30 #2
“I’ll take it.” Slade pulls away from me, abruptly businesslike. His grin is feral. “Now go and get dressed like a good girl.”
* * *
I rarely wear dresses given my line of work, but I have to admit that the one Ceri left out for me looks damn good.
It’s a sanguine red, the sleeves long enough to cover my arms and transitioning seamlessly into a pair of matching gloves.
The neck, too, is cut high enough to conceal any creeping indication of the Bloodrot.
I pull my hair into a knot that hides the black ends, leaving a few shorter pieces loose in the front.
My eyes are heavily lined, and for once there’s some color in my cheeks.
Slade looks taken aback when he sees me, which is gratifying. I watch his tongue pass over the ridge of his top teeth as he scans my body before beckoning me out the door. The walk to the center of the Reaches isn’t long, and soon we stand before an enormous building set into the mountain itself.
The Citadel.
All the breath rushes from my lungs as our purpose here becomes a sobering reality.
The building itself is elaborate to the point of excess.
It’s taller than any Regiment building I’ve ever seen, constructed of pale marble into which countless ornamental details have been carved.
It’s perfectly symmetrical from this angle, those spires I noticed from the bridge crowned by intricate pinnacles and jutting toward the sky alongside flying buttresses.
Tracery windows are the focal points, though I’m most enraptured by the statues dotting the courtyard.
Everything about the Citadel looks sharp to the touch, except perhaps the gold-plated double doors. I can’t help thinking it looks like a place the Savior himself might live. The kind of thing people like Gabriel believe will greet them in paradise.
“It’s…” I trail off, unable to find the appropriate adjective.
“Ridiculous,” Slade muses. His gaze is hard as it tracks the people milling around the courtyard.
There must be a few hundred of them, speaking quietly and drinking out of fluted crystal glasses.
Most of the attendees appear precisely as I would’ve expected: generic, expensively dressed individuals who must work for—or have ties to—the Regiment.
That said, it’s impossible to tell the difference between a chaplain, an agent, a scholar, or one of the higher-ups.
What I can tell is who belongs to none of those groups.
The sinners hover at their employers’ sides, not speaking, like minions to be commanded.
Some even have evidence of the Bloodrot on display, their bare arms discolored with bruise-like marks.
Nonetheless, they hold their chins high, their gazes cool and unwavering.
These are not the intoxicated sinners that haunt the Trench.
These are practiced thieves, careful manipulators, and hardened killers.
I swallow my disgust. “Where’s the Prophet’s Sanctum?”
Slade doesn’t answer right away. He slinks through the crowd, staying close to the wall, skirting the lamps that protrude at equal interviews. I have no other option but to follow close behind.
“I believe it’s attached to the Citadel on the western side,” he finally murmurs over his shoulder.
In the flickering light his sharp features are a study in contrast, shadows bisecting his cheekbones.
He looks severe and lovely. “It’s off-limits to everyone save the glorious Prophet himself, unless he extends an invitation. ”
“If the entrance is inside, we’d better split up. This place is enormous.”
“Absolutely not.” Slade halts just before the doors, swiveling to face me. “A chaplain wouldn’t let his sinner wander off unsupervised.”
I speak through my teeth. “I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not really your sinner, then.”
“You are tonight.” He holds out an arm, indicating that I should enter ahead of him.
The inside of the Citadel is just as elaborate as the exterior.
The air smells like wood varnish, and rows of marble pillars stretch to the vaulted ceiling, each one boasting a figure carved directly into the stone.
The only light comes from hundreds of candles, which is convenient for blending into the crowd but will make it even more difficult to figure out where we need to go.
A string quartet has set up on the far end of the room, playing a slow melody that echoes through the expansive space.
A number of couples are dancing. I cast my gaze around for Ceri and Emeric, but I don’t see them anywhere.
I continue to scan the sea of shadowed faces until I realize I’m no longer looking for Slade’s friends at all—I’m looking for Gabriel.
“Come here.” Slade pulls me into him, and for a heartbeat I worry he’s read my mind. As he slides an arm around my waist, though, I realize the reality is much worse.
“I am not dancing with you.”
“Can you think of a better way to get to the other side of the room?”
He has a point—those not dancing are standing still, mingling with their colleagues in hushed tones. It would look rather conspicuous if we shoved through the throngs of people without stopping to say a word.
“Would a chaplain dance with their hired sinner?” I mutter into Slade’s chest.
“This one would.”
“Would Astor?”
He shushes me, forcing me to move with him. “Do you ever stop asking questions?”
“No,” I say. “That’s why the Apostles kicked me out.”
There’s a rumble deep in his throat when he realizes I’m joking. I swallow, and his gaze slides down to my throat, analyzing the movement. His expression darkens. “I have a question for you, little sinner.”
“Okay.”
“You say you want to be free of my brother, but based on what I can see, you’ve already slipped from his grasp. That’s not enough for you though. You want him dead.”
“That isn’t a question.” I’m focused on a spot over his left shoulder as I try to match his footwork. Nobody seems to be looking at us, but it doesn’t assuage my discomfort. “If I don’t kill Gabriel, he’ll kill me. I know too much.”
“Right,” Slade purrs. “And so does he.”
“I’ve committed quite a few crimes in his name.” Unease coils in my stomach. “Call it mutually assured destruction.”
One side of Slade’s mouth tics up. “I think it’s more specific than that. You have a secret so terrible, so destructive, that you need it to die alongside Gabriel. And you’re afraid that if you confess to me, it’ll slip out.”
The accusations are like a physical blow. I try to swallow, but I feel like I’m choking. “Maybe I just don’t trust you with any of my secrets. Ever think of that?”
“Do you really think anything you’ve done could shock me?”
“It’s not about that.”
“What’s it about?”
I continue to glare at him, desperately trying to weave an explanation that doesn’t reveal too much. “Confessing my sins aloud means admitting them to myself,” I say after a pause. “I’d rather not think about them at all.”
“Like how you’d rather not look at your own body, so you don’t have to see what the Bloodrot has done to it.” Slade’s voice is soft beside my ear. “You’re avoidant.”
I work my jaw as we navigate through the other dancers. It’s hard to imagine what this place looks like empty. Purposeless, I expect. Just a vast room of echoes and superfluous gilt. “You’re one to talk.”
“How do you figure?”
“You won’t tell me about your mother.”
We lose our rhythm for a few beats as Slade stalls, clearly taken aback. “Did you want me to?”
I shrug. “I’d feel better about confessing if you did it first.”
His smile is a dark ghost of the real thing. I can’t help but consider how well he fits with our surroundings: cold, beautiful, and so difficult to navigate. “Fine,” he says. “If you must know, I killed my mother because she tried to kill me first.”
My lips part of their own accord. I don’t know what I’d expected, but that wasn’t it.