Chapter 16

Leaning against a stack of crates, I flip the token between my fingers as I watch the long ferry cut across the river, sail bulging. I screw my nose up at the smell of fish and bodily waste baking in the evening rays.

A desperate chorus of yells rips my attention to three cloaked Shulák standing on the back of a cart, tossing loaves of bread at a hoard of children with sunburnt cheeks, chapped lips, and tattered tops. They dive on the offerings like gulls, then fall into a squealing, scrapping heap.

I shudder, ripping my gaze away.

The ferryman—a large lump of a man who takes up an entire seat built for three—coaxes his vessel against the wooden pier. Leaning forward, he huffs and puffs, tossing a length of rope around a post, his face flushed from exertion.

Two scrawny men pass me by, dark shadows cushioning their hollow eyes, looking like regurgitated death. They stop at the ferry, scratching their skin, nibbling their cuticles, edging from foot to foot. They hand the ferryman plain silver tokens and step down onto the vessel.

I move forward, setting mine into his plump, sweaty hand. He closes one eye and looks through the small glass window punched into the center.

According to Blythe—the unfortunate man whose robe I’m wearing—this particular token is special. It says I can be trusted. That I’ve been vetted, my faith tested, and that I’ve proven myself worthy of initiation. Of this personal, in-the-flesh meeting with the infamous Madame Strings.

The ferryman lifts a brow, eyeing me from beneath the hood of his gray robe. “You Blythe?”

I nod.

He offers me a slimy half smile that makes me want to scrub my skin with a pinecone. “Lucky man.”

He wouldn’t be saying that if he saw the state I left Blythe in.

The ferryman pockets my token and jerks his chin at an empty seat directly in front of him. He unties the boat and maneuvers us away from the pier, the sail filling with a blow of wind that shoves us forward, cutting against the current’s flow.

We sail toward the opposite riverbank—the small chunk of Parith on the other side of the Norse still embraced by the wall.

The wind buffers me with the sour stench of the ferryman’s body odor while he whistles a droning tune I could certainly do without. We move toward a huge gray temple made up of spire-like shapes—tall as the city wall, its ominous facade as abhorrent to me as the mountainous presence at my back.

I shudder.

We nudge the pier, the rope secured by a gray-robed male who scans us over.

The two haunts at the front continue to fidget.

“Wait here,” the ferryman grumbles, then steps onto the pier, making the boat bounce around so much I’m surprised it doesn’t flip. Speaking in hushed tones, he converses with the other Shulák, tokens clinking when he hands them over.

He points at me.

Leaning forward, I plant my forearms on my knees and hone my attention on my clasped hands, feigning disinterest, still feeling the residue of last night’s bender despite the ripening hour.

Waking to a splat of gull shit on my face, wrapped around a streetlamp, steeped in what I hope was my own puddle of vomit was a new low. If Rhordyn had seen me, he’d have been so bitterly disappointed.

But he’s not here because the bastard made his own mistakes.

We all made mistakes.

I shackle the thought somewhere deep and dark as the other robed male steps forward, sweeping his hands wide. “Welcome. I’m Brother Beryll. Please disembark the vessel and step upon our holy shore, into the arms of our great Gods where you will be nourished by their bountiful bosom.”

What a load of krah shit.

We’re ushered across the courtyard, the stone beneath our feet inscribed with a sea of scripture.

Maars’s prophecies.

Despite the dense heat, my skin sprouts goosebumps.

Dwarfed by the temple’s mountainous size, I keep my gaze ahead as we move up a rise of stairs, through a mammoth set of doors, into a lofty interior lit by beams of daylight shafting down from above. A sight that makes my gut flip. Makes my fingers itch for the flask tucked within the discreet pocket lining my robe.

A couple of stoic-faced Gray Guards boasting their signature chainmail and simple breastplate whisk the other two men through a high archway—more bounce in their step than they had half an hour ago.

I frown. “Where are they going?”

“To be cleansed. This way.”

Brother Beryll leads me along a maze of quiet corridors, and I take note of every twist and turn, stashing the information in the back of my mind. A shaft of light illuminates the slow-dancing, powdery particles wafting through the air in a smorgasbord of muted colors.

Candescence.

My knees threaten to buckle, gums throbbing as my canines punch down beneath my mask, my instincts flaring to fierce, feral life.

Clenching my teeth so hard I fear they might shatter, I force my feet forward.

Force my features to remain smooth.

Brother Beryll receives a ring of keys from a guard standing beside an open doorway, and I’m led into a tight room crammed full of trestle tables heavy with rocks of sugar, dusted in the fine powder the air is thick with. I cough, fighting the temptation to lift my robe and cover my mouth as we weave between the rows.

Men with shaved heads hunch over pestle and mortars, casting wary glances my way, grinding down chunks of sugar they chip off the blocks. Though a few aren’t grinding sugar at all.

They’re grinding thorns—mixing it with sugar.

Diluting it down.

Shrill crunching sounds pierce me to the core, dragging nails across my eardrums. Violence swells, punching at my ribs, peddling my blood into a fiery rage.

We head toward a door at the far end of the room, and I watch a man sprinkle more of the delicate, crystalline spikes onto a small set of scales from a packed-full jar …

No ears.

I tame the growl threatening to chew through my tone as I ask, “They come already plucked?”

“Of course,” Brother Beryll boasts, slipping a key into the lock and clunking the bolt to the side. “They’re taken straight off living male stock.”

A shiver streaks through me.

Living male stock …

“If any more females exist, they’re well hidden,” Brother Beryll continues, pushing the door wide. “We’ve done our part, hunted high and low in the name of the stones. Though we got close to finding Shadow’s Hand years ago, we’re yet to fulfill our duty to the Gods and their great creation. But we will,” he says with such stable determination the insides of my cheeks tingle.

I’m certain everybody in the room can hear the erratic thump of my heart. That they can tell I’m an intruder dressed in the skin of a dead man.

That I want to rip the blade from inside my right boot and tear it through their jugulars.

But then who would lead me to Madame Strings?

He gestures for me to move past, and I slip into a darker room lined with rows of wooden shelves. Some are stacked with gray coins, some with gold, some with jars of the Candescence-sugar blend.

My heart grows heavier as I sweep my gaze around the space, hands tightening into fists hidden under my scooped sleeves.

“This is where our stocks are stored.” He picks up a jar and tosses it high, snatching it in such a carefree manner that I picture my hand wrapped around his throat.

Picture his skin turning a sickly shade of blue.

“You’ll pay for one of these, take it, sell it, and return for the next. The funds are then sent to the Glass Palace.”

Interesting.

He reaches out his empty hand, and I clear my throat, digging through my pocket and pulling out a gold drab. I make the trade, skin crawling the moment my fingers wrap around the glass so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.

“You have plenty of stock,” I state, pocketing the jar.

“We do, but it goes fast, which is why we dilute it. The city is thirstier than it’s ever been. This month’s shipment came in from the Glass Palace this afternoon.” Brother Beryll drops some plain gray tokens into a leather pouch and hands them to me. “Anyone who is hooked and can’t afford the cost can be given one of those. Payment for their trip across the river, where they’ll receive the opportunity to kneel to the stones in exchange for a regular supply.”

I nod, remembering the gaunt, jittery males who joined my crossing. Realizing just how smooth and fucked up this operation is.

“And don’t forget to limit what you give to the children. We don’t want an army of runts. We need them fully mature before they become regular users.”

I swallow bile, nodding, picturing my thumbs gored into his skull, bursting his eyes like puffballs.

“Of course.”

“In exchange for your hard work, you will be given your own room here in the temple—food, clean water, and the blessing of the Elders. You will also be gifted a daily dose of Candescence.”

“Right,” I mutter, scanning the room as my rage simmers into something thick. Potent.

Deadly.

“So … when do I meet Madame Strings?”

He lifts a brow. “Eager, are we?”

You have no idea.

* * *

I’m led down a coiled staircase, then a long, stone corridor lit by flaming sconces. Guards open huge stone doors that creak their protest, and the heavy scent of spicy incense swirls around me.

“Enjoy,” Brother Beryll says, offering a slimy wink that makes my skin crawl.

Soft moans coax a frown as I ease past drapes of sheer gray material tethered to the ceiling. Nudging into the open, my boots become tethered to the stone.

Ahead is a heaving pit of flesh—people with glazed, faraway gazes, paired off or gathered in writhing groups, naked aside from the women decorated in strings of silver bells that tailor to their voluptuous curves and jingle as they bounce, roll, thrust.

Guttural moans, sated groans, and the building cries of passion fill the large room ignited by bowls of flaming oil balanced on pedestals. The ceiling is high, the floor padded with plush gray furnishings: chaises; massive floor pillows; thick, fluffy rugs; and a mammoth four-poster bed sitting in the center of the space.

My gaze coasts across the mounds of flesh and fuckery, seeing small bowls of iridescent powder placed on pillows and stools throughout the open room, glimmering in the firelight.

A low growl boils in the back of my throat, my rage spurred into a hissing, spitting beast.

A curvaceous woman peels from a tangle of limbs and body parts moving about the bed, an elegance to the way she makes each step look featherlight. Streaks of gray swirl across her bronze skin, smudged in places.

Our gazes collide—her eyes so blue and bold, a contrast to the blackness smudged around them, splaying toward her temples. Sharpened bits of bone pierce her lobes, and delicate inked lines trace from her full lower lip down her chin and neck before flaring across her plump breasts that bounce as she sways toward me.

“You must be the new runner,” she purrs, her voice laced with a suggestive slur that would usually spur straight to my cock. But I’m too distracted by the strings beaded with tiny bells that are coiled around the dreaded lengths of her long, tawny hair. That and the commanding glint in her eye, as though she’s used to being in charge.

My heart is a thundering roar in my ears.

Madame Strings.

Pushing back my hood, I run my hands over my scalp, missing the tug of my hair. “Yes.”

Her eyes hunger over my face. The expanse of my shoulders.

“I’m here for the induction,” I continue, and she steps so close I’m struck by the citrus punch of whatever fragrance she’s wearing.

Threading her hand around the back of my neck, she leans near to my ear and draws deep before teasing wisps of breath upon my lobe. “This is the induction,” she murmurs, and my skin pebbles for all the wrong reasons.

Head cocked to the side, she toys with my robe in a suggestive way.

I swallow thickly, crunching my hands into balls. Fight the urge to shove her off. Wishing I’d had the foresight to get blind drunk before I stepped onto that fucking ferry.

Get it together, Baze.

“I thought the Shulák valued chastity before coupling? I see no cupla on your wrist.”

Her eyes ignite, the corner of her lips curling as she studies me like she sees my nonchalance and wants to fuck it right out of me. “I’m coupled with my faith,” she says, then slides her finger past her lips and sucks, hollowing her cheeks.

The faintest stir of excitement strikes the most basic part of me while a flood of disgust almost chokes the rest.

With a knowing glint in her eye, she pulls her finger free with a wet pop, then dips it in the bowl of Candescence perched atop a stool beside us. My blood chills when she brings the sparkly substance to my lips, stepping so close her breasts flatten against my chest. “Open for me.”

Ghosts gnaw at my brain like flesh-eating worms …

Yield for me, my pretty boy.

Your Lord takes care of you and gives you what you need.

My mouth grinds open, like someone just gored a bar between my teeth and wrenched them wide.

Disgust surges through my veins.

She stamps her finger upon my tongue, making it tingle.

“Close.”

I do—squeezing my eyes shut at the same time, feeling those molecules of luster burst in my mouth.

“Now,” she says, her voice a husky rasp. “Suck.”

My demons scratch at the underside of my skin as I obey, certain the tight veil covering my true self doesn’t exist at all. That I’m naked, on my knees on a cold stone floor, begging for my Lord to bend my head to the side, lengthen my neck just the way I like.

For him to strike me with his drugging bite.

A groan slips free and strips me bare.

“Good boy,” she whispers, and a shiver climbs my spine.

Tightens my balls.

You’re my favorite, pretty boy.

Your Lord loves you.

She pulls her finger from my mouth and dips it in the bowl again, sucking the powder off before she sashays around me, peeling off my robe.

It falls to the floor in a heavy heap.

She lifts my shirt up over my head, exposing my torso and low-hanging pants. Her gaze roves while she hums appreciatively, and I’ve never felt so filthy.

So small and pathetic.

So fucking sober.

The musk of her arousal smears the back of my throat.

She pauses before me, pupils blown, eyes glazed with a familiar shimmer that suggests she’s beginning to feel the punch of light now coursing through her system.

For most Aeshlians, consuming the hard, sharp, sparkly stuff our body absentmindedly sprouts is a recipe for short-term amnesia. A few, potent minutes of blissful nothing. When I was little, it’d hit me so brutally I’d forget who I was. Where I was.

Why the world was so ugly.

Then I got older, bigger. Sexually matured. It started having … other effects that would make my skin crawl when I finally came to.

Not that it stopped me.

After years of chewing my own thorns, the hit lost its luster.

She takes a step back, and her hand skims down her abdomen, past her navel. “You’re perfect.” She tips her head and looks at me from beneath heavy lids. “Such a pretty pet.”

My pretty boy knows how to please me.

Your skin bursts so perfectly.

Her middle finger sinks into her core as she works herself to the tune of her throaty moans and tweaks her dusky nipple into a hardened peak.

“Can you feel it yet?” Her voice is a thirsty plea, her shoulder moving faster, faster—

Can you feel that, my pretty, pretty boy? That’s fucking love, that is.

“Yes,” I say.

Lie.

She groans, grabs my hand, and drags me toward the bed.