Chapter Twenty-Four Samuel

Chapter Twenty-Four

Samuel

"T his is a bad idea," Samuel muttered under his breath, low enough so that only Isaac could hear him. They walked side-by-side through a crowded street, both dressed in the cheap, low-quality clothing of the poor. Isaac kept scratching at the fabric, no doubt unused to its roughness, but for Samuel after weeks of silk and finery it felt like coming home.

This whole adventure was like coming home as they made their way down into the slums, where they were not surrounded by nobles or Blood Workers, but by Unblooded laborers and working people. The kind of people Samuel had grown up with, had lived and worked with, the people who were more like him than those his heritage revealed he was born to. And they were here to use them as nothing more than test subjects.

Perhaps he was becoming more like a Blood Worker after all, even if he couldn't use their magics.

"It'll be fine," Isaac replied, just as quietly, and Samuel glanced at him. He hardly looked like himself in the simple shirt and trousers, and he had even gone so far as to smudge his face and hands with dirt and grease. "We can't keep practicing on me."

Samuel forced himself to look away—he had to keep reminding himself to not stare at Isaac. It was a messier, more unkempt version of the man he knew, but Isaac wore it surprisingly well. As if it wasn't the first time he had disguised himself so. "This isn't right," he argued, even though there was truth to Isaac's words.

It was getting hard to master his ability when his only subject was Isaac. He could keep forcing his will on him, seeing how far against Isaac's own instincts he could push the man, but that was not all that the King wanted from them.

His ability was supposed to be subtle, insidious and undetectable, and one could not perfect it on a subject who was constantly on his guard.

Isaac knocked his shoulder against his, a friendly bump to anyone looking, but Samuel took it for what it was. Reassurance. When he was presented this idea, he hadn't done it as Isaac de la Cruz, the surprising friend he had never expected to find, but as the Royal Blood Worker, doing the duty his position required of him. But he was here as a friend, as support, because he knew that Samuel could never do it alone.

And for that Samuel was thankful, even if he didn't have the words for it.

"Here we are," Isaac said, pulling him to a stop. They stood outside one of the larger taverns, where desperate people with hardly any coin came to spend what little they had on some alcohol to dull the pain. Samuel had never been there, not out of snobbery or disgust, but because he could not afford to let loose.

If anything, he was a little jealous of them.

Before he could argue—one last, hopeless attempt—Isaac was already pushing his way through the door, and he had to hurry to not lose the man in the crowd. For it was a crowd—the tavern was packed to the brim with Unblooded from all corners of the slums and despite their conditions, despite the harshness of their lives, there was a vibrancy here that Samuel hadn't felt in ages.

They were alive and vital and spontaneous in a way the nobility weren't, and a knot of tension deep inside him finally relaxed.

Isaac was grinning at him, the mood infectious, catching him by the hand and dragging him over to the bar. Isaac's hand felt right in his, and he followed along automatically. For a moment it was easy to feel like they weren't there on a secret training mission for the Eternal King, but simply as two men looking to get to know each other better. But that wasn't the truth—nothing in Samuel's life was a simple as that.

The bright burst of happiness he felt faded, so he just turned to the barkeep and held up two fingers. A moment later, two glasses of cheap ale were deposited in front of them and Isaac was slipping some coppers into the man's hand.

"Okay," Samuel said, leaning against Isaac. He knew what it would look like, but Isaac had asked him to be subtle, quiet, and no one would take a second glance at the two of them cozying up like this. And besides, Isaac wasn't pushing him away. "Target?" he breathed, his mouth dangerously close to Isaac's skin.

Isaac shuddered, but turned around, leaning back against the bar all casual as he studied the crowd around them. His free hand came around Samuel's shoulder as he played with the hair that was coming loose from the bun at the nape of his neck, fully committed to this charade, and Samuel sucked in a harsh breath.

This was a mistake.

But it was too late to turn back now, so he pressed against him, savoring the warmth from his body that he could feel even through the unnecessary layers of clothing between them. Isaac kept toying with his hair, and Samuel bit the inside of his cheek, using the pain to ground himself.

This was just a ploy: there was no potential here, he had already learned that lesson with Shan. "Isaac," he said again, warningly, but it came out as more like a groan.

And the bastard had the gall to smile.

"Easy, I'm looking," Isaac said, softly. "It would be easier if you agreed to scam the barkeep."

"No," Samuel replied emphatically. Practicing it on the Unblooded was bad enough—taking money from someone who needed it was even worse. Isaac didn't push him, though, just raked his nails across his scalp, back and forth in a soothing motion.

Samuel hated that such a touch was effective, but the immediate bristle of anger that had risen in him faded right away.

"Fine, fine. There." He followed the line of Isaac's gaze to a group of rowdy young people—around their age or younger—who were attracting the attention of a large corner of the bar. "Let's go see what that's about."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Samuel asked, but Isaac only grinned.

"Be adaptable. Maybe stop a fight." He didn't give Samuel a chance to argue as he dragged him across the tavern, pulling him through the crowd as they got closer to the commotion. But the closer they got, the slower Isaac moved, and it only took Samuel a moment to realize why.

This wasn't a bar fight. This was a political rally.

"We have been silent long enough! The Bloodsuckers can't keep us back if we join together!"

The leader of the group—a young boy, hells, he couldn't have even been nineteen—was waving something around in his hand. Another one of those pamphlets. His friends were walking through the crowd, passing them out, and it wasn't long before a young girl had pressed one into Samuel's hand.

The paper was thin and cheap, the typeface smudged and offset. But the title blazed across the front was clear enough.

A DECLARATION ON THE RIGHTS OF THE UNBLOODED

Samuel ran his thumb across the paper, tracing the letters of the author's name—or, rather, the moniker they wrote under. The Friend of the Unblooded. Of course. He swelled with pride as he flipped through the pamphlet—at the demands they were making.

Removal of the Blood Taxes.

Representation in government.

Protections in the workplace.

All things that Samuel knew from experience that the Unblooded needed, and all things that he wanted to fight for. And here they were, without the seat in the House of Lords that he had, without the money that he had been gifted, without the political power that he had stumbled into, fighting for it themselves.

Perhaps he was unnecessary after all.

But Isaac glanced back at him, and the pride he felt popped like a bubble as something more serious replaced it. He wasn't Samuel Hutchinson anymore, able to simply support his fellow Unblooded. He was Lord Aberforth, and he was training for a duty he never wanted, to do what the crown needed.

What the Royal Blood Worker needed.

What Shan would have asked him to do.

What the King would want from him.

This was the very thing he had been training for. To gather information, slyly and subtly, to help the nobles. To give them the ammunition they'd need to stop this movement before it ever had the chance to grow. All he'd need to do was talk. Talk to this young boy, this brash leader, and find out where the pamphlets came from. Stop the movement before it grew into something more. But he knew what the Blood Workers would do to them. Even the sympathetic ones—Shan with her compromises, Isaac as the Royal Blood Worker—would save them by keeping them in their place.

He was a tool to be used, and Isaac was watching him with unreadable eyes.

Samuel dropped the pamphlet and ran from the crowd.

"Wait!"

He heard Isaac call after him, but that didn't stop him. He could feel his power stirring in his chest, ready to be used, but he just clenched his jaw and pushed through the crowd, back past the way they had come and out the door into the cool night air.

It hit his skin like balm—soothing the darkness within—and he turned and stalked away into the shadows. He turned the first corner he found, desperate to get away from everyone.

He didn't want to be seen like this, a hair's breadth from falling apart.

"Samuel, wait." A strong hand grabbed him around the arm, jerking him to a rough stop, and Samuel spun with a sudden desperation, grabbing Isaac by his shirt and shoving him back against the wall.

"Please" was all he could get out, was all he could trust himself to get out, lest the power swirling within him twisted his words into some horrible mockery of everything he intended.

"It's all right," Isaac said, raising both his hands in surrender. When Samuel made no move to fight him, he laid them on his shoulders, squeezing tightly. "I wouldn't have asked you to."

He buried his face in Isaac's shoulder, a choking sob bursting past his lips as Isaac wrapped his arms around him. "I thought—I thought that—"

"Well," Isaac said, one hand slipping down to rub soothing circles on his back while the other tangled in his hair, "given my… position, I wouldn't have turned it away if you had. But I know how difficult it must be for you."

It wasn't quite what Samuel had wanted to hear, but it was enough and he relaxed into Isaac's embrace, drawing what solace he could from it. Isaac held him like he was afraid that Samuel would break apart if he let go, and, in all honesty, Samuel didn't know if he would.

But he couldn't deny the effect of Isaac's hands on him, of the press of his body—hard and warm—against his. The brush of Isaac's mouth so close to his—almost a kiss, almost something more—and the way he slotted one leg between his, brushing against him in an indecent manner.

They hung together on a precipice, Isaac hardly even breathing, as he gave Samuel the chance to choose.

Samuel caught Isaac's shirt between his teeth, gagging himself on the cloth as he gathered his wits. Then, gently, he detangled himself and pushed away. "We can't ."

Isaac huffed out a groan, leaning his head back against the wall with a thunk. "If you insist."

"I want to," Samuel said, though guilt tore at him. He wanted to so much that it nearly tore him apart. Isaac. Shan. Both of them. It made him feel greedy and selfish, because he knew he couldn't have either of them. And yet, he kept reaching, playing them both like some sort of terrible rake.

Isaac, though, was looking at him with such kindness that he nearly turned away. He wasn't worthy of such a look. He ran his hand down Samuel's cheek, drawing his thumb down the line of his throat until he rested his hand across his heart. "I've changed my mind."

"What?"

"I said I'd make you no promises," Isaac whispered. "But I will figure out how to take this gift from you even if it's the last thing I do." He wrapped his hand around the back of Samuel's neck and pulled him in for a quick, rough kiss.

Samuel didn't fight it, he just leaned into it, the hard press of Isaac's mouth against him, the dig of his nails into his skin, and then they broke apart. Isaac didn't push him for more, and as much as Samuel wanted to press against him, to learn all the ways that he wanted to be touched, he knew that he couldn't ask for more.

Didn't dare risk more.

He closed his eyes, pressed his face against Isaac's chest, seeking the safety and comfort of his embrace. "Thank you."

"Of course," Isaac said, before stepping to the side, gently disentangling himself. "Come, then. I have work to do."

Samuel blinked at him for a moment, then—"But what about the training?"

He shrugged, so carelessly handsome that it made Samuel's heart hurt. "We'll figure something else out. Clearly this wasn't the right, ah, venue." Taking Samuel by the hand, he led him out of the alley. "Let's get out of here."

Heart lighter than it had been in a long while, and his lips still tingling from the kiss, Samuel let himself be led through the slums, his eyes only on Isaac.

Until there was something blocking them—a crowd gathered along one of the major intersections, and the whispers carried back through to reach their ears. For a second they just stood there, letting the information process, and Samuel prayed that he was just mishearing it. But no.

"Find a Guard," a women cried, as her companion let out a hysterical sob, burying her face in her friend's shoulder.

"Don't look," a man snapped, grabbing a young child and turning him away from the scene.

Isaac dropped his hand, shoving his way past, Samuel following in his wake to the front of the crowd. There, in the middle of the street, was a body. No, not a body, a mutilation. A corpse torn and ruined, blood spilling from the wounds and seeping into the cobblestones.