Chapter Twenty-One Shan

Chapter Twenty-One

Shan

"Y ou look ridiculous, Shan," Anton said, his arms crossed over his chest as he took in her outfit, her cloak discarded on the carriage floor now that they travelled quickly through the streets. He fiddled with a flask in his hand; even on route to the gambling hell, he needed a drink, unable to wait. But then again, he was probably looking for anything to occupy himself as he was unable to look at her directly.

Her dress was short—scandalously so—and the bodice was little more than a tight corset with decorative lace frills. It was black as midnight, studded with fake diamonds that would catch in the light. And around her neck she wore a simple necklace in the shape of a bird in flight—a sparrow for a Sparrow.

Shan loved it.

"It's the uniform," Shan said, her voice deceptively sweet, but her red-stained lips were pulled back in a grin. Anton squinted at her, as if he was trying to find the real face behind all the makeup she had applied, exaggerating her features so that no one would recognize the prim, proper Lady Shan LeClaire underneath.

"Well, the Fox Den prefers to hire tarts," Anton said, rolling his eyes. "Or at least dresses them as such."

"There's nothing wrong with dressing this way," Shan chided, and Anton winced.

"It's just not you."

"Maybe not," Shan agreed, twirling a strand of her curled and blown-out hair around her finger. "But it's fun for a night."

"I could handle this on my own, you know."

"You can handle the nobles and their friends," Shan said, "and that's important. But it's good for the Sparrow to mingle with her birds. Besides, they're the ones I need right now."

The murderer hadn't killed a single Blood Worker yet—they targeted the Unblooded exclusively. It wasn't the nobles who were worried and talking and planning—it was everyone else. And that wasn't even getting into what Lord Dunn was planning.

Which was exactly why Shan had to don this particular outfit.

Besides, she had Anton with his friends among the noble children tonight, the gamblers and the players who saw him as a riotous good time, despite his Unblooded nature—or perhaps because of it. And with Samuel weaseling his way into Isaac's good graces, intentional or not, his innocent eyes and pleasing features cutting through the Royal Blood Worker's defenses, she was free. Free to be here in one of her many disguises, answering to a name that felt more her own than the one her parents had given her.

Sparrow .

"I still can't believe that you're doing this," Anton said, and Shan knew who and what he was talking about without him needing to say. "That you're working for him ."

"I can handle it," Shan said. "And it's not like I can allow a monster to run my streets killing Unblooded. Besides, this will help us in the long run. We've never been able to get a bird in the palace—"

"You're gambling with your very life," Anton interrupted. "Remember Father? And that was only because of his paranoia. If he finds out that you're treasonous—"

"He won't," Shan swore. "Not until it's too late. Listen, we can put all of our plans in place. We can seed dissent for years if we want to. But to make actual change we need this access—we need to know how he works."

Her plan was madness, she wasn't too proud to admit that to herself. It was like a mortal fighting a god. It didn't matter how talented a Blood Worker she was—the King's power had been augmented by centuries of murder and blood, and if they couldn't find a way to tear him back down to their level nothing they did would matter.

Anton glanced up, his dark eyes burning as realization struck him. "That's why you're back with de la Cruz."

She shifted uncomfortably. "I was never with him, precisely."

"Liar," Anton snapped, the hurt etched across his features. "I thought you didn't lie to me."

"I'm not lying!" Shan rubbed her temples. "It was never anything formal, never anything… serious."

It had been their last year at the Academy, when their stress was at their highest, tumbling into each other's arms more times that Shan could count. But it had never been anything more than two friends blowing off steam, not until the end.

After finals, when they were waiting for their grades to come in. They had celebrated in the flat Isaac had inherited from his parents with several bottles of wine that Shan had sneaked from her father's cellar.

And, for just a single night, they had believed that they could make a future together.

Then the next day the final rankings were posted, and the King summoned Isaac to his side.

And nothing was the same.

"Besides," she muttered, "it was just a stupid, childish infatuation. It meant nothing and it changes nothing."

"Blood and steel, Shan." Anton sighed. "You're playing with fire. I'm not fool enough to miss that he wants you back—and neither are you."

She wasn't so sure about that. She had, after all, seen the way he had looked at Samuel—so sweet, so innocent, so tempting. "I can handle it."

"Please tell me you're not thinking about it."

Shan shrugged. "It would be a useful alliance; you have to admit that."

If he isn't the serial murderer .

Anton made a noise of disgust, and she couldn't help the bristle of anger that rose, sharp as her own claws. "Just because you found yourself a love match doesn't mean that it's possible—or even feasible—for everyone. I have a duty." She held up her hand to stop him from arguing, always with the arguing. "We're here."

The carriage pulled to a stop around the back of the club, and Anton leaned forward. "Fine. But just hear me out—if de la Cruz hurts you again, I don't care how strong of a Blood Worker he is, I will break him."

Shan laughed. "Nothing like a display of gross masculinity to warm a sister's heart," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "But I am glad that you care. Have fun in there."

He caught her hand, squeezing it once for luck. "You, too."

Throwing him a final grin, Shan slipped from the carriage and into the seedy back alley before the carriage took him round to the front where he'd enter with all the other patrons. But Shan wasn't here to gamble. She was here to work.

Holding her head high, she walked in as if she belonged. With her outfit and her attitude, no one questioned her. The girls who worked here rotated in and out so quickly that there was always a new face, new girls filling in, scraping out a night's wage when it was offered. It was better than the other options, after all. The Fox Den kept their patrons in line—they tolerated no wandering hands or private back rooms. It was frequented by Blood Workers of all types—and the occasional Unblooded with enough money or prestige—but the customers were there for the tables and the alcohol, not for the company .

And if a few of the serving girls or table dealers caught snippets of their conversations, what of it? If the Blood Workers never bothered to learn the names of the people who served them, barely treated them as human, what harm could it do to sell those little secrets to the one who treated them with respect and lined their pockets with gold?

It was a good system, and Shan had missed this work in the past weeks. Being Lady LeClaire was its own kind of thrill, stepping into the games of Dameral and earning the respect of those around her.

But this? This was just fun.

Shan grabbed a tray of goblets from the kitchen, lifting them up over her shoulder as she sauntered out onto the floor of the gambling hell. She was immediately assaulted by the noise—the shouts of the patrons over the craps table, the groans from the vingt-et-un, the rattle of the roulette wheel.

And while she slipped between the tables—between the Blood Workers she had grown up with, their brothers and sisters and cousins—not a single one of them recognized her. They just took fresh goblets as she snatched their empty ones, their eyes passing over her as if she were just a piece of furniture.

But the workers? They took note of her, they were the ones who recognized her, who bothered to learn her face, her name—well, the false name she used for this—and the Sparrow she wore around her neck. As she dropped off her tray in the kitchen, they leaned in and whispered in her ear. As she brought fresh, cool water to the dealers, they, too, thanked her and whispered in her ear.

There was an undercurrent of panic, though, that Shan hadn't encountered before. For every bit of gossip they brought to her, there was another whisper of fear. Who was this murderer? What did they want? Who was next? How could the Blood Workers not care at all? Why wouldn't they do anything to help?

She didn't have any words of comfort. What was another Unblooded in the streets to them? There were still so many others to drain blood from, anyway.

But Shan turned none away, not even those who didn't bring forth any useful information. She bought their loyalty with a little bit of kindness and a sympathetic ear. They were used to being overlooked, ignored and forgotten. But for a little respect, she earned their trust—and the promise to send word through the normal channels if something did come up.

If there was any real lead. She might not be a member of the Guard, and to most of them she wasn't even a Blood Worker, but all of them knew that information was power. And in this case, safety.

Even if they did know something, most of them would never go to the Blood Workers and Shan didn't blame them for that. The Eternal King wanted this murderer caught, but not for the safety of the Unblooded. It was for the affront to his rules, for the shame of this happening under his watch, for the unrest it was causing.

But she would see these people protected.

After a few hours her head was swimming with information, her heart heavy with their fears. It was still a little too early for her to slip out without raising suspicion, even though all her contacts had come to her. Even though it was unlikely that one of the nobles would notice a worker leaving early. So, she continued to work, keeping one eye on her brother as he charmed his way through the night.

Shan might have been the mastermind of their schemes, but Anton had his own brilliance about him. He could twist a conversation round and round, leading people to the very thing they did not wish to talk about, but in such a way that it seemed natural. And since Sir LeClaire was nothing more than an Unblooded drunkard and gambler, they never suspected him of anything—they bragged and gossiped around him like he was a simpleton, never realizing that they were being used.

It wasn't the path she would have taken, but it was effective, and it brought Anton a wealth of information that Shan could never have earned.

She was turning away from his vingt-et-un table after he had pulled another winning hand—what luck!—when she was grabbed by the wrist, pulled off the floor and shoved against the wall.

Her fingers clenched around the empty tray, an instinctive need for her claws. Tilting her head up, she prepared to chastise the patron for breaking the rules, but the words died on her lips as she stared into a pair of familiar dark eyes.

"Shan?" Isaac breathed, so low and quiet that she wasn't sure she heard it at all.

Her heart thudded in her chest—he wasn't supposed to be here, and, even worse, he wasn't supposed to recognize her. Wrenching her arm away from him, she whispered, "Not here." She glanced pointedly over to the servants' corridors that led back to the washrooms. Isaac's gaze flickered back and forth, and he nodded.

"I'll be right back with your wine, sir," Shan said loudly, and Isaac smiled slightly. Tucking the tray against her chest, she moved through the crowds, but she could still feel his eyes on her. She didn't look back, despite the urge to. Tonight, she was just a plain working-class woman, and he was one of them.

Blood and steel, she hadn't even realized he frequented the Den. He had never shown interest in gambling when they were young. When had that changed? And worse, why hadn't she realized it? Despite everything—maybe because of everything—she should have kept better track of him, of what he was doing without her.

He was the Royal Blood Worker, after all.

Ducking into the corridor, she pressed against the wall, taking deep, steadying breaths. Moments later Isaac rounded the corner, as if he were headed to the washroom, but Shan grabbed him and shoved him into the storeroom, closing and locking the door behind them.

For a minute they simply stared at each other in the dim glow of the witch light, Isaac's eyes roaming all over her outfit, but Shan was more focused on the bags under his eyes, on the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol floating from him. On every bit of him that looked frayed.

Isaac was the first to speak, arching an eyebrow at her. "If you wanted my attention, you have it."

Shan ignored his gibe. "How did you know it was me?"

His brow furrowed. "What? Did you think a bit of makeup and a short dress would do that much? I'd recognize you anywhere, Shan."

She closed her eyes for just a moment, letting his words sink in. It was only natural that he would—they were imprinted on each other, after all. Even after all this time, after everything. He had always seen her, and she couldn't hide from him now. "I'm working, Isaac."

"I hadn't realized the LeClaire fortune had fallen quite this far."

Rolling her eyes, Shan dropped the tray and perched on a pile of boxes. "Not like that."

His eyes had fallen to her chest as soon as she removed the tray, and it only took a second for him to make the connection, his mouth popping in a soft oooh . "Your power isn't in money or name," he said, reaching out to brush his fingers against her necklace. "But in something even less tangible."

"But far more useful," Shan said, smiling because she couldn't help it. She was proud of everything she had done, all that she had created, and even though Isaac had left her, she needed him to see it. To understand everything she had done and become.

And be proud.

When his eyes lit up, the haze of alcohol fading just a bit, she felt her heart soar.

"You are utterly, amazingly, wonderfully brilliant," he said, locking eyes with her. "You're the Sparrow."

She knew it was foolish—beyond foolish—for him to know, but she could not stop herself. Not with the way he was looking at her. "I see you've heard of me."

"Every information broker in Aeravin has," Isaac said. "But I don't think anyone suspects someone so young." He laughed, catching her by the hand and spinning her around, taking in her costume once more. "And no one recognizes you?"

"People see what they want to see," Shan said with a shrug. "They see the color of my skin, my outfit, my features—and they draw their own conclusions."

Isaac stepped closer, cupping her chin and tilting her head up. He ran his thumb across her cheek, and he was close enough for her to smell the wine on his breath. "They're all fools if they can't see you."

Her heart stopped, and she knew they were standing on the precipice of a mistake. "You're drunk."

"Not that drunk," he said, leaning closer and catching her mouth with his. His hands found her back—large and warm, she could feel the press of them through the thin material of her corset—and he was pulling her close, pressing her against him. Her hands landed on his waist without her even making the decision, old instincts flaring to life, and he dipped his face down.

As he caught her lips with hers.

As she lifted herself up on her tiptoes to meet him halfway.

He kissed her roughly, desperately, one hand rising to tangle in her hair, pulling her back so that he could dominate the kiss, holding her in place as he licked into her mouth like he could wipe away the last few years with the pressure of it.

And though it lit her up like a fire, heat rising low in her core as it forced a whine from her throat, she could still taste the undercurrent of alcohol on his tongue. A bitter reminder that, as hungry as he was for her, this was an indulgence that he might not make sober.

It was always like this with him, stealing her affections in the shadows. He was so cautious about his reputation, his goals, his plans, walking that careful line between taking what he wanted and doing what was expected of him.

She pulled back, though it was the last thing she wanted, though she ached for him to keep touching her, and whispered, "Not like this." Isaac dropped her, looking up at her with such pain in his eyes, old wounds ripped open, and she forced herself to be cruel. "This is your problem, Isaac. You don't know what you want. You never did. And until you do this cannot happen."

He turned away, and she wasn't sure what he was going to do. But he just whispered, "You're right," and slumped forward, curling in on himself. He wasn't angry, she realized. He was shattered.

"Fuck, Isaac." She didn't push him away, and after a second's deliberation, she whispered. "Talk to me."

Isaac just stared blankly ahead, his dark eyes cold and empty. "It's nothing, Shan."

"Clearly."

"It's been a lot," he said, at last. "I've worked so hard, sacrificing so much."

She bit her lip, watching him as he struggled for words. He had given up everything to become the man the King needed him to be, including her. But there was something more going on, even if he wouldn't say it. She knew him well enough to recognize that. "What has he threatened?"

He flinched, spinning away from her. "You know nothing, Shan."

"Then tell me!"

Isaac stood, staring at her, his chest heaving as he warred with himself. She wanted to reach out, to grab him and shake him till he saw sense. It had been years, yes, but there was still something here, and perhaps they could claw their way back to it—together.

If they both learned to trust just a little bit.

But he turned away, his expression cold and grave, and that tiny spark of hope died in her chest.

"I should go," Isaac said. "I am sorry, though." He trailed his fingers down her arm one last time. "About that… well. Goodnight."

She said nothing in response, waiting till he was gone, then collapsed onto the floor. This day was altogether too much, and she needed a few moments just to breathe. Blood and steel, she was a horrible cliché of a woman, to be reduced so because of a man, and she hated herself for it. So she made a decision—if he couldn't reach for her, she wouldn't reach for him.

She had wasted enough of her life on Isaac de la Cruz.

She didn't let herself linger. She allowed herself three long, deep breaths, and then pushed herself back to her feet.