw I can’t wrap my head around.
For the first time since I can remember, I don’t want to fuck just to feel something.
This is more animal, more urgent. I want his teeth pressed into my skin until I feel the ache.
I want to remove my gloves, dig my nails into his flesh, and leave crescent marks in my wake.
I am hot, so hot, and all I can smell is the smoke-and-spice scent of him.
I try to conceive of a question to ask him, a way to get the answers I came for without arousing his suspicion, but my mind is strangely foggy. I feel control slipping in a way I neither like nor understand. Some dim corner of my brain remembers the drink—did he drug me somehow?
“Stop,” I bite out.
Slade pulls back at once, and for a moment his features put me further on edge.
They’re dark. Hungry. Almost inhuman. When he blinks, however, he looks normal again.
Confusion sits in the divot between his brows, but somehow I get the sense it has nothing to do with my sudden rejection. Wrongness erupts at my core.
“I have to go,” I say.
I watch the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath his jawline. “Are you sure?” His voice is too enticing. “Is there nothing you’d like to share with me?”
I don’t know what the fuck that means. Foreboding has become a physical sensation that creeps across my skin. Keen to make my point, I grab the chain at my throat, turning the face of the pendant toward him. The Markovich symbol flashes in the dim light.
Slade’s reaction isn’t what I expected.
There’s recognition, of course, but what follows isn’t fear. Instead, he leaps away as though I’ve burned him, eyes positively glacial.
“What the fuck,” he snarls, “is that?”