Chapter 7

Doused in the heady smell of my own sweat and vomit, I cup my hands against the window and peer through it, scouring the Inn’s murky innards. All the wall sconces are blown out except one behind the bar, casting a rinse of warm light over a broad man bent over the till, stacking coins and scribbling on a piece of parchment.

Sniffing, I edge around the building beneath the heavy shroud of a silent night, noting the Closed sign on the door before I grab the tarnished handle anyway, giving it a yank.

I feel the man’s abrasive gaze as I weave between tall tables laden with upside-down stools, lifting one off the bar and thumping it on the floor. I sit heavily, inhaling the smell of beeswax mixed with the rich musk of ale, hard liquor, and sugarcane smoke.

“We’re closed, son.”

“I know,” I murmur, pushing back my hood. I reach into the folds of my cloak and retrieve a pouch of coins, sliding a gold drab across the bar. “I’ll have a bottle of whiskey.”

Looking up through my hair, I note the deep gouge between Graves’s heavy brows. His fair hair is pulled back in a low bun, his neatly trimmed beard a stark contrast to his cruddy apron—testament to a hard day’s work.

He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “I recognize you …”

“Don’t.”

He watches me with shrewd regard. “Are you going to cause me any trouble?” he asks, his voice a gruff rumble.

Brows lifting, I hold his powdery stare. “Not if you get me that whiskey.”

With a low grunt, he retrieves a bottle of amber liquid off the back shelf, as well as a glass, and lumps both before me amongst a litter of pale ring stains. Noting a single black line—almost impossible to see—stitched through the collar of his midnight-blue shirt, I nudge the gold drab toward him, then pull out another and add it to the pile.

I sense his rising confusion in the tightening of the air between us as I pop the cork, wrapping my hand around the bottle. Heavy.

Cold.

Desperate to rinse away the sour taste of vomit, I ignore the glass and draw straight from the source. The cool burn slips down my throat, charring some of the tension—the unsaid words—that have been choking me since Zali received Orlaith’s sprite.

I drain a quarter of the contents, the chained screams inside my chest softening with each drugging swallow. Hissing through my teeth, I slam the bottle on the bar and dig through my pocket, pulling out a small, corked jar and placing it before him.

Graves sucks a sharp breath and stumbles back, steadying himself against the shelves as he looks upon the morbid, bloody contents: two crystal thorns, the roots still wet from where they were torn from flesh.

“I’m looking to sell those,” I say, tipping my bottle toward the jar. “I was wondering if you were aware of the street rules around these parts?”

Eyes wide, he swallows, his complexion now a pasty shade of gray.

Tension cuts the air as silence prevails. Hardly surprising. Loose lips sink ships—a lesson most street rats learn the hard way. But I’ve got time. And patience.

Lots of fucking patience.

“C’mon, Graves,” I say through a smirk, “I know you grew up in the undercity.”

His complexion pales further as I wait, and wait. Drain more of the bottle and fucking wait.

Maybe I’m not so patient after all.

Finally, he fills his chest, then clears his throat, nipping a glance at the thorns. “Madame Strings is the woman you’re after.”

I thought as much.

“Word is she lost her parents young and traveled the continent many times, though she looks naught over two and five,” he says, a knowing shadow darkening his eyes. “Doesn’t add up to me.”

I gobble the information, glancing at the thorns, heart thundering along at a ferocious pace …

She must use.

Regularly.

“She’s in with those gray robes,” he says, taking the cloth draped over his shoulder and using it to dab his dappled brow. “You know the ones.”

Oh, I fucking do.

“And how do I find this … Madame Strings?” I ask, trying to hide the fierce hunger clawing up my throat. Revenge is a meal I’m determined to feast on—the only thing powerful enough to keep my mind occupied.

To keep it off him.

Her.

This fucking place.

“She’s pretty hard to nail down. It’s a big city, and she’s not always here … though based on murmurings I’ve heard, I believe she’s currently this side of the wall. If you were to chance it, you might find her around one of the campfires in the city’s heart, telling tales to children and dishing out sweets.”

Meaning I’ll have to hunt her down like a dog.

If the shoe fits.

Graves watches me closely while I drain the rest of the bottle, then slam it on the bar, pocket the jar, and slide off my stool rather than push it back across the floorboards. Old habits, or whatever.

I’m halfway to the door when Graves’s voice chases me. “She has runners.”

I stop and turn. “Runners?”

“Men who coax kids into trying candy while force-feeding them whispered words of a brighter future, free from the horrors chipped upon the stones. Talk on the street is that some of these kids are disappearing. For good.”

The blood drains from my face so fast my head spins, forcing me to grip hold of a nearby table. Or perhaps the bottle of alcohol just hit me all at once. Either way, I feel like I’m going to throw up for the fifth time since the sun sank, and all over Graves’s freshly mopped floorboards.

“There was a bloke in here not three days ago boasting about a meeting with Madame Strings. Something to do with replacing a runner who contracted the Blight.” He raises his bushy brows, gaze steady.“But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“When?”

“Not tomorrow night but the next, if my ears served me well. And they usually do.”

I stretch my hands, then bunch them up, that monstrous rage sitting inside my chest surging to savage life. “Do you know where he lives?”

With a clipped nod, Graves reaches for a stack of parchment beside the till, and I approach as he scratches something upon the top sheet with a sharpened piece of coal. “You’ll want to ditch that black cloak, son,” he says, looking at me from beneath his brows while he folds the parchment and slides it across the bar.

“I’m good,” I mumble, then pocket the note and flick up my hood. “This one’s important to me.”

He releases a deep sigh.

“Wait here,” he grumbles. Muttering something about a death wish, he disappears through the back door that swings to a creaking halt behind him.

I glance down at myself, frowning.

Clearing my throat, I unclip the cloak, then reluctantly drape it across the bar, still rubbing the material between my fingers when Graves returns—a thick, Bahari-blue velvet bundle in his arms. “I only have a winter one, but it’ll do.”

“My balls are sweaty just looking at it.”

He makes a sound somewhere between a chuff and a grunt. “I’ll look after your other one until you return.”

“I appreciate that,” I mutter, reaching for the cloak, but he holds tight.

I meet his cutting stare riddled with warning. “You take care now, you hear?”

My skin erupts in a blast of goose bumps.

He gives me a tight nod, then lets go, picks up the rubbish bin, and carries it out back, leaving me alone with the hungry silence.

Dragging my gaze across my black cloak, I resist the urge to snatch it, gritting my teeth as I wrap the blue one around my shoulders, then head for the door, about to shove it open when I catch a whiff of wildflowers pinched with a hint of spice.

My heart jumps into my throat so fast I choke on a breath.

Laith …

Head whipping around, I power toward the staircase, bunched fists swinging at my sides, kicking to a stop the moment my boot hits the bottom step. Breath labors in and out of my aching lungs, and a fresh swirl of nausea whisks my guts as I try to picture how I’ll greet her.

What I’ll say.

Whether I’ll wrap her in my arms, tell her it’s going to be okay, even though it’s not, and squeeze her until she stops fighting me.

Fighting herself.

Or if I’ll cut my instincts loose and charge her until she slams against the wall, then rally upon her with all my wrath, sorrow, and bitter disappointment. Let her see the fierce side of our nature in its full, unguarded glory.

Fuck knows she needs it.

Another beat, and I swallow the growl trying to erupt, looking at my boots.

If I go up there, I’ll tell her truths that’ll cut to the bone. I’ll spit them like shrapnel because I’m not feeling nice right now.

I’m feeling wrought and raw and mad at the world—mad at her. Maybe even a wee bit drunk. And she deserves better than that. She may have made a devastating mistake, but I still fucking love her.

Snarling, I punch the wall, storm toward the exit, and charge into the night.