Undead Gods

Chapter 19

It was the day of her first and what she hoped was her last assassination, and yet there she was in the market, ready to sell her wares as if it were any other day. She shivered both from the cold and anxious anticipation. So many things could go wrong. But assuming she wasn’t caught and executed for treason or magic—something she was desperately trying not to think about—she’d have to pay rent just like every other month.

Because, unfortunately for her, it was highly unlikely that her landlord, Mr. Coppicus, would take kindly to her missing rent due to plans of assassinating a foreign ambassador. Mr. Coppicus cared about two things and two things only: the sound of coins in a bag and his terrible squawking birds. She often dreamed about letting Sir Larkspur loose in his flat to shut up those damn birds once and for all.

Elysia was set up in her usual spot, listening to Mrs. Branby shout about fish prices and cups of chowder while continuing to ruminate about poison and if she’d gotten the doses right. What a strange day. She looked up at the bleak, gray sky. The soot was worse today, falling down with the heavy mist and bleeding through her clothes until her skin would be stained. She rubbed at her arms, hating how the accumulating droplets created a cold, slick layer between her skin and the clothes that now stuck to her limbs. She jingled the coins in her pocket. At least she’d sold enough to cover rent.

The freezing mist whipped the small, pathetic tent she stood under. It was on its last leg, but buying a new one wasn’t really a priority right now. Elysia watched the crowds of people milling about and clasped her chilled fingers together a little tighter. Only in Kava did the people not so much as blink when the sky rained and froze its way to the ground.

She’d sold enough to cover her bills, but one small frame remained. The violet bloom inside the diamond cut glass looked charming with the speckles of rain across the glass. Elysia considered whether it was worth staying for the possibility of one more sale. I’m already freezing. Might as well carry on till close.

A little extra money might be what she needed to buy a ticket out of this city if everything went to shit. As if Father wouldn’t find me. She kicked at the sloppy ground with her boot and wondered what it would be like to leave Kava after all these years. She’d traveled with her father when she was young, but she’d never actually seen anything. He’d always kept her locked on the steamship or at the inn until she was needed at meetings. Had always argued it was for her own safety. All those kingdoms and cities and she’d barely seen a thing.

The thought of leaving had her eyes searching for the sea, but here in the center of Relaclave where old met the new, there was not a ship in sight. Only shops and stands, all centered around the enormous fountain in the middle of the square. Iron streetlamps lined the edges of the square, fighting to stay lit as the damp crept inside the glass. She knew the ships were there, though, past the square at the very edge of the north side. The docks and the sea waited for her there.

Lost in her thoughts, Elysia did not sense the sharp crackle in the air like that of a storm, or the earthen scent of woods creeping ever closer until there was a nose pressing against the skin of her neck and hands taking hold of her hips from behind. Hot breath stirred the damp strands of her hair, and Elysia’s shoulders stiffened.

“Looks like there’s something I need in the market today, after all.” Topp’s voice vibrated against her and she closed her eyes. She’d known she’d have to face him eventually, but she hadn’t expected it to be like this. In the middle of the market, caught off guard and looking like a drowned rat. She’d wanted to be prepared. For it to be on her terms, not his.

Elysia barely dared move, for fear of her spiking heart giving her away. Gods, he smells good . Her body, traitor that it was, wanted to lean back into his touch like a damn cat arching its back.

She kept her voice cool, her words archly distant. “I would think that one such as yourself already has everything they could ever want.”

He pressed his face closer, surrounding her with the warmth of his body. Tall and broad, his shoulders easily wrapped around hers. Voice rumbling into her ear and through her chest, he spoke. “Do I, Elysia?”

She fought not to squirm. Turning her face slightly, her cheek pressed against his.

“I don’t know, you tell me, Prince.” Her voice came out a little breathless, and she cringed. Come on, Parker, have some godsdamned self-respect.

“What good is being prince if I can’t have the one thing I truly want? I think I’ll have it no matter the price.” His over-the-top words brought an unbidden smile to her lips.

But then she came back to herself, wiping her face clean. She needed to know what he was planning, not engage in whatever this nonsense was. Indignation shot through her, pushing away the previous moment’s levity. He had some fucking nerve. Coming here, saying things like that, when he knew the truth about her. As if her impending death resting in his hands wasn’t a serious, terrifying thing.

Elysia spun round ready to cut through his foolish words before he was her undoing, but stopped short at the sight of his bright eyes latching onto hers, looking at her the same way he always had—intense and mischievous, as if this was all still going to be okay. Her heart stuttered. It wasn’t fair of him to still look at her like that. It wasn’t fair at all.

Water dappled his striking face, and she found her thumb brushing it away. A single drop right off the heart of his cheeks.

Topp watched her through wet, sticky lashes, unhurried and completely focused on her. Like he could stand there all day with her in the miserable, godsforsaken weather. She snatched her hand back, embarrassed at her own actions. What am I doing? Wiping her hand against her cloak as if her fingers had betrayed her, she scowled at him and moved away, claiming distance between them.

“I don’t know what your aim is, but I would rather die than be your hound. Do you hear me?” Her words were a sharp hiss. She hadn’t realized how true they were until she was spitting them at the prince. She was done collecting the cursed for the Crown. Her eyes grew fierce, her voice jabbing out like a sword. “I will not be why waves and waves of people die.”

Topp became still, his eyes tracking over her as if she might spook. He spoke carefully, slowly, his hands going up placatingly. “I have no plans to harm you.”

He took a step closer, but she backed away, bumping against the pole of her tent. His voice became soft. “You can trust me, Elysia, I promise.”

Her body remained tense in spite of his words to reassure her. Gathering her arms tight to her body, she held herself together to his face. But inside, her fractured heart crumbled.

That was a lie.

Her magic thrashed, angry at the undercurrent of something false and oily beneath his last words. He might not have plans to harm her, but he’d confirmed what she already knew: Topp Blatz was not to be trusted.

He closed in on her, bringing them nose to nose and his mouth a breath from hers. The tent pole dug into her back, giving her nowhere to go. Hand slipping inside the pocket of her trousers, he dropped in a handful of coins, taking his time to squeeze her waist as he let go of her body. “I think I’ll take it. I’d hate for anything to happen to a piece so rare as this.”

She looked up at him in confusion. What?

He collected the last flower pressing from her collection and went about inspecting it. Like he hadn’t just shredded the last straggling piece of hope within her.

Topp continued evaluating the flower pressing as if it were the most exquisite, intricate piece of art, when really it was the result of a night of too much wine and arguing with Beatriz. He looked up casually enough then, one hand shoved into a pocket, the other holding her art. There was nothing special about the movement or the look on his face. But she still watched the rivulets of rain roll down his face to his lips to the line of his throat. Frustration churned within her. It seemed no matter what he did, the mere sight of him would be enough to do her in, and yet, it wasn’t romantic at all.

It was tragic.

Her body could not seem to comprehend that Topp was no longer to be trusted. That years of memories and touches did not outweigh what she knew now. He was a beautiful, honeyed trap set by the gods who hated her enough to curse her.

His lips quirked, mistaking her lingering stare for lust. His voice dropped into a lower, more intimate register. “Are you going to bolt away again? Like you always do when I get too close lately.”

His words caressed her spine, causing an involuntary shudder. Green eyes looked down knowingly. “Wish you wouldn’t. You know my door’s always open, Parker.” The look on his face turned sensual while hers went flat in annoyance and she shoved him, palms hitting his taut chest before she could think better of it.

“Hedonistic pig,” she flung back, turning fast to leave. His money was as good as anyone else’s, and she didn’t need her ragged tent that bad, anyway. Topp laughed loudly, the sound suddenly terrible and infuriating to her ears. Jogging backward, he stayed beside her even as she marched away.

“I’ll see you tonight then?”

She frowned, stopping in the middle of a swarm of people. “You never come to anything you’re supposed to.”

You have to be kidding me. Her internal alarms began to wail. Topp never attended her mother’s societal functions. As a general rule, he couldn’t be bothered unless his father forced him, or it was a proper ball with wine and gin that ended with people half naked in the bushes and frisking in dark corners like everyone couldn’t see them.

Tonight was not anywhere on the scale of a Kavian ball. It was light food and drinks, maybe a few dances with boring conversations. A standard cocktail affair.

He shrugged, and a glint that she did not like appeared in his eyes. He backed away, out into the crowds. “My father has been more demanding as of late. I said I’d go, knew you’d be there, after all. There’s not a reason you don’t want me to go, is there, Parker?”

Elysia narrowed her eyes, knowing she couldn’t say a damn thing without it sounding suspicious. She called out to his retreating frame. “I already invited the girls. I didn’t expect you to come.”

He didn’t answer, weaving into the crowds, somehow never stumbling or losing sight of her until the throng of people swallowed him up.

Elysia threw her head back. She was already poisoning the king, why not the prince as well? I’m so going to die.

Elysia stood on a small wooden platform with a polite grimace plastered on her face. Attending her mother’s events meant being scrutinized like a cow out for sale. Georgia Parker walked around her in a tight circle with the utmost seriousness. She fluffed a bit of Elysia’s skirts and slowly brought her eyes to meet her daughter’s. “You’re wearing slippers with a cocktail dress?” The disdain was palpable.

Yes, Mother, because you can’t run for your life in a pair of heels. But she couldn’t say that. She also couldn’t say that most heels were murder on her scars. So Elysia closed her eyes and asked the undead gods to give her strength. Not for the evening. Just to make it through the next minute with her mother without talking back. Grown or not, she would not put it past her mother to find some way to torture her if she so much as blinked wrong in her direction. Couldn’t have her doll acting out. That would be just dreadful.

She was just about to fake an ankle injury when Daphne burst into the room with Remy a step behind.

“Ooh, Elysia,” she cooed. “That dress is magnificent.”

And it was. Delicate straps met a fitted bodice that acted as a corset, giving Elysia the illusion of a much more ample chest than was reality. All her training sessions with Gage had chipped away what had once been soft flesh, leaving behind only sleek muscle. But she didn’t mind. She liked her toned arms and firm thighs she had earned from hours of weights and sparring. The tulle skirt fell in straight, opaque sheaths down to her ankles, giving glimpses of leg as she moved. And with her hair piled atop her head in a smooth bun, she could have easily passed for one of her favorite dancers. Lithe, deceptively strong, and ready to perform on the stage that was a Relaclave party. She’d chosen a stunning midnight blue that matched the sweeping waters of the Valvere Sea not only for the color but because it obscured the dagger strapped to her thigh.

Remy strolled up beside her, making a show of looking Elysia up and down before plucking a gin fizz off a serving tray.

“Sexy ballerina looking for her prince,” she declared.

Elysia laughed. Biased but heartfelt, she grinned at Remy’s comment. Spinning on her toes to face them, she kept her face aglow with excitement, pretending tonight was like any other where they would drink too much and cackle in the corner. She leaned forward, resting an arm around each woman’s neck and hopping off the platform.

“If it isn’t the most brilliant and dashing women in all of Kava here to be my dates.” She gave them a quick squeeze before letting go.

Daphne took a bow, blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “At your service, madam.” She straightened, a devious look coming into her pale, aqua eyes. “My vagina is going to turn to dust if I don’t find some dick tonight. I need someone rich and ready to ravish me.”

Remy choked, hacking on her gin fizz. She took another drink, soothing her cough. “Gods, Daph, I know it’s been a while, but wow . I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say vagina or dick before.”

Daphne nodded seriously. “Dire times.”

Elysia’s mother sighed and dropped the edge of the tulle skirt she had been holding. Even she knew her complaints would not be heard over the noise of three alcohol-fueled women. Georgia glided on staggering heels to the door, calling over her shoulder, “Five minutes, ladies.”

A resounding “yes, ma’am” chirped in her direction, causing Georgia to smile lightly as she exited. Elysia could practically hear the thoughts in her mother’s head. How much it satisfied her to have all her chicks coiffed and in perfect formation. Her mother did love when the guests were as beautiful as her parties.

The door snicked shut and Remy and Daphne immediately closed in on Elysia, shoving more highball glasses around until there was not a single empty hand. Events like these were not meant to be done sober. They were only tolerable with a very specific amount of alcohol in your blood combined with the irreverent commentary of your best friends.

That being said, Elysia eyed the gin bottle in Daphne’s right fist and cringed inside at the thought of all that liquor coming back up later. She pretended to sip her own glass while Daphne rattled off about the new tailor she'd found in the south end of the city. She was convinced this up-and-coming seamstress was being gouged by false taxes. And no one was more motivated than Daphne when there was a convenient injustice that suited her interests. Remy listened attentively though, her eyes completely zoned into Daphne’s dramatic re-enactment, nodding and humming in all the right places. She promised to give the woman a consultation soon, leaving Daphne flushed and victorious. A true beacon for social justice and tailors everywhere.

Elysia stood there soaking in the familiar dynamics, her body relaxing in their presence. She really wished she hadn’t invited them. It wasn’t like she could spare them from the poison’s path, but she was confident that all the guests would be well by morning—except for one.

The avoidant creature that lived beneath her skin beseeched her to crush the poison she carried between her breasts underfoot. To call the whole thing off and down gin fizzes until she was dizzy with false delight. She would laugh and tumble and dance in a whirl with Topp’s arms around her, ending the night tangled in his bed as she had so many nights before.

The vial of just in case poison rolled against her skin as she moved. A cold, silent reminder of her task.

“Are you ready, Elysia?” Daphne and Remy, ever the gallant escorts, each held out an arm. Unaware of what was to come and half drunk, their smiles lit all the way to their eyes.

“Ready.” Hooking her arms through theirs, they set off to meet the night.

The double doors swung wide, giving a sweeping view of the Golden Seal’s latest feat. Dazzling light washed the dance floor. Labradorite swirls in the floor sparkled as those same chandelier lights hit them just right. And swashes of dark gauze fell from the sky. The fabric twisted and tied just so, to create miniature alcoves meant only for two. On any other night, Elysia would have floated between those gauzy nests, collecting secrets like helpless insects in a spider’s web. But not tonight.

Her father’s threats played in her mind as they took the final steps to the grand staircase where they would make their entrance. All those women who looked like her. Syren, dead and useless while she was still alive. Syren healed people. What did she do? Exploit and kill. She was no better than the man who raised her. Like most people, she had sworn to herself that she would never be like her parents. But it seemed no matter how hard she tried, she came up short in that regard. A numb, dead sort of feeling enveloped her heart, staving off the shame that stuck to her always. The staircase loomed, only steps away. There wasn't time for those types of thoughts right now.

But her brain persisted, shoving the image of Topp dripping wet in the market, his full lips spewing false promises of trust to the front of her mind. The image mocked her. He knows and yet he still underestimates me. Maybe he didn’t understand the entirety of her magic—but she thought it bold to lie to her face when he had likely put together what she could do.

They stopped beside the carpeted stairs, and her stomach twisted into knots. She stared down at the mass of courtiers and politicians below. All resplendent in their silk and tails and top hats. None expecting to be poisoned. Innocent people about to be dragged into her mess.

The world wanted her to be gentle and quiet.

Pliable with her eyes wide shut.

Moldable to their every whim without thought or complaint.

And she had been. For so long.

Desperate to be the good girl who met their ever moving expectations. Desperate to wash the filth of her curse off her skin and be marked clean with a crown she didn’t even want. She knew now that she was never going to fit inside their boxes.

But what they hadn’t realized was that they created a court-trained nightmare instead of a pet. Docile and fragile to the eye with endless pits of rage below. Rage that could see no beginning or end. She was only just beginning to understand it herself. She had never wanted to be this person. But she would be. Because you don’t get to choose the hand you're given, you only get to choose what you do with it. And she was done being a compliant, perfect doll.

Her feet ached in her slippers. Sliced in crisscrosses, and long curving scores, reminding her of what happened to women who stepped out of line. It didn’t matter, though. She had always been outside the lines. Now she was just living like it.

Elysia stepped back, allowing Remy and Daphne to go before her. Each woman held the room captive with their own specific magnetism as they entered. Remy smoldering and sauntering down like a dark flame wrapped in umber silk. Her tight dark curls were free tonight, springing out to create a perfect halo around her head. Daphne glowing as if she were the first true day of winter, so bright that she just might blind you. And Elysia, feeling the heady weight of every eye in the room, lifted her chin as if she were already their queen. Topp, the one who could make it so, stared boldly back at her as if he could see right through her to her very core. Past the mask and into the depths of emotion eddying within.

She held his cutting gaze until one of Remy’s ever present suitors paraded in front of them, blocking her view. The rest of the world seemed to rush back in around her, the music and sounds of the night boisterous in her ear. Oh, Barry. Elysia almost rolled her eyes. Poor man.

Barnett Vollen, Barry to his friends, was determined to impress the immoveable Remy. His father was responsible for building the majority of the south side of Relaclave, and he was set to inherit the budding construction empire. All those flats stacked on top of one another lined his pockets well. But Barry dreamed of more. Like having the lush vision before him throw in her considerable business savvy and political weight to his ambitions.

But unfortunately for him, magic would be reborn in Kava before Remy Wincraft truly gave her heart away. Unlike the majority of women in Kava, Remelda Wincraft had plenty of her own money and had no need to marry, no matter how much her parents pushed for a match. She might play along with the man’s affections—accepting gifts and extravagant dates—but it would take a force to knock Remy off her feet. And Barnett Vollen was barely a breeze.

Elysia used the distraction to scan the room, her nerves beginning to creep in to the beat of a slow march. Her eyes went to the towering pyramid of empty glasses, all waiting for gin or wine. All thinly coated with poison. Just a dash of liquid and the poison would activate. In less than sixty minutes, bodies would be writhing. The swarms of people would drop one by one like flies, contorting as the toxin overtook their systems.

She continued to scan the room, but still not did not see Scarzan damning any conversations with his presence. Come out, come out. Anxiety crashed within her now. She just wanted this over. He would be here, though. She knew he would.

Offering a coy wink to Remy, she clasped arms with Daphne. “Let’s do a lap, shall we?”

She was fairly certain Remy was burning holes into the back of her head, now stuck with boring Barry, but her body needed the false security of movement. Arm in arm, they skirted the room, swishing past where their parents mingled near the king and the diplomats. Tipsy laughter filled the air and even the king looked to be having a good time. And yet, Scarzan was still nowhere to be seen.

The rat was hiding somewhere. She just had to find him.

Elysia swiveled, thinking to grab some of the delicious smoked meat she was smelling and scout out the buffet corner of the room. Might as well eat something before everything went sideways.

Daphne leaned in close as they walked, her words soft enough for only Elysia’s ears. “Who in the realms is that woman?”

Elysia craned her neck, searching for the source of Daphne’s awe. She barely kept the smirk off her face. It was not Kava’s best courtesan drawing every stare in the room, but instead her sister’s beloved bewitching them all in a curve-hugging crimson number. Hair freshly lightened, it rippled down her back. Dark lashes and a nude glossed mouth. Beatriz would have been drooling.

The Doorman rarely made appearances at court events, but when she did, rumors and whispers broke free like an avalanche in her wake. Her hips moved like water, as if she knew she could ensnare any soul she sought. But tonight, she had only one victim in mind.

The Doorman lifted two gin and tonics off a passing tray and made a sharp, determined line for one of the half-lit alcoves littered about, not so much as bothering to make eye contact with anyone as she passed. Elysia’s chest heaved in relief. She must have spotted Scarzan for her to move like that.

She brought her lips back to Daphne’s ear, her blonde hair tickling her nose. “That woman is the Doorman of House Gardenia.”

Daphne blinked as though in a daze. She turned wide eyes to Elysia, her voice lifting with a note of befuddled surprise. “I am not sure if I want to be her or sleep with her. I think either option might be fine, actually.”

Elysia snorted, steering them closer to where the Doorman had disappeared only seconds before. Her trust in the Doorman only stretched so far—she wanted to see his throat bob with each poisonous swallow of his drink, to hear the revolting gurgle as he swallowed, and be confident that the Doorman had blessed him with an extra dose. Her fingers twitched. She needed to see the signal. The coy wink that would tell her death was brewing in his entrails. Then she could make a swift exit. And be on her way to the rendezvous that actually mattered.

She paused a few steps away from where they hid, straining to hear their quiet voices, when a loud crack that sounded an awful lot like a hand meeting flesh echoed within the folds of the dark gauzy hollow. A breath later, the Doorman exited with blotches of pink high on her cheeks. Her face carved into a guise of serenity, yet her fingers trembled. Regardless of the face she wore, fury coated the air she left behind. And the signal was never given.

Elysia swore beneath her breath. Waiting, hoping the Doorman would turn any moment now and relieve her fears.

But the Doorman began to converse with other guests, never so much as blinking in Elysia’s direction. What had gone wrong that a woman as well-trained as the Doorman had broken form? Surely, there was no way the man had not taken so much as a drink yet this evening—it was a party, after all. But she didn’t need him sick. She needed him dead.

Elysia turned to Daphne with a wicked grin. “Would you like to meet her?”

“You know her?”

“You could say we have people in common,” Elysia responded absently, her eyes still darting around the room as if Scarzan might fall dead of his own accord. She had perhaps thirty minutes now before guests began to crawl like maggots in the heat of summer. Her stomach twisted violently. She could practically feel an ulcer forming. Dead or not, she would have to bail at that point. But she had a debt to pay. And in spite of what the Doorman assumed, Elysia did feel horrible that some poor woman had borne the brunt of Scarzan’s misdirected anger. Anger meant for her because she had slipped through his hands. She knew men like him. And she had known someone would feel his wrath. Her pulse settled as she remembered exactly why this man had to die.

Jack Parker’s booming voice interrupted her thoughts, echoing over the music and all the others in the room. Her shoulders automatically rose at the sound. A protective, instinctive response. She stared at her father’s broad back, hate coiling up like a serpent within her. Yes, she would do something worthwhile before this all fell apart.

Elysia guided Daphne to the Doorman, pushing through the growing crowd of gossip hungry onlookers surrounding her. The Doorman sent them all away with a flick of her wrist. No hello or niceties, she launched into conversation as if Elysia had been beside her the whole time. “Your mother’s parties really are impressive considering everyone has their clothes on.”

She turned her attention to Daphne, not waiting for a response, her eyes glittering. “And who is this you bring me?”

“Daphne Rieer,” Elysia announced. “Meet the much esteemed Doorman of House Gardenia.”

A charmed smile slipped onto Daphne’s face. “I should have known the Doorman is a woman. Only a woman could run such a successful House of pleasure. And yes, the Golden Seal rarely disappoints.”

A smile that Elysia could have sworn was real warmed the Doorman’s sharp eyes. She wound an arm through Daphne’s. “Help me to endure this evening of endless chatter, and perhaps a small token of my appreciation will land on your door.”

Daphne let out a low laugh. “Oh, we’ll need more drinks for that. Come on then. I’ll show you how us Crown girls get by.”

The Doorman called over her shoulder as Daphne whisked her away. “Elysia, there’s a friend who would love to see you. He’s waiting in the back.”

A volcano of aggravation erupted within Elysia. The world’s most simple, foolproof plan was coming down around her ears. All they had to do was get the swaggering, drunken baboon of a man to have a single drink, and yet here they were fumbling the entire plan.

She rolled her shoulders back. Never mind the plan. She would do it her damn self. Swinging around, she scored fresh drinks from a familiar face. Gage’s man opened his fist. “Stones for your drinks, miss?” Soaked in an extra dose, it would have been the smart choice, but Elysia waved him off with a determined smile. Sometimes it was better to do things the old-fashioned way.

Drinks balanced in one hand, she ducked into the dimly lit alcove, and found Scarzan splayed back on an oversized pillow, puffing on a noxious cigar. He might have stolen her father’s favorite apothecary, but he clearly did not have her father’s taste. The fumes were downright disgusting. She sidled in closer, ignoring the smell. Nothing mattered but liquor sliding down that man’s throat. Scarzan’s dark eyes latched onto her, something smug and certain filling them.

She pretended to stumble, her free hand dosing out the spare poison before grasping at the tented fabric. The Doorman may have failed, but she would not. She gathered herself with a loose, drunken giggle. “Oh, I am so sorry. I do believe I’ve entered the wrong little tent.”

She giggled again and turned to leave, wobbling on uneven feet.

Sweaty fingers gripped her bare upper arm, bringing her steps to a sudden jerking halt. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me and our date.”

He shooed away the man and woman who he had been smoking with, still clinging to her arm to the point that it hurt. She took a small step closer, a confused smile lighting her face. “I am not sure I recall an invitation for such a pleasure, sir.”

Elysia stared at the oily wrinkles lining his face and racked her brains. A date? She had no idea what this foul man could possibly be referring to right now. She offered her only thought. “Are you meaning when I told you I would be at this party?”

Scarzan continued puffing on the cigar. “No, no. We had a far more legitimate deal than a passing query.” He blew a talentless cloud of smoke into her face, causing her to flinch back as far as his grip would allow, eyes watering.

For one single moment, her mind went completely still. Frozen as it tried to comprehend his meaning. No . Her own flesh and blood had not recognized her. Topp had only known because he had suspected her and followed her to the House. It simply was not possible that this despicable daughter-selling fiend could have had the perceptiveness to notice who had been sitting two chairs down from him at House Gardenia.

A broken laugh fell from her lips. It sounded like shattering glass. “I do think I would remember cutting a deal with a man like you. Would you like a drink, Diplomat Scarzan?”

He plucked a drink from the palm of her hand and held it from his fingertips. His mouth twisted in condescension. “That farce of a woman tried to come in here before as if I wouldn’t have known that she must have helped you escape that night. I reminded her that not even the House can break its own rules without consequence.”

A small oil lantern swung silently, casting both light and shadows upon them both. Scarzan took the barest sip of his drink before setting it down. Reaching into his jacket for another cigar, he patted around only to be disappointed. His other hand was still locked onto her upper arm as if she might bolt and not look back. He forgot his fruitless search, and a threat formed in his eyes. His voice dropped dangerously. “And I am more than happy to be the man who delivers the justice owed.”

“You dare speak of consequences and justice .” She bit out the sour words, the pit in her stomach already knowing where this was leading.

He nodded slowly, not hearing a word Elysia said as his gaze slid over her breasts. His damp hand stuck to her, tugging and pulling at her skin as it ran down her arm. Clamping down on her wrist, he yanked her closer. Flat eyes shackled her own, his face near enough that she could smell the rotting smoke of his breath. “That whore didn’t have to die. But it was only fair, wasn’t it? My prize running away into the night like that.”

Disgust broke her indifferent facade into a tight sneer, but it was that damnable rage rampaging through her blood that was going to get her in trouble. It was no wonder the Doorman had not lasted more than a minute in his presence. Eyes burning, she forced her face and voice to return to even.

“And what is it you’re hoping for now?” Unable to lock down her fury entirely, it came out half hissed, a venomous snake ready to strike. Clearing her throat, she fought for some semblance of poise. Chin lifted, she continued, “I would remind you that I am all but engaged to the prince, and my father already despises you.” A slight edge of warning strengthened her words.

Wrenching her arm free, she gave him a close-lipped smile that her mother would have been proud of—a wordless get fucked . Anger poured out like a torrent of heat through her, but she knew better than to be rash. She’d grown up in this court, she could best this man without making a scene. As much as she wanted to whip out her dagger and stab him in the eye, she couldn’t.

The party careened around them, frivolity and excess a blur outside of their gauzy tent. Music meant for dancing was a distant sound in her ear. She could barely hear it, though, barely see anything but him.

The clock was ticking and his drink remained full. Drink it, you asshole, just drink it. She swirled her own cocktail, gazing over the rim of her glass to find a grotesque, unashamed want on his face. Mission still unfinished, she carried on with the conversation. “Name your price because you know it's not going to be me.”

Scarzan leaned back on the pillow, laughing at her fight. He shook his head and switched his drink to his other hand. “You know, you remind me of my daughter with a mouth like that. And look what happened to her.”

He took another tiny, useless sip.

“I remember you always pouting around your father’s legs all those years ago. And look at you now. Ripe and ready.” He grabbed the center of her corset, ripping her into his body. The force of it had her stumbling, hands grasping and reaching to no avail. Bent in half, her chest heaved. Soft wisps of hair tickled her cheek, broken free from her perfect ballerina bun.

His voice was hot and jarring against her ear. “I will relish telling your father just how I’ve ruined you and you will do nothing because this is what you deserve.”

Her stomach rolled, a sick clammy feeling washing over her.

To her dismay, all her anger fled, leaving her bare and weak, his hand still shoved half inside her corset, up against her breasts. Her mind spun, wheeling through every possible move she could make. The smartest was to quiver and quake. Men like him lived for humiliation. It was intoxicating. A drug that would leave him open to mistakes.

Yes, he would like that. Seeing her crumpled and small.

She let her shoulders curl and eyes grow enormous with fear.

“You cannot sir, you would not...” Voice shaking, she cowered.

His eyes dilated, her fear an aphrodisiac. But then he went off script. Expecting her to go limp and compliant in his arms, his hands forced themselves beneath her skirts. One taking hold of her ass, the other plunging beneath thin lace, scraping against the softest skin. The feeling of his fingers, his nails pulled her from the glacial, immoveable depths of fear holding her body captive and plunged her back into the flames of wrath.

And with that, several things happened all at once.

The most important of which was Elysia Parker exploding through her porcelain mask. Shards and fragments of the doll she had been flew like shrapnel through the air. Composure broken, she found a vicious, vengeance-bent version of herself waiting to emerge. The Crown-welded collar and leash lay demolished, brittle pieces scattered on the floor.

Chains gone, something ancient came to life within her, lips snarling, teeth bared. She wished she had claws to rip through sinew and skin. Without claws or fangs, she was left with her hands. Hands that had struck Kava’s Shadow a thousand times. Elysia drove her fist up and into Scarzan’s gut, dark victory urging her on when his mouth gaped at the impact. Hands gripping his shoulders, her knee was a battering ram between his legs. He toppled sideways on the lounge pillow, denting it as he fell.

Mouth agape, still choking for air, his dark eyes were wild, but she didn’t care. Her manicured fingers grabbed his jaw, nails digging in like half moon knives. She could barely feel his skin, or the throbbing frenzy of his pulse. Her eyes were on his mouth, jaw pried wide by her hands. She didn’t care if he bit her fingers clean off.

She grabbed his drink and then hers, holding his head back as she poured them straight down his throat. Tears streamed down his face, gin spraying as he choked and spluttered. But she slammed his mouth shut, his teeth cracking loudly. Dropping the glass, she plugged his nose, refusing to let go even as he failed like a flaccid worm.

“Swallow it,” she demanded. She sounded like a demon.

But he complied, and a hot rush flooded through her. She’d done it. He’d drunk the damn poison. He would be?—

“The number of times I’ve imagined divesting every last drop of air from that man’s body.” Topp’s voice was a strained rasp. But he only shook his head wistfully, like he wished it could have been him to poison the bastard. Deft hands closed the gauzy curtains, blocking any curious eyes.

“And here you are, my sweet little liar, fulfilling my every unspoken bedroom dream.” He paused as if in question, his deep voice rumbling. “This is foreplay, isn’t it?” A dark grin spilled in her direction.

Elysia’s hands fell immediately to her sides. As if that would hide what she had done. Like he hadn’t just seen her in a reverie of rage, assaulting a foreign diplomat. Trepidation prickled up her spine, and she eyed Topp warily.

She never knew what he was going to do. He was becoming more and more unpredictable. And it was a problem. Her heart rate calmed, though. Sounds of the party slowly returned, instead of the noiseless static that had overcome her.

She faced Topp, giving her back to Scarzan, who was still a coughing mess. There was no hiding what she’d done. He’d walked in on her forcing the undead gods knew what down a man of political power’s throat. And that same man would be dead within minutes, the rest of the party taking ill soon after. It wouldn’t take a genius to solve that mystery. She squeezed her hands into fists. I need to get out of here.

Sometimes the truth was more powerful than any lie.

“He attacked me. Tried to, tried to—” Her voice failed, arms automatically wrapping her body like a shield.

The irreverent flirtation cleared from Topp’s face, his understanding quick even with her few words. He was familiar with Scarzan and his transgressions.

Hands flexing, his eyes grew electric amidst the soft dark of the gauzy tent. Suddenly he looked bigger than he was—but it wasn’t the thick muscles under his dark olive shirt, or the width or height of him. It was the feeling of a storm crashing against your window at three in the morning, violent and ready to break through the glass. The feeling grew until it felt like rain and lightning might burst from above. “You touched her?”

The prince took a single step. A saunter almost. Confident and unrepentant of what he was about to do.

But Scarzan was already moving, having taken advantage of their brief distraction. Bloated hands wrapped around Elysia’s throat, his thumbs crushing into her windpipe.

Poison-laced spittle sprayed onto Elysia’s face with each of Scarzan’s words. “You fucking cunt.”

His fingers squeezed tighter, lifting Elysia clear off her feet. Panic surged like a tidal wave as she lost her breath. The woman he’d murdered at the House flashed through her mind. She’d been found bruised and mottled, her neck the broken stem of a bloodied rose.

Elysia’s vision grew fuzzy, Scarzan’s face going in and out. Her head snapped to and fro like a rag doll. But Gage’s fierce bark shouted at her like a lifeline.

How do you break the hold? Elysia, show me you know how to break the hold!

Her eyes flung open, Gage’s words ringing in her mind. Gritting down, she gathered the last of her energy and thrust both hands up. Scarzan swore roughly, his wrists breaking away from her neck.

And Topp was right there not even a second behind, plowing into him, taking the canopy down as they hit the floor. Layers and layers of gauze fell around them. A shroud of death, fanning out around the two men like a dark corona.

No one noticed the nimbus of death, though. Not when Topp’s hands were busy breaking the marble floor with the back of Scarzan’s head. One large hand over the rat’s face, he pounded it down.

Over and over and over.

The muscles in his back shortening, then lengthening as his shoulder came down hard and fast. It was rhythmic. Blood pooling and spraying out in flecks. Scarzan’s eyes had long since gone blank, the light snuffed out within them. But Topp persisted. Like he couldn’t stop.

Staring down, transfixed, Elysia knew she should be running, but her limbs were numb, her brain buzzing silently.

Around them, the party came to an abrupt halt. People scattered, avoiding the fallout while craning their necks.

The music cut with an ear-piercing shriek of a violin. Waiters toppled into guests, trays soaring into the air and drinks falling down like rain. Eyes wide, people couldn’t look away from the heir to the Kavian throne—on his knees, bloodied and violent like an animal in the woods.

Court ladies screamed as if they hadn’t seen hundreds of people swing, hundreds of necks severed in the main square. But somewhere across the room, far from being a lady of the court, the Doorman grinned.

He might not have ended up dead on the beach with the House’s crest branded onto his skin, but his life debt leaked across the floor in a scarlet river and that was good enough. Elysia finally looked up from the massacre to see the Doorman holding up a glass in cheers, then disappearing out the door.

Seconds later, guards rushed to the scene. Shoving through the crowds, the king and her father fought their way to the front. She could hear them shouting for people to move.

Grabbing the back of Topp’s shirt, the king heaved, tearing his son off the diplomat and tossing him aside. The tangled canopy was left behind, a veil over Scarzan’s body. Topp grunted, landing hard on his side. He shoved back up to his feet, anger still hardening his jaw.

Bits of gossamer fabric floated down in tiny shreds, several more of the gauzy tents destroyed in the chaos. Elysia watched it fall, sticking to people and the floor like confetti. It looks like the soot.

She jolted, feeling her father’s large, warm hand settle on the back of her neck like a vise. Her eyes darted to Topp, a few feet away, shaking out his bloodied hands.

A dark storm of anger still vibrated out of him. And then there was Scarzan, motionless upon the beautiful marble and labradorite floors. Sprayed with blood, it wasn’t his face that was the horror. It was the back of his skull. Caved in with bone and brain matter smashed onto the floor.

Her eyes went back to Topp. Everyone had masks. Roles they had to play. Characters to get them by. But this , this felt like his mask had cracked open tonight as well, revealing an ugly, but honest shade of him. He wasn’t wearing a crown tonight. He rarely did. She wondered if it was because he knew it didn’t fit. That he didn’t fit.

Whatever his plans were, the man who had been her friend, her lover—that was who had just stepped up like a tempest made flesh.

The king’s voice rang out with a quiet anger, silencing the whispers in the room. “Both of you, follow me.” There was no question of who he was speaking to—everyone’s face swiveled to her and Topp like they were on a stage. He strode for the door, muttering beneath his breath. “And someone, call the fucking medics.”

Elysia swallowed. She didn’t think the medics were going to be able to fix that. If he wasn’t dead, then poison would finish the job. But she trailed after Topp, her father only a step from her heels. She could feel all the eyes in the room as they left—could feel the whirlwind of rumors being birthed, ready to race out into the night, far beyond these doors.

Let them whisper about a prince who would kill for his woman. It was a luscious tale even if it did end with brains on the floor. One that would have everyone forgetting the weight of a Bellian politician dead at the Golden Seal’s farewell party. Hearing the clucking gasps as she exited, Elysia knew this was one story that would travel far and wide. Everyone loved a romance. Especially one with death and betrayal.

As the doors closed, she heard her mother’s voice, light as air, drawing everyone’s attention to a tower of imported effervescent wine. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen and then watching a man die, but Elysia laughed. One short, dark chuckle. Her mother was high if she thought a bit of sparkling wine could distract from a dead diplomat with his skull bashed in. Topp looked over his shoulder with a smirk, like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

The king flung open the door to a room that Elysia guessed belonged to a cartographer. Maps were strewn about, along with pencils and small sharp measuring tools. They all filed into the room, her father and the king taking up similar stances with their feet wide and arms crossed. She was used to her father intimidating her. But she would be safe for now.

It was their little secret that he loathed her more than he ever loved her. That he couldn’t help himself from punishing her. With the king two feet away, he wouldn’t lift a finger.

And Garrison had always been the picture of a patient father. Most kings would have forced Topp’s hand by now. Late twenties, it was more than time for him to begin taking over the day-to-day duties of the Crown. But Garrison always seemed to trust that Topp would rise to the occasion, never doubting his capacity to one day rule in his stead.

But tonight they’d murdered a man. In front of the entire court. Maybe Topp had finally found his father’s limit.

King Garrison stood tensely. His fingers pinching the bridge of his nose and eyes squeezed shut. The tone of his voice recommended that Topp consider his reply very, very carefully. “ Explain .”

Topp met his father’s eyes, green to gray, his expression slightly bored. As if he’d asked him about a game of rocks and not the brutal death he’d delivered five doors down.

His mouth went flat, expression shifting to one that said the answer should be obvious to anyone with a functioning brain. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he immediately took one out and ran it through wood-brown hair before finally answering.

“You know how Scarzan is. Always leaving a trail of mangled women in every city he visits.” He pinned his father with a look, daring the king to contradict him.

In spite of the bold statement, his tone was dry and matter of fact. It was the voice of someone who’d experienced a lifetime of people always believing him—why wouldn’t they now?

His father stared at him, impatient and wanting more of an explanation than that.

Topp leaned back against a map-covered desk, kicking his legs out and crossing one ankle over the other. He was the image of a prince, unbothered and completely unrepentant. He took his time to answer, his words slow and thoughtful.

“I went looking for Elysia, and when I found her, Scarzan had his hands wrapped around her throat.” Topp looked at her briefly, his face giving away his uncertainty of whether he should say the rest of what had happened. His voice went gruff. “That wasn’t all he tried to do.”

He looked both of their fathers in the eyes, ensuring they felt the weight of his words. Gooseflesh covered Elysia’s arms as the air in the room grew charged. Topp’s hands gripped the desk, shoulders turning in as he spoke. There was a low, hard quality to his voice that gave no room for rebuttals.

“He would have killed her. You might not have given a shit about what he did at the House, but you’re out of your fucking minds if you think I was going to stand there as he turned Elysia’s neck black and blue. Fuck diplomacy. I am the Crown and you do not touch what is the Crown’s. Or are we rolling over now and letting scum like that do what they want while in our kingdom?” His words ended in a near growl, his eyes searing into them.

Elysia stared, startled at the depth of emotion behind his speech. He was claiming her, protecting her—but why? What was the point? She was living on borrowed time. Time she was borrowing from him and her father, both.

It made her want to reach for his secrets, but she didn’t dare. Her curse had already given her a gift in letting her know that he couldn’t be trusted. Trying to read him any further was pointless.

Not that she could read him with any skill, anyway. Her magic was temperamental, untrained and acting according to its own will half the time. She was better than she used to be, but in a kingdom where magic was dead, her gift was erratic at best, showing up and giving out at the most inopportune times.

If she could go back in time, she should have tried to read him long ago, but she hadn’t known then what was coming. She’d had no idea that she would stand here, shocked at his support and wondering about his motives and plans. It might make her naive, stupid even, but she had wanted their love to be real so badly she had left his secrets untouched. Sentimental and foolish, she had always left the business of anyone important to her alone the best she could.

She might go digging through everyone else’s trash, but then there were the few people she illogically and deeply wanted to be able to trust. It had always felt like a line. Invisible, but solid. And crossing it would have meant admitting there wasn’t a single person in her life who was safe.

Her father shook her, snapping her attention to him. His large palms swallowed her shoulders, grip tight and angry. His always loud voice felt like it was too much in this room, crashing over her, causing her to shrink and close her eyes.

Eyes closed, she didn’t see it coming. His hand cracked against the side of her face like he could shatter it. Before she could absorb the blow, he was grabbing the back of her already sore neck. Yanking her head back, pulling strands of hair as he did. His voice was a barely contained bellow. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Lashes wet with pain, her spine arched unnaturally, arms clamoring to take hold of something, anything, so she didn’t collapse. She stared back at her father, embarrassment flooding her. He’d never done this in front of anyone before. She didn’t want Topp to see her like this, to know this part of her—weak, useless, afraid. She could see him in the corner of her eye, moving and instantly being held back by his father.

Voice lowering, her father’s tone was scathing. “Alone with Scarzan? Are you not any better than a stupid whore? Did I not raise you in every meeting and every court function I possibly could, so that you would know exactly who and what you would be dealing with?” Tears ran freely now, the room narrowing to only her and him. A dull, heavy throb pulsed in her ears.

Her father released her, throwing her down to the ground. Twisting, her knees and hips hit the cold floor hard, pain ricocheting through her bones. She pulled herself up, knees folded and hands pressed to the floor. Eyes glassy, she looked up at him, fighting for even a scrap of defiance, but much like her pride, it was nowhere to be found.

Jack gripped the door, and the wood groaned. “Do you really think anyone will still respect you now? I thought you were smarter than this.” A muscle in his temple jumped. His disgust was palpable, but she didn’t look away.

And then he was gone.

Elysia remained a statue on the floor. It shouldn’t hurt. After all these years, she should be impervious to the pain. But his words found every weak spot and chink in her armor, seeping in through the spots made thin from years of abuse. The prince and the king were still there, but she wasn’t listening.

He didn’t even ask. The thought looped. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t ask if she was okay. Because it didn’t matter— she didn’t matter.

He hadn’t balked at the bruises forming on her neck. He had given her new ones, a matching set. A nasty voice that sounded like the truth reminded her of what she had done. Going to the House. Getting lost in her curse and betting herself off. This is my fault. The tulle of her dress scratched at her skin. And she couldn’t forget all the lives she’d taken. How high was that number now? This really is what I deserve.

Gentle fingers brushed over her hair, coming to rest silently against her head. The side of him pressed up against her, and her own hand wound around his ankle, latching onto him without thinking. His thumb stroked against her hair, but Topp’s gaze was on his father.

The king looked tired. It was easy to forget he was getting older, but right now it showed. He looked like a man who knew his age and was suddenly afraid his heir wasn’t up to the task. That his legacy would die when he did. His eyes flicked to Elysia, shaken and small on the floor, then to Topp beside her.

His eyes were distant in thought. “You’re a grown man. If you say you were defending the girl, then that is the story we will tell. Scarzan’s reputation precedes him. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. The Bellians will only be angry that they didn’t get to serve justice themselves.”

And just like that, Topp’s word was enough to fend off what could have been a political nightmare. Dimly, Elysia thought that must be nice, to have that kind of power.

Crisis averted, Garrison drew himself up to his full height, seeming to shake off the moment of bleak prescience. He walked to the door, pausing before he left. His hand made a soft slap against the stone wall and he looked at Topp, his eyes never straying back to Elysia. “Make sure the medics take a look at her neck.”

He had one foot out the door when the screaming began.