Chapter Thirty-Three
THIRTY-THREE
There are five “girls,” not one of them older than me, which is a painful reminder of how short a profitable career is for women like these.
In a high-class brothel, older women can be very popular for their sophistication and experience.
That’s because men who frequent those places are looking for more than a quick poke in an alley.
Men who do want a quick poke usually aren’t too fussy about the age or appearance of their partner—the cheaper, the better, if all they want is release.
“Cheap,” though, also means the women make very little money. For women in lower-class brothels, age is directly linked to earning potential. Men want them young—sometimes horrifyingly young—and they want them pretty, which can be a by-product of youth, one quickly lost to a harsh life.
The Cambrian women may seem uncomfortably youthful to me—between eighteen and twenty-two—but from talking to women in brothels, I know that they’d already be at the age where they start looking for something more secure. Pack life would provide that.
Here they can work exclusively for a select group of men with a little light housework on the side.
In return they never need to worry where they’ll find their next meal or bed.
And maybe, if they’re lucky, they’ll catch the eye of a high-ranking wolf.
That’s why the Albion Pack women weren’t allowed to consort with the inner circle.
It kept their position in the Pack very clear and immutable.
While I don’t get the sense that any of these five has captured either Doyle or Jesse yet, they’ve obviously established their own hierarchy.
The two who brought our tea are the highest ranking.
The dark-haired girl—Hanora—is the leader.
The light-haired one is Ruby. As for the other three, when I ask their names, Hanora only waves and says “They don’t matter,” which makes the situation crystal clear.
I might have pushed politely, but it was equally clear that the other three didn’t care to share their names.
Hanora pours us all a glass, and we claim seats, lounging as much as we can lounge in our corsets.
“You’re a witch,” Hanora says to me.
I can’t judge her tone, so I keep mine neutral. “I am.”
“Are you both witches?”
I shake my head. “We’re related by my paternal side.”
Hanora only waits, as if she doesn’t see what difference that makes.
“Witches are descended from other witches,” I say. “My witch blood comes from my maternal side.”
Hanora waves her glass at Ann. “That’d make you nothing, wouldn’t it? Since werewolves are only men?”
“I’m a necromancer on my maternal side.”
Silence, as several of the girls shrink back, making no effort to hide their distaste.
“That’s too bad,” Hanora says.
“I don’t think so,” Ann says.
“You like having ghosts pestering you?” Ruby asks with a shudder.
“They don’t pester me, and necromancers can also raise and control the dead.”
The three unnamed girls shrink back more, but Hanora leans forward. “Control them how?”
Ann shrugs. “Make them work for me.”
“Like an army of the dead to do your bidding?”
“Not exactly.”
Ann seems ready to leave it there, but Hanora pushes, obviously intrigued where the others seem horrified.
Ann isn’t ashamed of her power—nor should she be—so she answers Hanora’s questions as we finish the drink.
The conversation goes deep into necromancy, and we don’t even notice our glasses being refilled until Hanora raises hers and says, “A toast to our fine ladies, for being such good sports.”
I smile. “When you live with a werewolf Pack, you relish time with other women. And time drinking with other women is even better. Ann and I feared we were going to need to retire to our rooms and stare at the clocks.”
“No need for that. We’ll keep you company.” Hanora waves her glass at me. “Now, tell us about this husband of yours. He calls you his mate. Is that a thing with werewolves?”
I answer the question, and then I raise my glass for a sip and stop as the smell of opium hits me.
I quickly whisper a privacy spell between myself and Ann, and then I lift my glass to my lips, masking them as I say, “Don’t drink.”
Of course that startles her, but there’s no way to preface the spell with a warning or explanation, not when everyone’s looking at us.
To her credit, she quickly realizes no one else heard me and covers her reaction by saying, “I really need to drink gin more often. This is surprisingly excellent.” Luckily, I snap the privacy spell before anyone notices her lips moving and no sound coming out.
I smile. “It really is good, isn’t it? I don’t normally drink gin.”
“Of course you don’t,” Hanora says with the bite of sarcasm.
“I should,” I say. “The first glass was fine, but this is something else entirely. I can already feel it going straight to my head.”
Hanora smirks. I fake a long draught and then I keep talking, pulling Hanora and Ruby into conversation again, allowing me to do a little sleight of hand—assisted by blur spells—that lets me dump the contents of my glass into an already dying plant and then switch my glass with Ann’s.
I’m honestly surprised that I pull it off.
But after we both compliment the second vintage, they don’t pay any attention, and it’s enough to go through the motions of drinking.
I should be furious, but mostly I’m just disheartened. Feeling foolish, too. Earlier, I’d been reflecting on how young they are. But the one who’s truly young is me.
They invited us to share a drink, and I’d been delighted, growing even happier as we’d talked and Hanora had taken an interest in necromancy, which had pleased Ann. It’d seemed to be going so well.
It had been going well. If “it” was Hanora’s plan to lower our guard and drug us.
Why put opium in our gin? Bishop would leap to the most nefarious conclusion, but I don’t see any point in targeting Ann and me.
The problem is that I can’t gauge the dosage.
As a lycan, I can smell something in the gin.
As a witch who deals in medicines, I can identify it as opium.
I also know that putting opium into alcohol creates tincture of opium, better known as laudanum.
What I can’t judge by smell alone is how much opium they put in our gin.
Knowing how much is in our drinks would tell me their intentions.
Is it enough to harm us? Even kill us? Enough to put us to sleep, which renders us unable to fight against anything that might be done to us in that state?
Or is it a low amount, which could be their idea of a prank?
A malicious one, if they want Bishop to come back and find his wife stumbling around like a drunkard.
Or less malicious, if they’re drinking the same thing, using laudanum to relax.
The only way to know how much they’ve given us is to try it. That’s not as dangerous as it seems. If there was enough opium to kill us with a single gulp, the smell would stop even Ann from drinking. I take the tiniest of sips and wait. Then I take another.
Opium is, of course, popular as a drug of recreation.
I took it under the watchful eye of my human friend, Audrey, because I was curious.
Mostly a professional kind of curiosity, but also—I must be honest—personal curiosity.
I knew Lenora would fuss if I asked her to supervise, and I knew Audrey would not, but that she would also supervise closely, with no interest in trying it herself.
I didn’t care for the sensation. That’s good, because my one fear in experimenting was that I’d like it very much when I know it’s highly addictive.
Mostly it made me drowsy, which is understandable, since the morphine form of it is used for pain relief.
I decided that the appeal of opium was mental pain relief, not unlike alcohol.
It lets you forget your worries. For me, alcohol comes with a delicious lightening of inhibitions, while opium just made me want to sleep, and so I decided to stick to alcohol.
As laudanum, opium enjoys a certain popularity among women, and a reputation as a drug specifically for “female concerns” afflicting middle- and upper-class women.
My theory has always been that “female concerns” aren’t so much our monthly cycle as our place in the world, where we live under the weight of endless expectations, one of those expectations being that we don’t actually do much if we’re a “proper lady.”
We can’t have careers or aspirations beyond husbands and children, and the staff handles most of that, leaving us to things like charitable endeavors, which aren’t always enough to fully nourish our souls.
Before I knew I was a lycan, I’d been plagued by a restlessness I could never understand.
I’ve wondered whether human women feel the same—their restlessness being a lack of purpose and mental stimulation.
The cure for that, apparently, is laudanum.
Numb our minds and our nerves, and the problem seems resolved.
The first sip told me that a full glass wouldn’t likely be lethal. The second sip has me relaxing nearly as much as that opium experiment had, and I’d taken very little of it that time. Which means that a full glass of this would knock us out.
We’re being sedated. Heavily sedated.
For what purpose? Well, the only way to discover that is to play along.
“Oh my,” I say as I fail to stifle a huge yawn. “I am so sorry, ladies. That was unbearably rude of me. I seem so tired all of a sudden.”
“It’s the journey,” Hanora says. “Travel always takes so much out of me.”
“And me as well, it seems.” Ann covers a yawn. “Is it warm in here? Perhaps if we opened a window? I do feel as if I’m a few moments from falling asleep on this chair, which would be dreadfully embarrassing.”
“I think we both will,” I say. “And to spare these poor ladies the sight of me sprawled and drooling, I’m afraid I must suggest we make an early night of it. I am truly sorry, ladies. I do hate to cut the evening short.”
“We understand,” Ruby says, getting to her feet. “You do seem very tired. Let us escort you to your rooms.”