Chapter Thirty-Eight Shan

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Shan

S han swept through the streets of Dameral, her slate-colored cloak fluttering behind her as she trailed after her brother, just another body in the crowd. She hated that she had sunk to this, but she knew she couldn't plead ignorance, not anymore. The solstice was the next day, and she had yet to find proof to exonerate her only lead. If anything, the proof only further damned him.

So Shan did the only thing she could: she followed her own brother.

She kept one eye on the back of his head as he moved with purpose, heading towards his destination. But this time, when he left home, he didn't take the carriage or a hack to one of his favorite gambling hells, theatres, or taverns.

No, he was going on foot, leaving no trace of where he was heading, almost as if he didn't want to be found. He had also discarded his normal trappings, leaving behind his noble outfits for something far more plain, far more simple. Whatever he was planning, it was something he needed a disguise for.

Shan clenched her hand at her side, digging her nails into her palm, using the sharp bite of pain to dispel the paranoia that ran through her, that hadn't left her for hours. She couldn't ignore the fact that her brother had been acting strange lately—distant and different—but to even contemplate this of him felt like the worst kind of betrayal. He had always been the better of them, the reason she had accepted the darkness within.

When had he followed her down? When had he changed, and what had she been doing that she missed it? Her brother might have become a murderer, and she had refused to see the signs. It had been easier to pretend but now the blindfold was gone, and each step she took felt like a knife in her heart.

But she never lost sight of him.

He led her on a circuitous path through Dameral, descending from the lush noble sector where they made their home into the bustling warmth of the middle-class district. As they slipped between sectors, Shan found it more difficult to remain inconspicuous as the crowds grew thinner. The Unblooded, even those with the relative safety of money, were still retiring to their homes early, unwilling to risk even the slightest chance of being caught by this murderer.

Those who had to venture the streets did so in groups, moving as quickly as possible, their heads ducked low and their eyes on the streets before them. The Blood Workers around them, though, with their daggers and their claws, acted as if nothing had changed. The dissonance was disorienting.

Finally, Anton slipped down a small side street, and Shan hurried after him. By the time she had rounded the corner, he had already vanished, but there was the brief flash of a door closing.

There. That must be it.

Glancing round, she found that that street was completely empty—it was still the middle-class district, but he had led them away from the main streets and the shops. No, this was far more residential, where the shops catered to locals, not the broad spectrum of society. And at this hour, this twilight hour when fear ruled Dameral, there was not a soul to be found.

Shan slipped down the street, pressing her ear up against the door and listening for something—anything. She could make out the faint sound of voices, but nothing distinct, and even that was fading as they made their way deeper inside.

She could use her Blood Working, if she wanted—enhance her senses and maybe pick up on what they were saying. But she'd still be standing there, out in the open, completely vulnerable to whoever happened to pass by. No, that would never work. And these buildings were pressed so tightly against each other, with no spaces between, no gaps in which she could press herself.

Her brother had done a good job when he had picked this place. He might not have the ability to protect it with wards and traps like she did, but given his limitations it was a fine setup indeed.

Laying her hand against the doorknob, she made her choice. There wasn't enough time to waste with a slow and careful reconnaissance—and he was her brother, still.

She had safety in that.

Biting down on her tongue, she let her mouth fill with blood and strength infused her body. It was always a rush when she did this—though it wasn't something she often needed—to push her body to the limit, to find the strength she shouldn't have.

Pulling her arm back, she slammed her fist into the door right underneath the knob, the wood fracturing and splintering under the force of her blow. Shoving her fist through the newly made hole, she unlocked the door from the inside and let herself in.

Only to find Anton standing there, flanked by two people she vaguely recognized, filling the narrow hallway with their breadth. Her brother had looked ready to fight her intrusion—a short sword in his hand—but he lowered it instantly. The anger, though, was still there. She knew that look in his eyes—the cold flint of steel in his gaze—but she had never seen it directed at her.

"Shan. I should have expected this eventually." He was furious, and in that moment she could almost believe that he was a murderer.

How could she have missed that this was simmering beneath the surface for all this time?

She slipped the door closed behind her. "I was concerned about you, dear brother," she replied, but she focused her attention on his comrades.

One was a young woman their age, with dark skin and even darker hair that she wore in tight braids pressed to her scalp and bound at the nape of her neck. The other was a bit older, a tall, towering figure, though he was cramped awkwardly in this space that was too small for him. His pale complexion shimmered in the witch light, but his expression was shadowed by the fall of brown hair across his face.

These strangers were too well dressed to be just any Unblooded—the cut and make of their clothes, though in the style of the middle class, were just a bit too fine. But they wore no claws or daggers, and it took Shan a moment to understand why.

They were like her brother, born to Blood Working families but without an ounce of power—a source of shame and bewilderment to most. This was a part of her brother that she had never been able to understand. Blood had always called to her, filling her with power and singing beneath her skin. As terrible as Blood Working could be, it was as much a part of her as anything, and despite the color of her skin and the shame of her father it had granted her just a modicum of acceptance.

Her brother had never had that. None of these people ever had that. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was enough for them to turn against the system.

All it would cost was their souls.

Anton looked back at them, waving them off. "Go on without me, I'll catch up in a minute."

The woman leaned into him. "Don't do anything we'll regret, LeClaire."

His smile was forced. "Do you really think I'm that much of a fool?"

She shook her head. "For your family? Yes." She grabbed the other man by the hand, pulling him along. "We've got work to do." The grim giant shot Shan one last warning look, but he followed the woman out.

Shan tilted her head to the side, listening as they went, their footsteps fading as they took some stairs down, heading lower into the ground.

Interesting.

"Stop that," Anton snapped, too familiar with her antics for her to get away with such things. "We need to talk. This way."

Shan didn't fight him. They had been avoiding each other long enough and it was time to face the truth. She followed him into a parlor, realizing what this place was. It had been a home, once, but they had converted it to their needs. She wanted to peer into each room, to see what she could find, but Anton did not give her that chance.

He ushered her into the parlor and slammed the door behind him. "I need a drink" was all he said, crossing to a liquor cabinet that was stocked with half-empty bottles.

Shan settled into a chair. She didn't have the energy to be mad or anxious anymore. The right thing to do would have been to confront him outright, but she still hesitated. There was so much unspoken between them, and if this was to be her last night with her brother, she wanted to dally a little bit.

He reappeared in front of her, holding out a glass of whisky. She took it, and for a second the anger dimmed as she caught a glimpse of her brother again.

Terrified, lonely, hurt—but hers.

It only made everything more difficult.

He knocked the drink back, downing it with a practiced vigor, and slammed the glass down on the table. Shan watched him curiously. There was something rougher about him, something harder that she didn't fully recognize.

"So," he said, crossing his arms across his chest. "Do you want to tell me what this is about?"

She didn't respond, just stared into the glass of whisky he had brought.

"Dammit, Shan." He crossed over to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. Shan sucked in a harsh breath. Anton might never look like their father, neither of them would—but that pose, those mannerisms? That was Lord Antonin LeClaire, back from the grave.

"You were the one following me, then?" he asked, still looking away, hiding his face.

"Yes," Shan said, "I was."

He cursed, low and soft, but there wasn't anger in it. Just pain. "Why?"

Shan wrapped her arms around herself, her facade finally cracking. She prided herself on being impervious, on being so strong that she never showed a hint of weakness, but… he was her brother, and this pain was real. "I—" her breath caught in her throat, the words refusing to come. "Can't."

"Can't?" Anton said, at last turning. His eyes were dark and empty. "Or won't? Does this have anything to do with the fact that you've locked me out of your study? That you haven't truly spoken to me since before you murdered our father? I thought we didn't lie to each other, Shan."

"I haven't been lying," she said, though the words felt hollow.

"No, I suppose you haven't." He rubbed his hand across the shorn side of his head, messing his meticulous hairstyle. "But you haven't been truthful either."

Shan didn't deny it—it was true. She had only stayed faithful to their long-time vow by a technicality, though she had broken it many times over in spirit.

"So, let me begin," Anton said, surprising her. He stepped forward, taking her hands in his. She wasn't wearing her claws—it didn't fit her simple disguise—and it felt strange to be holding her brother's hand like this again. They hadn't done this since they were children, clinging together against the darkness that was their own family. "I have not been entirely truthful either. Tonight, you met Alaric Rothe and Maia Aedlar."

"Ah." The names clicked into place as Shan drew upon the great family trees of Aeravin. Maia was a bastard daughter, the child of a long-time mistress, but her father had a kindly heart—he raised her in his household, with his name and his wealth. She could never inherit, especially as she had shown no skill at Blood Working, but it was better than the streets.

Alaric was a bit of a radical, though—he should have been the heir. He had no siblings and was the last of a long line but gifted with no magic. After the death of his mother, his cousins immediately started fighting each other for control of the estates, but Alaric held his ground, fighting them tooth and nail, refusing to be denied his birthright.

Or any more of it than he had already lost. The Rothe seat in the House of Lords had sat empty for nearly a decade. Lineage or not, an Unblooded couldn't fill that spot.

It all made too much sense. "Are they your birds?"

Anton rolled his eyes. "They are my friends, Shan. Not that you would know what that is like." He stopped her before she could counter him. "And I don't count. I'm family."

She bit her lip. "There is Samuel."

"Oh, Shan," Anton said, with a cruel little laugh that reminded her a bit too much of their father. Of herself. "Don't believe your own lies. You're using him just as much as you use anyone else. He's no different than Isaac."

He might as well have slapped her across the face. It wasn't true—at least not in the way that he thought it was. Samuel wasn't that different from Isaac, but Isaac wasn't some simple tool to be used either.

Her heart aching many times over, she sighed and reached for her drink. "Alaric and Maia, then. They're your friends."

"Yes," Anton said carefully. "And my… allies."

"Allies in what?" she asked, needing to hear it. Needing to know if he'd tell her the truth, even now, or if everything between them was lost forever.

Anton looked away. "It's complicated."

She clenched her hand around her glass, trying to hide the trembling that started. This was the moment—the one that she had been fearing. When she forced the words past her lips, it barely sounded like her voice at all. "Try me."

"It would be easier to show you." He stood, offering her his hand.

And, foolishly, she took it.

Anton led her down into the basement, following the steps that Alaric and Maia had taken earlier. This place was more than a meeting spot—she had quickly figured that out—it was a headquarters and a safe house and, as they entered into the basement, a printing press.

An illegal, unsanctioned, hidden printing press.

Shan stared at the process, Maia and Alaric working in silent coordination as they took the type and set it against the paper, creating a stream for production. They did the work themselves, despite their noble upbringings. Alaric had his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, ink splattered on his shirt, and Maia worked the type, setting rows of letters in order.

She crossed over to the far wall, where bundles of pamphlets and slim booklets were stacked, ready for distribution. Grabbing the first one she could, she ran her fingers on the freshly dried, slightly offset title.

A DECLARATION ON THE RIGHTS OF THE UNBLOODED

BY THE FRIEND OF THE UNBLOODED

So this was it. This was the big secret that he had been working on behind her back. It wasn't murder, it wasn't illegal Blood Working. It was these damn radical texts that ranged from speculative to outright seditious.

Anton was whispering behind her, and she hardly paid attention to him as he told Alaric and Maia to leave. She just stared at the amount of damning material spread before her and wondered what she was supposed to do with all of this.

It was only the closing of the door behind them that moved her to action.

Crushing the pamphlet in her hand, she spun on him. "It's been you all along. You're The Friend ."

Anton inclined his head, and she cursed. "Not just me, but, yes. I've been one of the writers and organizers."

"Don't you realize what you've done? What you're all doing?"

"You're brilliant, Shan," Anton began, and she braced herself for the but that was coming. "But your plans…"

"Will change Aeravin," Shan said. "You know this."

"Actually, I don't," Anton snapped. "What you fail to realize is that you're a Blood Worker, and that Aberforth you intend to replace the King with will be a Blood Worker, too. And, yes, he's—" Anton had had the grace to look pained "—he's a good man, but changing one man won't fix anything. There is still the House of Lords, there are still systems and institutions that will keep the Unblooded in their place."

Shan stepped back. She had expected many things, such terrible things, but the idea that he had lost faith in what she was doing was the most painful option of all. "Everything will change."

"Nothing will change," Anton said, sadly. "They won't let it. They won't even allow Alaric to hold his seat in the House of Lords."

Shan wanted to argue, but he was right. The House of Lords would never let someone like Alaric amongst them. Not unless they were forced to.

"It will be revolution, then?" she asked.

"Is it so different than what you are doing?"

"In my plan," Shan said, quietly, "there would be no innocent deaths."

"There are already innocents dying." Anton stepped over to a desk, pulling out paper after paper, laying them in a pile before her. "People are starving, people are being worked until they die, people cannot afford midwives or doctors or healers, though we have the ability to care for them. And," he started making a different pile, "that's not even getting to the crime."

Slamming a bundle of papers down, he hissed, "This is a partial list of Unblooded who have vanished in the past year, Shan. One year. And there were no investigations done, no bodies found. This many people don't just disappear. It should be a crisis, but our government does nothing for them."

He looked up at her and Shan realized that this wasn't some idle fancy, some fit of righteous passion, that had taken over her brother. No, this was a long-thought-out, carefully crafted plan. A revolution that had grown out of the problems that simmered under Aeravin's facade.

Problems that even she—the Sparrow, with her dreams of making the country a better place for the Unblooded—had not seen. Had not bothered to look for.

Because she hadn't truly cared about the Unblooded, not really. She had just cared about her brother.

And he had outdone her in every way, even without magic.

"They will kill you," she said. "They will kill all of you."

Anton didn't argue. "I had hoped that it wouldn't come to that, honestly, but I know that it will come to violence eventually. I've seen your bill."

"I'm trying to save people!" she screamed, and he just smiled sadly.

"I know you are. But you never stopped to ask how they wanted to be saved, or if they were willing to risk fighting for the hope of a better chance."

She turned away, trembling, and Anton wrapped his arms around her. "I have to do this, you understand."

"I do," Shan said, because she was the same. "But know that I will keep fighting to protect you, as much as I can."

"I know you will." He let go. "Now it's best you leave. We have to move our operations."

"I wouldn't—"

"I know," Anton said. "But we need to be safe nonetheless. The fact that you know that I am involved—that Alaric and Maia are involved—is bad enough."

Shan cupped her brother's cheek. "When did you grow up so much?"

"Right in front of your face," Anton said. "You just weren't looking. Now go."

Nodding, she made her way towards the stairs, still clutching the ruined pamphlet in her hand. Anton watched her go, and all the words she wanted to say died on her tongue.

What a fool she had been, thinking he was involved in the murders. What a fool she had been for not seeing what her brother had been capable of.

Perhaps if she hadn't been so blind, they could have worked together.

But now it was too late.