Chapter Twenty-Six Samuel

Chapter Twenty-Six

Samuel

"I s this entirely necessary?" Samuel said as he climbed into Isaac's carriage. The door slammed shut behind him, and Isaac knocked once on the ceiling for them to get moving. "This isn't the time for parties."

"Samuel, it's always the time for parties," Isaac replied, taking a drag on his cigarette as his eyes wandered over him.

He couldn't help feeling like he was being undressed. His outfit was perfect and incredibly fashionable—Jacobs had assured him of that while he had carefully tied his cravat—but Samuel still felt terribly uncomfortable in it. Tight breeches, starched shirt, an embroidered waistcoat for goodness' sake. The jacket was tight across his shoulders, making him broader and more substantial than he actually was, and Samuel felt dreadfully exposed in it.

Isaac, however, seemed to approve, and he leaned closer, studying the suit. "Blood and steel. Laurens, is it?"

"Uh, yeah." Samuel fiddled with his cufflinks, wishing he could fade back into the seat. He wasn't used to being so seen—Isaac's eyes looked darker, sharper, boring into him with an intensity that made him shiver. He remembered the feel of Isaac's lips against his, quick and firm, and part of him wanted Isaac to look at him that way forever.

Another part of him hesitated, recalling the feel of Shan's body under his, the way she had pressed into him.

Hells, he was making a mess of things, wasn't he?

"Fuck." Isaac shook his head, finally looking away, and Samuel felt a surge of relief. When he wasn't looking at him Samuel could almost pretend that this thing between them wasn't there—that they were simply friends, that they weren't betraying Shan. Not that there was any real future with either of them, anyway, not with this gift of his hanging like an albatross around his neck.

He finally understood why people turned to drink.

"Laurens won't even respond to my requests," Isaac continued, blessedly oblivious to Samuel's internal panic, "let alone dress me. Royal Blood Worker or not. Being an Aberforth has its benefits."

"Actually, it was Shan." He hated the way her name tasted on his lips, even when she wasn't there, hated the way Isaac's gaze sharped for just a second. "She's the one who got me in with Laurens."

"Of course she was. She can do anything, it seems." Isaac flicked ash off the tip of his cigarette, his hand resting against the open window, his long fingers golden in the fading sunlight. "How have you been doing since…?" he drifted off, not quite mentioning the body they stumbled upon. "I know it must have been hard, seeing something like that."

Samuel eyed him, wondering what his angle was. Isaac had been walking on eggshells around him, treating him like something fragile about to break. But now? To address it directly? There was a part of him waiting for the trap to spring.

"It… goes," he said, since it was not like he could question Isaac about his motives. Well, he could, technically, but it would be poor form after everything Isaac had done. "It's not like it's my first."

"I suppose that's true," Isaac said, softly. "Still, it changes you. I know from experience."

Samuel wanted to lean forward, to ask how he had coped. What tragedies he had seen as the Royal Blood Worker, and how he managed it all. But perhaps Isaac had been right after all. Perhaps Samuel was still a bit too fragile. So he ignored the impulse, turning towards something safer. "Unfortunately, we don't have time. Training must continue. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

The corner of Isaac's mouth curled up. "Don't worry, I doubt there will be anyone here you'll feel bad testing your power against. It's a far better plan than the one we originally had."

"I never said thank you for that."

Isaac waved his hand. "Don't worry about it. It was my mistake." His eyes grew cold, distant. "Besides, just because I am the Royal Blood Worker, and the King has his orders for us, doesn't mean we should turn our practice on the innocent. I should have never asked that of you."

"It's okay." Samuel shrugged. "It's not like we have much freedom, anyway." Isaac looked like he wanted to press further, to dig into that statement, but the carriage rolled to a stop. "We're here."

"It seems we are." Isaac's lips twisted into a frown, and he tossed the remains of his cigarette out the window. "Remember, nothing too drastic. Keep it natural."

Samuel stepped out of the carriage, Isaac immediately on his heels, and he looked up at the large estate before him. Unlike the townhouses at the heart of the capital, Lady Lynwood's home was more like a manor. Three stories tall and three times as wide, the entire structure was lit up from within, music and laughter drifting out into the night air. When Isaac had showed up at his house this afternoon and demanded they attend, he swore an invitation from Lady Lynwood wasn't to be ignored.

Apparently, she knew anybody who was anybody and she threw the best parties in Dameral. From what he had been able to gather from Isaac, she was what Shan hoped to become—the women everyone knew held all the power. A single word from her could make or break a reputation.

And besides, this was a perfect opportunity to make up for their lost session.

Still, the timing of this fête felt all wrong.

"Hells," Samuel hissed. "There's been four murders in three months—and that's not even getting into the protests."

"And it's turning this into one of the most active Seasons in a decade," Isaac said, clasping him on the shoulder. "This is how we deal with stress, Samuel."

"Endless parties?"

"Well, not just parties." Isaac shrugged. "There are also dinners, and salons, and balls, and coffees, and plays."

Samuel thought back to the pile of invitations in his study that grew daily, left unopened and untouched.

"You can go to these events alone, you know," Isaac said, quietly. "I shouldn't have to drag you to them."

"Please, Isaac." Samuel did his best to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "You think I can take this on without backup?"

"I think," Isaac said, taking his time in choosing his words, "that you're afraid. But you shouldn't be."

Samuel didn't respond. He just stepped forward and left Isaac behind. He wasn't afraid, not really.

He was angry.

Angry at the extravagance of it all—at the fine clothing and the expensive food and the even more expensive wine. At the lies and the gossip and the rumors. At the way everyone looked at him like he was a piece of meat to be inspected and bought for the right price.

But Isaac had never known anything else. Nor had Shan. They were born into a world that would drive most good people mad, and he couldn't fault them for being what Dameral had made them. Like he shouldn't blame himself for what Dameral had made him— was making him. But it was easier for him to forgive others than it was for him to forgive himself.

He walked up the stairs with his head held high, Isaac a breath behind him. The footman smiled as they handed over their cards, and they were ushered into the ballroom with the rest of the crowd.

It was a large open space, made of glittering white marble and lit by wide chandeliers from which witch light hung. Against the far wall was a series of glass doors, thrown open against the cool night air, and the musicians formed a perfect quartet in the near corner. Complete with a buffet of light snacks and drinks along the inner wall, it was a perfect image of a noble's ball—fine, lustrous, and just a bit gaudy.

At Isaac's instance they were what he called "fashionably late", and the ball was already in full swing. The dance floor was crowded, filled with all kinds of couples as they spun their way through the song. There were dresses of every color, a rainbow of flowing skirts that swirled round and round, and finely cut suits in greys and blacks and blues. Samuel couldn't tear his eyes from the beauty of it.

"Do you want to go again?" Isaac said, and Samuel didn't need to look to know he was smiling. "I'm not quite as talented as Shan, but I'm sure I could manage to lead you."

"You're not funny."

"I'm not joking."

Samuel glanced over, seeing the same dark look in his eyes that he had found so compelling in the carriage, in the alleyway.

"I thought you were courting Shan," Samuel said, the words he'd been holding in for days bursting out.

Isaac bared his teeth in a grin. "Did she tell you that, or did you learn it yourself?"

"Please, Isaac," Samuel said, clenching his jaw. He might be new to this world, but he wasn't a simpleton. "Rumors fly."

"Maybe I am," Isaac admitted. "Maybe you are, too, from what I've heard. But a single dance won't hurt, will it?"

It could hurt far more than he wanted to admit, but he didn't stop himself from putting his hand in Isaac's, from letting himself be drawn onto the floor in the breath where one song ended and another began.

If it was strange to see them dancing together, the Royal Blood Worker and the Lost Aberforth, no one said anything. There were just the deep reverberations of the strings as the musicians drew their bows across them—the violins, the viola, the bass. The counterpoint of the piano. There was Isaac's voice, deep and low, counting out the beat in his ear.

Then they were moving. It wasn't like the other dance he had shared with Shan, where she had twirled him in and out across the floor. This was more intense, more intimate. Isaac pushed and pulled him across the floor, counting all the while, but Samuel didn't follow the beat.

He followed the movement of Isaac's hips, the brief press of his thigh against his, the brush of his fingers against his skin.

It was maddening and intoxicating, and for a few moments Samuel just let himself be . Isaac didn't give him a moment to worry or stress, and he focused only on the music and the beat of his own heart in his ears.

But when the song came to an end, when Isaac pulled him flush against him for the final few measures, Samuel spotted a familiar face in the crowd.

Shan—her face red and her expression utterly unreadable, but her attention was riveted on them. When she caught him watching her, she simply raised her glass, drained it, and turned to walk away, her dark skirts the color of dried blood fluttering out behind her.

"Ah," Isaac said.

"Are you embarrassed for the dance, or at being caught?" Samuel said, disengaging from Isaac and stalking away, following after Shan.

"Wait—" Isaac began, but Samuel shrugged him off.

He needed to find Shan, he needed to talk to her. To say what, he didn't know, but he just had to reach her somehow.

He followed her to the doors at the end of the ballroom, and Samuel saw the flutter of her red dress disappearing through them. He hurried after her, emerging in a garden filled with alcoves and hidden pockets of space. He came to a stop as he realized what it was—unlike Shan's carefully cultivated garden, this was a labyrinth, the hedgerows tall and twisting around each other in a circuitous maze. It was for lovers and allies and enemies, for secret meetings under the guise of a party.

He had the feeling that Shan had fled there not out of business but out of a need to hide.

He ran right into the maze, searching through open spaces and alcoves, turning down twisting paths and doubling back. He passed couples and groups as he went, all in various states of intimacy. Samuel didn't care. He passed by all of them without a second glance, looking only for Shan.

Except she had found him first.

A hand grabbed him around the wrist, dragging him into an empty alcove and shoving him against a hedge. Her other hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his cry of surprise, until they met eyes and she was sure that he wouldn't fight her.

"Shan," he whispered, and she lowered her hand to rest on his chest. "It wasn't what it looked like."

She smiled, and he realized suddenly that she didn't look mad. "You shouldn't lie. I think it was exactly what it looked like."

Samuel blinked at her, confused by her easy manner and her gentle smile. "You're right."

"Of course I am," she replied. "You're a terrible liar." She looked up at him, not demurely through her eyelashes like many of the nobles did at this party. She met him head on, unashamed and unafraid.

"You're not mad?"

"No," she said, simply. The familiar flush rose to her cheeks, and Samuel suddenly recognized the heat for what it was. "I just… ah. I needed some air. You two made quite the image."

He couldn't help the smile that split across his face. "Oh, we did?"

"Yes," she replied, primly. She took a step back, and Samuel wanted nothing more than to follow. She was like gravity, and he was already caught in her orbit. "So. Isaac. Tell me what's going on there."

He laughed at her directness. "And here I thought you excelled at secrets and insinuations."

There it was—a hint of relaxation. A promise of something more. "Perhaps, Samuel, I find it refreshing not to have to constantly play the game."

"Well, in that case…" He flexed his hand against his side, wanting to reach for hers—but he could still feel the warmth of Isaac's hand against his skin.

How was he supposed to react when both of them felt different, but still right ?

"I don't know, Shan."

Though she was still flushed, Shan otherwise showed no reaction. She had mastered that cool and impassive expression—forever in control—but there was a hunger in her eyes that Samuel prayed wasn't faked. "Something I never fully understood, Samuel, is why one does not simply go after what they want."

Samuel licked his suddenly dry lips. "I don't understand."

"Well, when I was young," Shan said, very softly, "I had no power, no respect, just a tainted name and the blood in my veins. But I didn't settle for that. I created my own power, carved out my own respect, and I will bring Aeravin to its knees. Why? Because I want it so."

Samuel stepped in front of her, forcing her to tilt her head back to look in his eyes. "And what of me? Of Isaac?"

"I'll have you both," Shan said. "If you'll allow it."

Samuel gaped at her, the possibilities unravelling through him, leaving him breathless and aching. "Are you—"

"Quite." She stroked his cheek. "Isaac and I have already discussed it, but we know that you will not be comfortable until you have this handled." She laid one hand over his chest, and he knew she meant the power that lurked within him. "But once that is settled, then the three of us will talk. But for now, we'll keep on as we are, if that is all right with you."

"Yes," he gasped. "I mean, it's all right."

She grinned at him. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I assume Isaac brought you here for more than a dance?"

He gaped at her. "How?"

"Please," Shan said. "I'm not a fool. Let me help. The sooner we figure out this," she brushed her hand across his chest again, "the sooner we can figure out this." Pushing herself up on her tiptoes, she brushed her lips against his in a kiss.

It was soft and unbearably chaste, but the promise was there.

"Now come on." She stepped around him, and mute, he followed. Twining her hand in his, she led him expertly through the labyrinth, back to the entrance of the ball.

She must have done this before.

Isaac was there waiting for them, lounging on a bench, cigarette in hand. He didn't look the slightest bit worried, and Samuel felt such the fool for jumping to conclusions.

"Shan," he said, his eyes burning with a passion that Samuel had seen before. "Samuel."

"I found our wayward sheep," Shan replied, pulling him forward. "Now, I believe there is work to be done."

Isaac laughed. "Naturally. Well, don't wait on me." He took another drag on his cigarette. "I'll catch up."

Still a bit stunned, Samuel let Shan lead him back into the party, drawing him towards a cluster of people he vaguely recognized. She cast him a look over her shoulder, one eyebrow elegantly arched, and he reached for the power deep within.

It responded instantly, like a cat waking from its slumber, and when he asked about their thoughts on the recent Unblooded problem he was able to lace the darkness into his words with a shocking ease.

And he pretended that it didn't feel good.