1. A Wedding Night

A Wedding Night

Luella

This isn’t my worst wedding night. This one, like the man who accompanies it, falls somewhere in the midst of mediocrity. I might not even remember it, if things go the way I’ve planned. Of course, that would require Senator Silas to cooperate for once in his miserable life, and the dark hair falling across his reddening face and the veins pulsing in his arms indicate that he’s not ready to do that.

Cooperation would look like fear, and he’s not afraid.

Not yet.

His eyes are hard instead of wide, and his lips are pressed together in a white line instead of parted or slack-jawed. These are the clues his body gives me, warning me that my new husband is, in fact, livid.

And of course, I can tell because he has me pinned against a wall, fingers tightening around my throat.

“What did you give me, Julia?” Silas snarls, spittle landing on my cheek. Julia is a fine name, but it isn’t mine. I’d never allow swine like Silas to put his lips around the vowels and consonants that make up me. Having him around my neck is one thing, but my name is quite another.

Luella.

“ Venefica ,” he booms instead, giving my neck a shake. Witch. If I cared for his opinion, it might sting, might wound me. I’ve been called worse things by better people, but I prefer it at a more appropriate volume. There are guards at the bedchamber door, although they shouldn’t hear through the thick stone, and if they do, they will think Silas is taking what’s his. It is his wedding night, after all.

He wavers on his feet and the motion loosens his hold enough for me to take in a greedy breath. The relief on my face must annoy my dear husband because he leans his weight into me, crushing my windpipe yet again. Stones, he’s a large man, and this body feels smaller, more fragile compared to the last.

I’d like to wait it out, but black blurs the edges of my vision. There’s not enough time. My fingers grapple at my waist, searching until the palm size blade is in my delicate hand. I bring it up, fumbling around his arms caging me in. Slashing, I meet my target: the soft flesh below his jaw. It’s not deep, but it’s well-placed. It’s enough for him to release me, reaching for his own neck instead of mine.

His eyebrows raise and lips part as his fingers embrace his throat, and I smile. I like when they keep their hands to themselves.

Now he gets it. He finally feels it.

The fear.

He tries and fails to dam the flow of blood spilling from the wound. There’s panic mixing with the fear now, and his rapid heartbeat means the blood will flow faster. That makes it messier than I’d like. I prefer potions, poisons, and wits. Women have many weapons, though, and I’m willing to use them all.

Rubbing my neck, I step to the side, air rushing in to fill my eager lungs as I move out of the way of Silas' crumpling body. He collapses on the white marble and I watch his face drain of color for a few moments. Chamaeleōns do this. They skitter along the rocks at the edge of the river, and when they sense danger, they change.

Their skin morphs into the stone beneath it, going from green to gray.

In the end, that’s all Silas is. A sad little lizard, trying–but failing–to survive.

Was it my knife or my poison that killed him? I suppose it’s never one thing, just as I might not have noticed one child missing in a city of thousands. Yet, rumors spread when they’re fed with truth, or fear, and Silas’ reputation was a corpulent and swollen thing.

His name was easy to scrawl on my list.

His warm blood coats my hands, growing sticky as the night air cools the evidence of what I’ve done, again. I can’t smell it, my nose too damaged from its many breakings, but I remember. Sharp and metallic, until you don’t know if it’s a taste or a smell, the two senses too tangled with the pain.

The lower half of my wedding dress is smudged with it when I kneel. The dress is objectively beautiful, all white satin with a square neckline and fitted through the bodice. It highlights my petite frame, my large doe eyes, and sweet copper plaits.

I hate it.

No matter, though. Every precise detail served to lure my stupid, predator husband into a place where I could make him what he really was.

Praeda .

I hate the plan I have to use tonight. Too many unknowns, but I’m certain I’ve profiled him properly. We always do.

“Hmm,” I murmur, running my hand along the wall at the back of the bedchamber. No servants’ entrance, as I suspected. Too paranoid. They should let me go, though, given the undercurrent of unrest here.

If they don’t, I’ll have to find out if Janus can grant me gills at the bottom of the Maero. But, even they have limits. No.

It’s out the front, dead or alive.

Standing, I peel my dress down, clawing at the back when the laces won’t release me. I will not be caged, not tonight.

Not ever.

Liberated, I set to more important matters: smashing my head into the wall. I suck in a breath to steel my nerves, and before I can reconsider, I slam the side of my face into the wall once, twice.

“Jupiter’s stones,” I mutter. I don’t have to put on such a show often anymore, but it’s certainly not the first time. Probably not the last, either. This is my best chance.

I bend down in front of my late husband, working the belt to his trousers loose. I wrap the dark cloth around my neck and tie the other end to the washroom door. The cloth is rough against the sensitive and tender skin of my throat, retracing the imprint of Silas' hands from just moments before. My fingers itch to tear it away.

Instead, I step as far from the door as I can, pulling it taut, then kick the door closed. I crash to the floor with a strangled cry and tears prick the corner of my eyes. Gods, I hate the neck. I can only do it once without passing out, so I unwrap the cloth and I throw it across the room. It flutters in an offensive trajectory, landing so close I could kick it.

Naked in the middle of the room, I take stock. The bedchamber is large, as befits one of Silas' station. Its limestone walls are hung with tapestries of Jupiter, Mars, and of course Venus. Useless Gods, all of them.

My white dress and the matching white marriage bed draw my eyes. Perhaps the dress isn’t ruined enough. The fabric is soft in my hands once more as I yank at the seams along the back, tear the neckline, and split the bodice the way so many of my dresses have been split before, just not by my hand.

I bite my lip, not in the gentle and seductive way I had in front of Silas, but violently. Angrily. The skin splits and the taste of copper floods my mouth, underwhelming without the scent to assault me. Blood trickles down from my lip, and I let it flow as I walk over to the bed. The white sheets are in a tangled heap, the edges spilling onto the floor.

A vase had fallen off the bedside table earlier and now shards of glass and cool water brush the tips of my toes. My lips curl at the crumpled red roses strewn throughout the scene. Men seem to love roses, adorning their marriage chambers with the disgusting flower. As if to prove they could tame the thorns of beauty.

As if any amount of pretty could justify pain.

I fall to my knees in the glass and pain radiates up my thighs and down my shins. My resolution wavers as I eye the nightstand before cracking my cheek into the corner of it. My eyes water.

I really hate this part.

Crawling to the tattered wedding gown, I breathe through the tears and the inescapable sensation of pain. A warning from the body, except the warning I’m creating isn’t for me.

Glass scrapes against my lower legs and embeds in my hands as cold water from the overturned vase mingles with my blood. A sharp thorn from a rose gets me, as if it senses my earlier disgust. I glare at it before brushing the useless spike free.

Reaching into the pocket of the wedding gown, I let my fingers trace over the small vials, each a different shape so I can sort them anywhere. Finding the one I want, I tip the purple liquid into my mouth and the familiar bitter tang coats my throat, although I hardly remember the last time I had to drink this particular one. It might as well have been Silas, then, too. They blur together, the men. Each as inconsequential as the discarded rose thorn. A pain for just a moment, and then a fading memory.

Besides, I’m not really here for them. I’m here for the women and children of Divus, and I’ll wrap my fist around as many thorns as I must—as many thorns as they need—until there are no more thorns.

I blink, the purple tonic casting a fog over my thoughts. I’m almost out of time. I lay on the floor, tugging Silas' cooling body onto mine. My breath becomes heavy, and the weight is suffocating for a moment. I don’t need to pretend as my heart pounds and my vision blurs with tears. A whisper of fear before I remind myself that I’m in control.

He’s dead and I am in control.

I drag my nails along his neck, his arms, and down the sides of his face until welts appear on his skin and my nails are ready to crack. Pain drags at me, but already it’s dulling, ebbing with each heartbeat that circulates the sleeping drought. Satisfied, I relax, focusing on breathing in. Then out. In. Out. Until I convince myself to surrender to oblivion.