Chapter 21
Topp Blatz still felt green at the ears, but thanked the undead gods that at least he was upright. The ballroom was a reeking, disgusting mess. It was as though everyone had completely lost control of their bowels in a matter of minutes. Vomit, feces, no one could move fast enough. They just hit the ground and wept from there.
He had a strong feeling that Elysia had once again misjudged the potency of whatever plant she’d been working with, much like she had with the pukeweed. The woman was brilliant. If she’d been a man, then she’d easily have been an intel officer within Kava’s armies.
But she was shit at poisons. Absolute, complete shit.
It’d taken him a moment to work out just how she’d done it. But halfway down the stairs, the itch in his brain had relented. The drinks. There was nary a soul in the room who had not drunk something, even if it was just wine or tea. And he hadn’t missed the servers either—her mother’s usual staff weren’t quite so brawny. His jaw ticked. Where she had met and hired men like that was a conversation for another day.
And then there was the obvious, that little moment in the privacy of the canopy, her prying Scarzan’s jaw open until he was unhinged like a snake. Pouring liquid down his throat until he choked.
It’d been startling. And yet, the beast in him had pulled at his lips until there was a grin. He liked her like that. Dress ripped and a murderous expression on her face. It suited her. Besides, the man deserved it.
The scent of desperation had tainted the barely lit tent. He’d even heard a tooth crack when she’d slammed Scarzan’s jaws shut. His delicate flower had been ready to wrap around that man like a vine, squeezing until his lungs gave out.
He’d known she was going to do something to cause a distraction. He hadn’t expected her to kill a man. The ordeal with Scarzan had blinded him, left him off-kilter enough to believe that had been her whole plan.
Topp’s stomach rolled and he swallowed against the poison’s leftover nausea. He was just grateful he’d barely touched his drink. Otherwise, he’d still be on the floor with the rest of those poor folks.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs that led to his rooms. That had been an oversight—to think the chaos inside the canopy had been her true plan. No, in hindsight, it was obvious those particular actions had been the fruit of desperation and likely to pay off the House for her blunders. Her usual calculated self had disappeared in her panic and rage. Her real plans were always… more .
Because Elysia Parker never did things by halves.
He’d corrected her on the main export of another kingdom once, and she’d spent the next twenty-four hours putting together a lecture on why he was wrong. One hour into her lecture, he’d thrown her on the bed, not caring which of them was right if only she’d stop talking about lumber and maple syrup.
He knew that to some, her actions would be despicable. She had just killed a man, after all. Well, she’d started the job, and he’d finished it. There wasn’t a shred of remorse in his heart.
Scarzan had assaulted her and now he wouldn’t assault anyone else. Simple.
Topp wasn’t sure he’d live long enough to have kids, but the idea of selling his own blood—heavy revulsion filled him at the thought. It was weak. And it was shameful.
Scarzan had sold his daughter not only in place of himself, as Elysia believed, but also to gain access to insider games and muscle. Topp hauled himself up another flight of stairs. Rumor had it that the deal with his daughter had backfired.
Either way, the man was a waste of perfectly good air.
The memory of his hands on Elysia’s neck was a fire in Topp’s blood. As if a small man like him could kill a woman like her. If she was nothing else, Elysia was scrappy. She would do anything, be anything to survive—to an extent that Topp was only now realizing.
The sight of Scarzan attacking her had been enough to blow his eyes out. Glowing and pupils dilated. And then he was moving. Destroying all evidence of her assassination.
In truth, it was hard to say what had really killed Scarzan first—the poison, or the death he had wished to bestow himself.
It was a rare moment that he was glad for his position. Most days the crown was unwanted, a nuisance really. But when he’d been thrown from Scarzan, hand bloody with bits of the man still stuck to his flesh—well, for once he’d been grateful. Grateful for the privilege and protection of his name and gender.
He’d pushed his father’s limits since the day he was born. Woods instead of ballrooms. Animals instead of politics. Hatchets instead of swords. Quiet when he should speak. And loud when he was supposed to remain silent. It wasn’t a small thing to cut down a foreign diplomat in the middle of a party honoring his departure. Yet, here he was, free and clear.
Twice, his crown had saved his ass tonight. Because no matter how infuriating or backward their fathers’ interpretations of Scarzan’s actions were, he had been able to quell that nonsense with the simplest of words. She was his. And they could not say a word against her if he spoke in her favor.
Too many women fell on the swords of men because their words were not held as true.
Two more flights of stairs. Soot, he needed some water. His mouth tasted awful.
Jack Parker, though. His lip curled as if he might snarl. The man could spin money and trades out of thin air, but Topp saw the way he watched Elysia. There was always an off-putting blend of loathful vigilance and something that wanted to be love—but was not—in the air when Jack Parker was near his daughter. It made Topp’s skin crawl.
He didn’t know what went on between the two of them. For years, he had thought they were thick as thieves. At some point, he’d noticed a shift. A bitter reluctance whenever her father demanded her assistance. That her mask was never more flawless than when she was by Jack Parker’s side. He’d always assumed she’d come to him if it was something bad enough. But after tonight, he realized how much he must have missed over the years, caught up in his own problems and goals.
If Elysia’s response was any indication, this evening was far from the first time Jack Parker had laid hands on his daughter. Their normal, sickeningly sweet public interactions had dissolved like sugar in water, leaving a sticky cloud of vitriol and violence.
Topp rounded the bend, coming up to the last flight of stairs. To be clear, he was furious with her. She was brilliant and terrifying. Her actions and deceit made him want to shake some cold, hard sense into her bones. A relentless pain in his ass, that’s what she was—killing diplomats at parties and betting her own self away at pleasure houses.
Not to mention, it seemed like she was dead set on getting herself killed. Like she thought she was headed for the executioner’s block anyway, so she might as well go out with a bang. Guilt landed heavy in his chest, stopping his steps. That was likely his fault. And he was going to talk to her.
Just as soon as she led him to the rebels.
Then they could clear the air. He’d tie her down if he had to, but he’d make it clear he had no intention of making her collateral damage. A dark voice in the back of his mind questioned this. If there was anything, anyone he wouldn’t give up to achieve his ends. But he pushed it away.
He would never hurt her on purpose.
Topp climbed the last of the stairs. He’d begged off from his duties as quickly as possible. Told his father’s men that he had a lead, ordered them to leave him to it. Had said it was urgent and would be out of reach by sunup, so he needed to hurry.
The best lies were the truth. He’d learned that from her.
Topp spotted Lewis still in front of his chambers, barely keeping his eyes open. He wouldn’t be surprised if Elysia had just waltzed out the front door with security like that. But someone would have seen her, and the doors were sealed, gates drawn.
Anticipation brought a grin to his lips. He couldn’t wait to see how she’d played this. Because there was no way in all the realms she was missing that meeting.
Topp stomped a little louder on the last stair and watched Lewis jolt to attention. The man blinked rapidly, clearing the fog from his eyes. “Any problems, Lewis?”
The guard paused as though he was unsure if he should speak, “Sir... Is there an animal in your chambers, by any chance? I know you, uh, have your hobbies.”
Topp’s eyes went wide, and he lunged for the door. “Shit,” he mumbled. “I completely forgot about Lina.”
He pushed the door open a crack, peering inside. Well, there wasn’t a raccoon screeching bloody murder. That was a good sign. Relieved, he walked into his chambers and shut the door, leaving Lewis completely befuddled in the hallway.
Two whole steps into his rooms, he stopped, one half of his mouth hitching up. She was gone, as he’d expected, and now it was just a matter of tracking her. Excitement raced through him like liquid gold. He was finally going to get the drop on these rebels. He’d met with his father’s men, and to his surprise, they only knew a few names for certain—there was still a chance he could make contact and save a few lives tonight.
He glanced around his rooms, and a frown tugged down his face. Tiny lakes of watery yellow-orange fluid were everywhere. Topp ran a hand through his hair, frustration and disappointment coming in a great swell. He’d thought Lina was doing better with her potty training. They’d been working on it nonstop for the last few weeks, and she’d barely had any accidents.
Grabbing a towel, he dropped down to wipe it up. He stopped, brow creasing. That sweet scent—it reminded him of summers spent in other lands. Lands that were warm and filled with the sun and magic. He took another delicate but wary sniff.
Mango . There was wet, sticky mango everywhere. A laugh rumbled in his chest. Better than piss.
“Lina, come here girl,” he called, searching for the tiny bandit. She’d clearly gone on a mango binge when he hadn’t been there to feed her dinner. Couldn’t blame her. Poor girl.
Topp walked in circles, opening and closing closets and drawers when Lina did not tumble out of her usual nooks or crannies. His smile only widened when he saw the living room table shoved haphazardly to the side of the room.
He really was curious to see how Elysia had escaped. He’d half expected to find Lewis unconscious and sticking out from behind a tapestry. They were in a tower for the gods’ sake, there really wasn’t any other way out.
He walked closer, noticing not only the table, but how the rug was rumpled awkwardly. His booted foot kicked at the corner of the rug. Grabbing the edge, he hauled it back and let out a low laugh. “Tricky, woman.”
Purposeful cracks in the stone floor stood out to his sharp eyes. He ran his fingers over the cool stone, feeling for a catch. Giving up, he grabbed an old sword he didn’t care about and jammed it into the crack. Putting his weight onto the sword, he pried at the stone until it lifted and he was able to grab hold of the edge, opening it completely.
Staring down into the hole, Topp allowed his eyes to adjust. How in the name of the undead gods had she fit in there? He looked down at the size of his own body and groaned. This wasn’t going to be pleasant at all.
Hunched and a little humbled, he stuffed his body into what appeared to be a crawl space. There was no light, no sounds—not even the softest flow of air. Anxiety clawed at his throat. Men like him did not belong in spaces like this. There was a reason he liked the forest and all her meadows. They were open, the call of freedom in every shriek and quiet hum of the wind.
But he had to follow her, had to find that group. With a single deep breath, he continued, even though every fiber of his body screamed at him to rip himself up and out of here. Arms and legs tight, he felt like a sausage in its casing, slowly wedging himself down the path, praying it would end.
And then all at once he was hot. Unbearably hot. There was no air, and it was too tight. He was going to get stuck and die here. His chest was moving faster now. The walls of the crawl space closed in, swallowing him whole.
Eyes shut, Topp counted at a measured pace until his heart was no longer about to burst through his chest and his breath not so fast.
When his eyes opened, the walls had stopped moving, and he realized his feet were about to plunge into nothing. Topp inched forward until he sat on the edge of the ledge, his feet dangling. The death drop before him didn’t give him the warm fuzzies, but fuck, he’d take it over that crawl space any day.
No offense to Lewis, but he was really starting to wish she had just knocked the man out and used literally any other exit from the castle than this one.
“Not like sealed gates would have stopped you,” he grumbled, staring at the fraying rope before him. His broad shoulders dropped with a sigh. This wasn’t going to end well.
He looked up at the rope and the beam it was attached to, eyeing them both with skepticism. The rope was worn and frayed. And the beam looked more like a toothpick than a stability beam to a man of his size.
Can’t wait to die. Topp took hold of the rope and began his descent. He slid a few feet down. “Okay, okay, so far, so good.” The rope whined in response and the beam creaked, protesting his weight.
And then there was a loud pop. The sound of the rope snapping free, whistling as it hurtled through the air, free and untethered from its barings.
“ Fuck. ”
Topp plummeted. He was a boulder off a cliff with no idea what lay below.
Legs and arms reaching, he scraped against the sides of the chute, attempting to slow himself down. There . Pushing off the wall, he threw himself into the dark.
Topp hit the ground hard, skidding against packed dirt. Laying there, sore and dazed, he was infinitely grateful there was no one to see him sprawled face down like an incompetent moron. Up ahead, the faint gleam of light beckoned and he could smell fresh air drifting in. Lifting his face off the dirt, he spotted a squashed grape several steps ahead. He dropped back to the ground with a grin.
Right on track.
Topp broke out into the courtyard, mud seeping into the knees of his pants as he heaved himself out. He’d lived in Relaclave on and off since birth, and he was ashamed to say he’d never ventured into the tunnels. Right below his feet was an entire network of entrances and exits, but his eyes had always been out the window, looking into the distance.
Soot-stained mist and damp air kissed his face now as he glanced around the empty castle grounds. He’d spent many an afternoon training, right here in the rain and cold. Fingers practically frozen to his weapons. He could fight if he had to, just like any of the king’s men. He was strong enough—fast and agile. But tracking and stealth were where he shone. All those hours of stalking through the forest, honing his eyes and mind.
Every bit of moss stamped down, broken twig askew, and scent on the wind called to him. Silent clues turning the path bright like a guiding star on a cloudless night.
Eyes to the damp ground, he strolled out of the castle grounds, certain of Elysia’s steps. He followed her out into the fading light of Relaclave’s streetlamps, feeling as though he might for the first time be able to do something good. A single strike in favor of his redemption. He knew it didn’t hold a candle to his failures.
Never mind the many hunts against his own. That was a damage he could never undo. Beyond their deaths, in his heart of hearts, he knew he was a coward. A better man would have relieved his father of the throne, damning the consequences. But he hadn’t. Endless lives lost as he bided his time, hoping to unravel Kava’s secrets—no matter what everyone told themselves, magic didn’t just disappear.
His time outside of Kava while growing up had changed him. Being with people and lands full of life and magic. There was no denying that Kava was sick, decaying before their eyes. It was like no one could remember the before, or maybe they just didn’t want to—he couldn’t blame them. What was the point?
But he would find an answer, and maybe these people were a start.
The black, iron streetlamps cast a warm, almost orange tinted, filter over the cobble streets and the people walking along them. A couple strode past, hand in hand, sweet grins upon their faces as they hurried home in the late hour. Soot from the sky, soot from the unkept lamps. The dark smoky glow of the streets could have been romantic. Between the mist dotting your skin and the shadowed light, he could see it.
But he wasn’t hand in hand with his love. He was tracking her just the same as an animal in the woods or a man on the run.
The thought sent a shiver racing up his spine all the way to his head. He knew this feeling. The thrill of prey in his sights.
He was hopeful there would be no death or reports of treason to make in the morning like there usually was when he sank into this part of himself. If he was lucky, there would only be answers bringing him closer to his aims.
The breeze shifted, and he swore her scent was on the distant sea wind.
The volatile nature within him hummed a warning, but he was already moving and could no longer hear the sound.