Chapter 15

If ever there was a person in this gods-abandoned world whose name I truly might have given to Death, it would have been Orin Faber. And staring at the burn marks in my flesh, though I'd half-expected Death to plant his name there anyway, I felt no sense of relief when I read the name given.

Arabella Grenwich.

My instincts wanted me to lean into the magic and let it give me a sense of direction, but as I stared at the gleaming doorknob, fear crept up my throat, gripping me in a vise. I'd have to resist the manic urge as long as possible. Because every second until I was out of this room was going to drive me to madness. A madness I'd had experience with. A kind of madness that had once broken me to stealing the lives of twenty-three people in a single night.

I refused to look at the name, refused to think about it, or remember the edges of the seared skin on my hand. Refused to think of the weapons I didn't have or wonder which city she might reside in. Instead, I moved to the center of the hollow room, my abdomen still sore, but better, and I sat with my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth, ignoring the way the walls moved in.

"One," I whispered. "Anika Sariah Hark."

A breath.

"Two. Garrit Faden."

Another breath.

"Three. Marian Achlen."

Face after face, name after name poured through my mind. Starting with my mother and ending now with my father. "A name given; a body delivered. Always the same. Not my fault. Not my choice. Breathe."

Move.

The magic had its own sort of voice in my mind. A physical command over my body, as if it wrapped itself around every muscle. Every tendon. Every bone.

Now.

"Three hundred forty-six, Sibylla Rikket." The names came faster, desperately tumbling from my lips as I rocked, digging my nails into my legs until I broke the skin. "Three hundred forty-seven, Ezra Prophet."

Stand up.

"No," I said aloud, gripping the sides of my head. "No."

"Three hundred for… forty-eight. Esb?—"

TOUCH THE DOOR!

I jumped to my feet and ran to the door, needing to be near the handle. Needing to stare at the way the flickering light on the wall shined upon the beautiful curve.

Touch it.

The words were not magic; they were the poison of my own mind. They were me. All of this was. Every choice. Every death. Every drop of blood. Me. Me. I wanted this. I craved this. I needed death. The satisfaction. The blade. The blood. The blood.

The blood.

"Stop it." I dug my fingers into my thick hair, pulling until the pain turned to numbness and the pieces came out in clumps. "This isn't you."

"This isn't you."

"This isn't you."

I couldn't fight the drag of my eyes back to the brass knob.

It's cool. Touch it.

"It'll be cold in my hands. Comforting."

Yes.

"No." I backed all the way to the opposite side of the room.

The walls are thin.

"The walls are thin. I could claw my way through. The blood. The death. The kill."

Yes.

"No. No. No."

Heart racing, I ran to the door and gripped the cool knob, letting that single sensation comfort every vibrating nerve.

"There."

Turn it.

"Fight it."

Arabella Grenwich.

I could picture her in my mind. The single, beautiful slice across her throat. I could hear the curdled gasp. See the moment the life left her eyes and her soul vanished.

I turned the knob slowly, my heart fighting every single inch as the knob gave a little more and a little more, until it passed where a door lock would have kept it.

He hadn't locked me in. I was free.

The magic became quiet.

Satiated.

Only the haunting remnants of my past echoed around me as I crept into the hallway, pushed my back against the wall, and slid to the floor. The madness had nearly consumed me, and I wasn't even trapped. I was a victim of my mind. My fear. And had that door been locked, eventually, I would have broken through it. Or clawed my way through the walls. Because no matter how much I tried to fight this power, the second I lost control, it was over.

"Maiden?" that kind, feminine voice from before said. She poked her head around the corner, a smudge of ash on her face, the sun beaming down the hallway, enveloping her hair in a halo of glorious red as she tucked a hammer into a loop on her belt. "Are you okay?"

"The door was unlocked. I didn't break it."

She moved tentatively until she was across the narrow space from me, sinking down the wall just as I had, our feet nearly touching. "I know."

"Was it a mistake? The door being unlocked, I mean."

Her smile was genuine but careful. "No."

"So, I'm free to leave? Or will I be stabbed and dragged back to this prison again?"

"The Syndicate house is not a prison. It's a home, and I won't stand by and see it become anything else."

I replayed the map of the home I'd seen in my mind, calculating how many steps to the knives in the kitchen, and how many more to the door. I could jump out a window again, though preferably something closer to the ground. A single pulse of power reminded me I would need to leave sooner rather than later. But I had no intention of staying, anyway.

Rising, I dusted my hands on my pants, only then realizing I wasn't in the same clothes I'd been stabbed in. Nor the wedding dress. But still my wardrobe. Something from my closet… in my father's castle.

Confused, I looked back at the woman, and a trill of a laugh escaped before she covered her mouth with her hand. "Don't worry, Maiden. Paesha and I dressed you. Not Orin."

"Who are you?" I asked, drawing back.

Green eyes stared into mine, but no answer came.

"It's fine. You don't have to tell me. It's better if I don't know."

I walked away, leaving the woman on the floor as I made my way to the kitchen. Another woman, older, with dark hair and a nose that matched Orin's, spun the second I entered the room. His mother, maybe. She gasped and backed away, arms gripping the counter.

"I won't hurt you. But it's dangerous to travel completely unarmed." I swiped an abandoned kitchen knife off the table and made to leave.

"Wait," she called after me.

My throat closed. I was already on edge, and whatever she would ask of me, of my dealings with a man who was potentially her son, I wasn't ready to answer. Nor did I trust that she wouldn't find another blade and plunge it into my skull if she was anything like her asshole child.

"Here." She held out a dagger. "I'd prefer to keep the other one. If it's all the same to you."

I studied those dark chocolate eyes for only a second before carefully handing back her blade, handle first. She gave up the dagger, and something about it felt a little too easy. Why would they have captured me last night, only to let me leave today? Each interaction in this house became more and more odd as I made my way to the door, wondering if he was the only one who demanded I stay.

"Will you come back, Maiden?" the redhead asked, following me as I snaked my way through the next hall, searching for the front door.

"No."

"If I asked nicely, would you consider it? Please?"

"No," I growled.

"Here, then," she said, tossing my coin bag at me the second I faced her. "My name is Althea Washburn, and if you need a friend, you can find me here, outside in my forge, or in the warehouse behind Misery's End."

She tucked her cropped hair behind an ear. The loose sleeve of her shirt fell just enough to show the blue band around her wrist. I'd never been more confused in my life. The mystery of this so-called Syndicate intrigued me.The temptation to ask her why she was being so nice that it felt like a trick sat waiting on my lips.

But the magic pulsed again, pushing me out the door, and though I half-expected a group of Drexel's armed lackeys waiting to trap me again, standing with cigarettes hanging from scared faces, no one was there. Only a worn path through a long grass field that led into the line of oak trees.

I turned once, looking back at the gables and turrets of the home in waves of distrust and confusion. The charcoal dwelling, a relic really, held its own sort of mystery; a tapestry of varying styles and mismatched levels, which seemed to fit the occupants of the strange house. Dilapidated windows, adorned with ironwork lattices, peered out from the depths like watchful eyes. Also fitting. But what the fuck was the Syndicate for?

Snaking through the dried-up alleyways,the sun that rarely shone in the cities revealed every nook and cranny of disrepair. Silbath's bricks crumbled, and walls cracked. There were fewer shadows to hide within and more people to avoid. Hunting during the day felt like more of an intrusion on my victim's life. Still, Lady Visha's women, though fewer, perched on streets and leaned against the walls, wiping sweat from their brows, adjusting melting makeup in silver compacts, and eyeing every person, man or woman, that ambled by.

The rutting was calmer in the day, and less gritty from the rooftops. Moaning danced through the alleyways at night in fervor because alcohol was a cheap escape, and so was an orgasm. Three men poured from the door in an alley, each wearing long coats and leather gloves similar to what I'd expected to see of people lingering outside the Syndicate house. The Maestro's gangsters circled another man thrown from the same doorway. The squelch of leather resonated as they moved like vultures, rubbing their fists into their hands. One pulled a crowbar and lifted it above his head with a snarl. I turned away, feeling like it was too early to see two acts of violence this early in the day.

Arabella Grenwich leaned against a lamppost, oblivious to the starving raven scavenging around her as much as the murderer perched above her. The apron at her waist served as a place for her to wipe the ink from the newspapers she sold. She'd swiped the sweat from her face twice. Each time left a black mark almost as dark as her eyes upon her golden skin.

"The king of Perth has fallen. Slayed by his own daughter moments after he denounced her. Read all about it. Two coin. The Death Maiden is on the run!"

I was pretty sure anyone standing close enough to me could hear my eyes roll. "Old news."

Still, a little old couple crossed the uneven street and traded their coin for the gossip, standing to read the paper, hunched shoulder to shoulder.

"Icharius Fern joins the realms. Two coin. Read all about it. Written in his own words!"

I stared at the woman, Death's magic thrumming within me. This proximity would be enough to hold the power back. The hunting and closeness always was at first, but something urged me forward. My own mind, potentially. Fear of capture after being subdued twice. If I didn't end her life and wound up imprisoned by the king, the madness would consume me. I no longer had the precious luxury of time. She'd have to die today.

A prick of anticipation struck me. That power coiled around my muscles as I looked for another way but found none. I waited for the old couple to wander down the street before leaping into the alley behind Arabella. At first, she paid me no mind, likely assuming I was just a beggar or otherwise. And I wished I could have been. I wished the daylight didn't have to see the stain on my soul. But wishes were for dreamers, and my dreams conjured nightmares.

I stepped onto the sidewalk, pulling the dagger. Sheer force of will shoved me back into the alley. I pushed my spine against the wall. Sucking in three sharp breaths, I moved again, creeping up behind Arabella, wrapping my hands around her mouth and dragging her backward. She kicked and screamed, and the old gods knew I wanted to cater, to cave to the begging. I wanted to be more than what I was damned to be.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

She went rigid, only then putting together who'd taken her. I should have pushed the knife home and ran, but she deserved a moment. It was the only thing I could give her, if not the peace of a death in her sleep.

"Please," she managed. "Please, I have to take care of my mother. She's… She's sick."

My stomach roiled. My fingers loosened on the blade. I was a monster. Her monster. Her nightmare.

"Before you die, do you know anything about the Life Maiden?"

"No. I swear it. No one has seen her, please. I'll pay you," she pleaded, turning to face me as my grip loosened. "I don't have much, but I've got a bit. I've been saving to find us a home. You can have it."

I shook my head, fingers instinctively caressing the mask on my face to make sure she couldn't see the tremble in my fa?ade. I was a killer.

"I can?—"

The blade across her throat was a clean cut. So clean that for just a moment, it looked as if it hadn't happened at all. Only when her eyes widened, and the scarlet blood poured from the fresh wound, did I look away. She gasped. They always gasped. The only consistent thing in my life, beyond my title as Death Maiden.

It took him longer to come this time, but when Death appeared in broad daylight, I held my chin high, my eyes narrowed, and said nothing as he kissed my cheek and wrenched the harvested soul back to his court. His collection.

Exhausted, I stood in that alley for what must have been hours. The world passed by in a blur, hardly anyone paying any mind to the body of Arabella Grenwich. They'd looted her papers, and someone had tried to steal her shoes before they eyed me standing vigil. But she lay alone. Just like me.

These moments of desolation had defined me for so long. I felt as though my life was just happening around me, and I was nothing more than a pawn for the villain, an enemy for the masses that saw him as a god, and a victim of myself. I'd lost control of everything.

Staring down at the vacant face of the woman I'd murdered, I realized whatever my plight, it could've been so much worse. And I could let myself be a victim, or I could fucking rise. And I wanted nothing to do with the bottomless pit of my own emotions.

Forcing my legs to move beyond the exhaustion that rattled me within the abyss of spent magic, I shoved my arms under Arabella's fallen body, lifted her from the ground, and walked out. I carried that woman down the middle of the godsdamned street, eyes and whispers and shouts of horror be damned as I moved. They would have sooner seen her rot than do the same, and I was not like them, despite the things they thought they all knew about me.

She grew heavy by the time I got to the empty bridge at Perth. Heavier so by the time I made it to Tolliver's Pointe. But that was my own burden to bear.

"Fredrik?" I called, kicking on the door of a house nearby.

When the man, who had to be nearing his hundredth year, inched the door open, I gave him three seconds to take it all in before the door shut in my face; a chain could be heard sliding out of its locking mechanism, and he joined me on the crumbling step.

He slipped a hat onto his head and let his wrinkled face fall only inches. "Put her in the wagon, Maiden. What's the name? For the stone."

"Arabella Grenwich. She has a mother somewhere that'll be worried."

He nodded, pulling on his gloves. I hated to burden the old man with digging a grave, but as I dropped two coins into his hand, I knew he needed those as much as the next person.

"There's another bag of coins in her apron. Make sure her mother gets them."

He sighed, using immense effort to creep down the step. "Yes, Maiden."

It was rare that I delivered a body to the grave keeper. Rarer so when it happened in broad daylight. But those who watched never followed, anyway.

From Tolliver's Pointe, I could see the turrets and battlements of my father's castle bathing in the last few moments of daylight. I found myself ambling down that familiar road, wondering what I might find, should I walk through the gate. If Regulas would still be there, kissing the ass of whatever nobleman Icharius Fern shoved into my father's bed, or if he'd tucked tail and run off.

The red lights of the Scarlet District flickered to life, casting the world in Lady Visha's favorite hue as I faded into the shadows, grabbed a familiar railing, and scaled a vacant warehouse, purely exhausted from my trek and the expenditure of magic.

Lying flat on the roof, I stared up into the starless sky. I could sleep here, but it was only getting colder. I would be too exposed, and I needed to hunt for the Life Maiden. It was important, but it seemed such a massive task when I didn't even have a bed to crawl into. I had an invitation, though, and that thought lingered in my mind as a familiar voice growled.

"Tell me what you know."

My heart leaped into my throat. Rolling over, I searched the skyline before realizing that Orin was somewhere below me. I crept like a feline to the very edge of the roof, holding my breath as I peeked over, only far enough to see Orin holding a man pinned against a wall. I might not have recognized him behind the mask, but I knew the shape, and gods help me, I think there was even familiarity in the build of his shoulders and the bulk of his legs.

"Tell me where they are," he seethed, shifting just enough for me to see a knife held to his victim's Adam"s apple.

The man shook his head, and before I could process what was happening, Orin took his blade, plunged it into his poor victim's chest, and watched him crumble to the ground. I waited a heartbeat and then another. After ripping off his mask, Orin lifted his head to the sky, spreading his arms wide as if daring the clouds to finally break and pour down on him. With his eyes closed, face cast in the red glow of the nearby lights, he might have been beautiful, if he wasn't such a bastard.

A voice at the other end of the street broke whatever power had held Orin in place. He lifted his hood and snuck away, never once looking back at the man he'd injured. I waited. Perhaps I could follow his victim and learn more. Learn whatever knowledge he was looking for or find whomever it was that was missing. But the minutes turned into more than an hour and the man hadn't moved an inch. Not even when the rats came.

He couldn't be dead, but why had he laid there, not bothering to call for help? When I approached him, I half-expected to smell the alcohol he must have reeked of. A drunk passed out on the streets of the Scarlet District could be found on every corner. But when I rolled the man over with my scuffed boot, trying to wake him, vacant eyes stared up at me.

He was dead. Orin Faber had killed a man… and Death never came to collect his soul.