31
“Once the newly founded Regiment had the support of religious institutions, they were well and truly legitimized in the eyes of the population. The original government had never officially denounced the Regiment, hoping to garner the fast-growing support of its members, but this would be the crux of their downfall.”
Slade stops dead, grabbing my elbow and forcing me to do the same. I can’t tell if his tight grip is borne of fury or if it’s a warning for me to stay silent. His smile is grim, encroaching on alarming, as he considers our unwelcome companion. “Who’s asking?”
The man before us is sandy-haired, about my age and Slade’s height.
An agent’s insignia is pinned to his chest alongside a row of crisp silver buttons.
He has an air of undeserved confidence about him, and his grin has a mischievous slant.
“Tomas Nielssen,” he says. “I think I can guess why you’re looking for the Sanctum.
” Now his attention drifts to me, his brows lifting with interest as he scans my body.
A chord of apprehension reverberates through me. There’s no way he knows what we’re doing here, and yet the suggestive way he phrased it is unnerving. I don’t know how to respond, so I settle for watching him sullenly, saying nothing.
Slade is quicker on the uptake, but the tension around his eyes suggests he doesn’t understand what’s happening either. “I’m sure you can,” he tells Nielssen smoothly.
The young man tosses a surreptitious glance around us before saying, “I’ll take you there. I was just headed in that direction myself, actually.”
I look sidelong at Slade, who gives a curt nod. “That would be appreciated.”
Nielssen’s smile widens. He makes to turn away, though not before tossing me a wink. “First time, sweetheart?”
Not knowing what the hell he means, I continue to stare at him, hoping it’ll make him uncomfortable enough to shut up. Naturally, he’s oblivious.
“Feeling confident?” His second question is a whisper as he leans in close.
Slade steps between us, his stormy expression threatening violence. “Lead the way,” he growls. “We’re right behind you.”
Nielssen hesitates a beat, looking slightly sheepish, then turns around.
“You can’t be serious,” I hiss at Slade, hurrying to match his pace as we follow Nielssen to the nearest door. “This could be a trap.”
He speaks out the side of his mouth. “Need I remind you that this is your fault? Besides, it saves us some time. If I have to kill him, so be it.”
“Nothing more inconspicuous than murder.”
“Isn’t a hired sinner supposed to do what her employer commands?”
“Sure. But it doesn’t mean she won’t tell her employer his commands are idiotic.” My reply is venomous, but my body suddenly remembers Slade’s other commands all too well.
He doesn’t reply. Irritated, I stick to his side as Tomas Nielssen leads us down a wide stone corridor lit by gold sconces. The music is far quieter here, and we pass only a handful of people, most of them loitering in small groups.
My confusion grows as Nielssen ducks through a small door, beckoning us into some kind of courtyard. Dark trees cast shadows over the manicured grass and fragrant gardens. A few stone benches occupy the far side of the space, and more statues are arranged around a fountain in the center.
“I thought the Sanctum was connected to the Citadel,” I mutter to Slade under my breath.
His cheeks hollow as he tracks Nielssen’s movements. “There must be an exterior entrance. I don’t like this.”
Nielssen strays from the courtyard to round the side of the building, pausing at an archway set into the exterior wall before turning to face us. I frown. He’s practically radiating anticipation, that irritating smile still pasted on his face.
“Coming?” he asks.
I lag back as Slade approaches the archway. There’s no door behind it—just a stairwell leading down into oblivion. I don’t think we’re about to enter the Sanctum at all; rather, Nielssen has brought us to whatever lies beneath it.
Slade’s eyes find mine, and he indicates that I should descend first.
I glare at him. “I don’t fucking think so.”
Nielssen’s brows shoot up. Slade’s mouth curves into a threatening smile. “Now, now,” he says, quick to conceal my blunder. “Is that how a sinner speaks to her master?”
I smile right back, fluttering my lashes. “Forgive me.”
Heart thrumming against my ribs, I turn and step into the sepulchral dark.
A cacophony of sound fills my ears at once.
Shouts and jeers echo in the confined space, which turns cavernous as I emerge from the narrow staircase.
It takes me a moment to comprehend what I’m seeing, and not only because my vision struggles to adjust. The underground space is bigger than I’d anticipated, lit from overhead by a cast-iron chandelier.
It might as well not be there at all, however, because I can’t see anyone’s faces.
Not that I’m trying to—my attention is on the two people fighting in the middle of the space.
The spectators are giving them a considerable berth, which grants me a glimpse of the moment one of the fighters jams his blade into his opponent’s neck.
The injured man’s mouth opens, and I’m certain he must be screaming, but any noise he makes is drowned out by the crowd.
Some are evidently disappointed in the outcome, while others cheer in triumph, surging forward.
The injured man collapses, and a couple of others drag him—no, his body—out of the light.
A man at the bottom of the steps thrusts out an arm. Given the distractions and my compromised vision, I nearly walk right into it.
“Name?” he asks loudly, his voice gruff.
I hear Nielssen clamber down the last few steps behind us as Slade leans forward. “Felix Astor.”
“That your sinner?” The bouncer—if you can call him that—inclines his head at me. His formal attire and chaplain’s collar is a baffling juxtaposition to our surroundings.
Slade nods.
“You’ve got good timing. Marcus Wagner has been asking about you all evening.”
Who?
The bouncer moves aside, indicating the taller, older gentleman cutting through the crowd toward us. The spectators titter, parting to let him pass.
I whirl to address Slade. “What the fuck is this?”
What I can see of his face is set in icy displeasure. “I expect this, little sinner, is where the devout and glorified settle their disputes. The Congregation isn’t all sermons and polite mingling.”
“What does that mean?” I demand, but I almost don’t want him to answer. I think I already know.
Nielssen interrupts by clapping me on the shoulder, and I suppress the overwhelming urge to bite his fingers. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says. “My money’s on you.”
Then he’s gone, engulfed by the crowd. It feels as though legions of eyes are suddenly on Slade and I as the tall man—Marcus Wagner—halts before us.
He’s older, perhaps about fifty, with receding gray hair. I can tell he wears glasses and a dark suit, but all other details are obscured by shadow. His greeting, although unfriendly, is low and controlled. “Astor, I presume.”
“You presume correctly.” Slade’s grip around my upper arm is unyielding, no doubt leaving bruises. I wonder if he expects me to make a run for it.
Wagner snorts. “I’m surprised you dared to show your face. The Prophet isn’t very happy with you, I hear.”
Despite everything, my interest is piqued.
Gabriel never said anything about being unhappy with Astor.
Is that a story he concocted to go with Slade’s impersonation, or was he unhappy with the real man?
Either way, if Wagner knows Felix Astor on a personal level, I’m doubly glad for the poor lighting.
Slade smirks, unfazed. “That sounds about right.”
Wagner’s taciturn gaze slides to me. “And this is who you’ve brought?”
In that moment, I know all my worst assumptions are correct. A respected Regiment employee would never risk engaging in combat themselves. Not when the Bloodrot is always a threat.
No—they make their hired sinners fight instead.
I feel as though I’m in a dream. Maybe it’s the fact that I can see so little of my surroundings, or maybe it’s the scent of metal and smoke thick in my nostrils. After all, my nightmares always smell like fire and blood.
“Her appearance is deceiving,” Slade says, falsely pleasant.
I hate how good he is at this. How easily he’s slipped into this hideous role.
I’m a statue at his side, but my entire body is on fire.
If it wasn’t guaranteed to blow our cover, I’d see to it that Slade was the next one here with a knife lodged in his neck. It wouldn’t even kill him.
Wagner glances down, and only then do I realize there’s a second figure at his side—this one smaller, slighter, and undoubtedly female. That, at least, is a relief. He shoves the woman forward. “Vanya never loses. Weapons or no?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Slade says calmly.
It takes me a second to understand they’re talking about me.
This. He gives me a gentle shove forward, putting me directly beneath the meager light of the chandelier.
The line of his jaw is so tight that I think it might snap. “Make me proud, little sinner.”
I feel horrifically on display, aware of the fact that everyone can see me better than I can see them.
My chances of winning a fight to the death are decent; what bothers me far more is the idea that I’ll be doing it for entertainment.
That I’ll be surrounded by the heavy excitement and jeering voices of those who will leave this place and don a veneer of holiness.
And, of course, there’s the distinct possibility that I might lose even if I win. I don’t know what taking another life will do to me. If the Bloodlust takes hold too early, will Slade keep his word, or simply abandon me?
I hate that I can’t be certain of the answer.