Chapter Twelve Shan

Chapter Twelve

Shan

S han loathed to be distracted from her work, especially now, in the wake of her grand transformation of Samuel from gutter-rat to near prince, with things so suddenly and awkwardly strained between them. But she couldn't help but feel a bit of excitement. Isaac had indeed come through—an invitation to the theatre had arrived. A private box. Opening night. A promise of fun and scandal and just a hint of romance.

For a brief moment, she wished that she was anyone but her, someone who could simply fret over suitors and dresses, who could dream of a real romance. Not the woman who had to carry the rehabilitation of her entire family's reputation on her shoulders, or the success of an entire web of spies and a secret plan to undermine a king's regime from within.

But she was not that woman, no matter how much she wished. She had chosen this life, or perhaps it had chosen her, and she had to live with the consequences.

It was nearly time, and she was hurrying down the stairs to wait in the parlor when she was stopped by a sudden, baffled, "Really, Shan?"

She glanced up at her brother with a grin, twirling to show off her new gown. The scarlet silk fluttered around her, and she relished the smooth feel of the bodice that hugged her tight. It had been commissioned in the weeks before she murdered her father, a reward set in place for her success. "It is the latest fashion."

"Not even a little decorum? It's barely been two weeks," Anton pressed, gesturing to his own somber colors. A ridiculous gesture on his part. Their father didn't deserve the honor.

"I'm going to the theatre tonight," she said, as if that explained it all.

"Oh, I see." Anton crossed his arms over his chest, a harsh frown marring his normally carefree expression. But then again, he had been growing colder of late, a change that was coming as slow and inevitable as the frost in winter, but Shan had no idea how to reach him. "And that required a new dress? Shan, we're bleeding money."

"It is not so bad as that—"

"I've seen the ledgers," Anton interrupted. "And, yes, your investments are starting to turn out. And, yes," he quickly continued, before she could voice her counterargument, "I know what you're going to say about appearances and power and looking strong, but that wardrobe you bought for the Aberforth put us back."

"He needed it."

Anton nodded. "He did. But it didn't have to come from us." He leaned against the banister, looking suddenly tired. "Just be careful. Don't spend so much time pretending to be like them that you actually become them."

Shan ground her teeth. "Thank you for the warning, brother. Now if you'll excuse me, my guest will be here momentarily."

"Oh? And who is that?"

Though she knew he'd disapprove, she didn't flinch. She threw the name in his face. "Isaac."

Anton tensed immediately. "De la Cruz? I don't understand. After what he did to you?"

"I know," Shan replied, honestly.

His nostrils flared. "He's the worst kind of traitor," Anton snapped. "It's bad enough for people like Father, but de la Cruz should know better. He should be better."

It was an old argument that they had many times over the past few years, but Shan grabbed his wrist, not willing to indulge him. "It's complicated," she said, because it was. When their father had shut her brother out of polite society, Anton never had to learn the complicated dance that people like them had to play. Acceptance, as people with such obvious foreigner's blood in their veins, was a tightrope, carefully managed lest they fall, dashed to pieces against the harsh stone of Aeravin's expectations. "All of it. You know my feelings."

"And so you join him for a night at the theatre?" He gestured at the new dress, her carefully done hair, her eyes lined in kohl to make them all the more striking. "And you doll yourself up for him? For them?"

"That's not it," Bart said, suddenly appearing at Anton's side. Shan narrowed her eyes at him—how long had he been there, silent, watching the two of them fight? But he entwined his fingers with Anton's, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, bringing Anton's anger down in his own way. "Not everyone has the opportunity to defy expectations, and, besides, de la Cruz's proven to be a powerful player. We could use him."

Anton grimaced, but Shan nodded. It wasn't quite the truth, but it was close enough. "Listen to your man, Anton. He understands the game we're playing."

"This is not a game," Anton hissed, but Bart was already squeezing his hand, rubbing soothing circles against his wrist.

Shan watched the easy way they laced their fingers together, the way they communicated without saying a word. Anton instinctively leaned into Bart's touch, all the tension flowing out of him.

She told herself the reason she watched was so that she could learn to do the same thing. To mirror their actions and use them to lull someone into her confidence.

It was not because she was envious.

"Well," she said, the sound cutting through the easy silence that had taken over. "I must be off. Isaac will be here soon."

"Be careful, Shan," Anton warned, and Bart huffed.

"Our Sparrow can take care of herself," he murmured, tangling his fingers in Anton's jacket and pulling him close. "Now, come on, it's not often we get the house to ourselves."

"Blood and steel!" Shan glanced away. "At least wait until I leave, please."

Anton laughed, waving goodbye as Bart dragged him towards their bedchamber, and she couldn't help but smile. At least one of them deserved some happiness.

She had barely enough time to make it to the parlor before there was a knock on the door. She heard the footman open it, the exchange of pleasantries on the doorstep. Swallowing hard, she tried to calm the thrum of excitement in her veins. Tonight, all eyes would be on her. She wouldn't be slipping through the shadows of Dameral, having whispered conversations with her informants. She wouldn't be finding the broken and the damned and luring them into her web.

That was simple.

But this? This was new. Now it was time to be the Lady she was born to be. The smiling, charming woman who would be a distraction from all the work she did in the dark. And all she had to do was seduce everyone into trusting her, starting with Isaac de la Cruz.

The footman entered, announcing her guest, Isaac following after. He was dressed exquisitely in his suit, the dark grey jacket molded to his frame, the matching pants so tight they could have been sculpted on. His cravat was a complicated but carefully tied knot, hanging over a waistcoat with elegant embroidery. He had even lined his eyes—lightly, ever so lightly—with kohl, so that their dark depths pulled one in, and his hair hung in perfect waves.

Everything about him was calculated to adhere to the latest fashion. It wasn't enough that he was Royal Blood Worker. With his background, he had to be perfect in all ways, and she was just a tad bit mad for him.

He stepped forward, bowing over her hand. His kiss was warm and gentle, and when he looked up at her with his tired eyes, Shan saw just how desperately he wanted forgiveness. But he had hurt her so badly, and she still wasn't sure she could give it.

"It's good to see you," she said, as he rose.

"No, my dear Shan," Isaac said. "The pleasure is mine."

Shan smiled at him, all the while building new walls around her heart.

The play was awful, another load of drivel extolling the virtues of Aeravin. A beautiful young Blood Worker born to a homeland that would never understand her gifts, struggling to find a place, risking life and limb to travel to a land that would accept her.

It ended there, as such stories always did, achieving the dream and ending just before the harshness of reality set in.

But at least they had a private box, closed off from the rest of the crowd as they sat next to each other in the silence and shadows. Throughout the play, he kept brushing his leg against hers, and she could feel the muscles of his thigh even through her skirts. His hand drifted towards hers, brushing over her fingers, the tip of his claw tracing across the soft inner skin of her palm till it pressed against the fluttering beat of her pulse.

The whole while she breathed carefully, convincing herself that the heat that flushed through her was because of the tight, windowless rooms of the theatre, not the way his hand continued to trail upwards, leaving a searing path of warmth in his wake. Yet he did not move an inch past what was appropriate, though she wished for him to dig the tips of his claws into the soft silk of her dress, shredding it under his touch until he reached the warm flesh beneath.

At last the curtain fell and the applause began. She leapt to her feet with the rest of the crowd, not because she had been moved in any way by the production, but to give herself a moment's respite from the uncomfortable feelings that swam through her.

Isaac stood, clapping just as enthusiastically, but his eyes were on her as the witch light illuminated the theatre.

Apparently neither of them had been focused on the play.

"Enjoy yourself?" Isaac asked, reaching forward to brush a stray lock of hair from her face.

"It was lovely," she said, choosing her words with care. She didn't want to outright insult the production, since he had brought her, but blood and steel .

He laughed. "It was a bit trite, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was," Shan said, with a sigh of relief. Perhaps they would be able to slip right back into the friendship they once had—Isaac had always preferred friends with bite, and it was part of what made them work so well together. No need to pretend to be something she was not. "But at least the company was adequate."

"Only adequate? You wound me."

"Trust me, Isaac," Shan said, "if I wounded you, you would know." She flexed her hands so that her ceremonial claws glittered in the light, the inlaid rubies shining in their representation of blood.

Isaac's smirk—even more handsome than she remembered—turned into a real smile. "Now that is a challenge I'd like to take."

"Oh, darling, I don't think you'd win that challenge."

"Perhaps not," he conceded, "but I desperately want to try." He held out his arm to her, the formality slipping back in. "Ready, my lady?"

Shan slid into her place, a trophy on his arm, and together they strode out to meet the rest of society. They had not arrived early enough to cause a stir before the play, and for that she was grateful. Shan didn't want to be completely uncouth and ruin anyone's night at the theatre—the play was already bad enough.

Now was the time to shine. She knew they made a stunning couple—a daring couple. Despite the Eternal King's open-door policy for Blood Workers from all nations, the vast majority of Aeravin's most powerful mages were still monochromatic. They valued old blood over new talents and had rigidly kept power in the same families for centuries.

Both Shan and Isaac defied that on an individual basis, and together it seemed almost like a challenge. Their blood might have been mixed, but it was just as strong—stronger even—than anyone else's. They were the best of the best, and none of the pointed stares could do a thing about it.

It almost made Shan wish she could trust him again, foolish as it was. But Isaac had spent his whole life assimilating, and he had proved that he would rather protect himself than risk tearing down the system to help others. It was so self-serving and self-protecting that she almost couldn't hate him for it. His place at the Eternal King's right hand meant that he had finally gotten the one thing he had always wanted—acceptance.

Of a sort.

So, she smiled. Brilliant as ever, knowing the statement it made. Isaac reached over, placing his hand over hers where it rested in the crook of his arm.

"They're all looking at us," he whispered, the soft feel of his breath against her skin causing her to shiver.

"Of course they are," she replied, just as quietly. "They're all jealous that you're the one escorting me."

Isaac laughed. "Naturally. You are the loveliest woman here."

She wondered if it was genuine—a compliment from the boy she had once known or a carefully calculated ploy from the Royal Blood Worker. Because that was the kind of lives they led, moving in an endless dance, swapping affection and power like cheap coins.

"It's because of my dress," she said, suddenly, filled with the desperate need to have just a bit of real honesty.

Isaac kept his gaze forward, not looking at her. "It is a… bold statement. But they don't know you like I do." He didn't even hesitate in his judgement. "That you even gave him a funeral was miracle enough."

Shan looked up at him, carefully, trying to hide the panic in her heart. Just how much did he know? His expression seemed almost placid, but there was a hard line to his jaw. His eyes flickered down to her, and he quickly steered her through the crowd, pulling her into an alcove that offered them a modicum of privacy.

To anyone who would have seen it, it would have looked like a quick tryst between young lovers, sneaking off for a hidden kiss. It would send rumors spreading, that she—a LeClaire—had caught the interest of Sir de la Cruz. It would be a huge boost for her reputation, and she was almost thankful enough to let it become truth.

Even if they didn't know—and would never know—that she had already been there.

He was pressed intimately close to her, and she could feel the warmth of his body against hers. Her hands had flown to his shoulders immediately, automatically, as if they belonged there, and she could feel the difference that a few years had made. He no longer had the skinny build of a boy but had grown into a man—his shoulders wider, his body stronger. He lowered his face to hers, and she could feel the brush of his beard against her skin, another new development from the softness of youth, and shivered at the way it felt against her.

She turned towards him, ready to take his mouth with hers, to see if he still tasted as she remembered, but he wasn't looking at her with heat or hunger.

But regret.

"You're just as talented as me," he said, softly. "More talented. If it wasn't for your father you could have easily had my place. You could have been Royal Blood Worker; you could have had whatever you wanted."

Shan blinked at him, shoving aside the lust that clouded her mind as she frantically tried to decide which path to take. She settled on anger, just a careful drop of it, and struck. "What is all this, then? Your asinine way of making it up to me? Of doing me a favor?"

Let him think she was angry. It was better than the truth—that this hurt more than anything else she could have imagined.

"No," he said, flustered and fumbling. "No, no, no. My reasons were true, Shan." He took her hands in his, squeezing so tight it hurt. "I don't want you to think that this is pity."

She allowed herself to melt, just a little. "As you say."

"Let me prove it to you," Isaac begged. "Whatever it takes, however long it takes. I want you back, Shan." He brushed his lips against her cheek—soft, gentle, and chaste.

It shouldn't have moved her so.

"Why, Sir Isaac," Shan said, forcing a bit of levity into her voice, "what kind of woman do you think I am?"

"The kind who should hate me," he said. "The kind I pray will give me a second chance."

"This is a start," she whispered, and he looked so relieved she feared he might faint. "But I think it's time you took me home."

"Of course." He stepped back, and she immediately missed the warmth of his body. Pulling the curtains back, he gestured for her to step out. "After you."

She stepped into the brightness of the theatre, but no one was looking at them now. There was a new rush to the crowd, and it only took her a few seconds to pick up the words that were being thrown about.

Murder.

Blood Working.

A body.

That was the second in a month, and Shan felt weak at the knees. One death was an aberration—perhaps a draining at one of the clinics gone horribly wrong. But two deaths? That was an emerging pattern, and it seemed the rest of Dameral had picked up on that as well.

Isaac looked suddenly, grossly pale. "I think I have to—"

"Go," she said, "I can get myself a hack." He looked down at her with regret, and she pressed her fingers to his cheek. "It's all right. Duty calls."

He nodded at her, then cut quickly through the throng of bodies towards the door. The crowd turned and watched him go, the whispers getting louder with each passing moment.

This was going to be a disaster, and Shan already itched to get back home and reach out to her birds. To see if they had heard anything, seen anything. But she plastered a bored expression on her face and got in line, waiting for a hackney to come and pick her up, and ignored the looks that people kept throwing her way.

This wasn't the attention she had hoped to get, but it was still attention. And she knew better than to squander it.