By unspoken agreement, we both head for the pantry, which is surprisingly chilly—probably cooled by Fae magic. I see the way Devilry’s eyes dart around the space. She’s uneasy because there’s no way out, and both of us know that a good thief never likes to be boxed in.
“Can’t be helped,” I tell her. “It’s cozier in here anyway.”
“Smellier, too.” She wrinkles her nose. “We both stink.”
It’s amusing to me how sensitive she is about smells, given that we’re both criminals and our work often coincides with unpleasant conditions. I only notice odors when they’re especially powerful—like the rank stink that Slaughter tended to give off whenever he moved. But she’s right—the close quarters do make the stench of my own body more noticeable.
“I’ll be right back.” I rise abruptly and head out to the kitchen.
A little experimentation reveals that the faucet over the sink has hot water, so I set the drain plug in place and fill the sink while I strip down. Everything comes off—my pack, my boots, my belt, my weapons, and every piece of sweat-soaked, dusty, grimy clothing, including my cum-stained pants.
I hunt around for something that resembles soap and settle on a bottle of sweet-smelling liquid that I hope is safe for my skin. I can’t imagine the Fae have much need for soap. Surely they can just use magic when they want to clean something. But I’ve heard that their magic takes energy out of them. Perhaps sometimes they like to do things the prosaic way.
I wonder if they ever feel half as tired as I do right now.
I find a drawer of folded cloths and use one to wash myself. I plunge my entire head into the sink at one point and come up spluttering because I forgot to breathe out through my nose and water got into my sinuses.
It’s not easy doing this without a tub, and since I’m trying to be thorough, I end up splashing about half the water from the sink onto the floor.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Devilry exclaims, peeking out of the pantry. I slap the wet dishcloth over my privates, and her eyes widen. “Never mind... I don’t want to know.”
“I’m eliminating the stench you found so distasteful, my lady.” I bow to her, water dripping from my hair and shoulders onto the floor.
“You’re flooding the kitchen, idiot.”
“We already blew up a lot of this building. I think a few puddles are the least of its problems.”
Her gaze travels to the sink. “Is that water hot?”
“It is. Want me to run you a sink-bath?”
“I can do it myself.”
“You do everything yourself, don’t you? Why not let someone else take control for a change?”
Her eyes spark. “Control? Is that what you want? To control me?”
I would argue or try to explain, but suddenly I’m just too fucking tired. I toss the dishcloth into the sink. “Think whatever you want.”
She watches me as I pick up my clothes and remove everything from my pockets. Her eyebrows rise progressively higher at the number of tiny knives, lockpicking tools, ignition materials, and fuses I was carrying.
Ignoring her, I plunge my clothes into the sink, swish them around, and wring them out. Then I pull the sink plug and let the water drain while I drape my laundry on a chair to dry. The whole process hurts like the devil because of my torn shoulder, which keeps fucking bleeding. Doesn’t seem to want to stop.
I stuff my other possessions into my pack and sling the bag over my good shoulder. Then I strut naked past Devilry, into the pantry.
The chill hits me like a jolt of pain, and I immediately decide that I donotwant to stay in there. I re-enter the kitchen, trying not to notice that Devilry has plugged the sink again and is running hot water into it.
I want to see her naked almost as badly as I want Drosselmeyer’s treasure, but I force myself to open another door, which turns out to be a closet full of linens—towels and tablecloths and such. I grab a few small towels, along with a large tablecloth to serve as temporary clothing.
Stepping back into the kitchen, I start dabbing my skin gingerly, trying not to reopen any wounds that have started to clot. I keep my back to Devilry, but my body senses her nearness right before she touches my shoulder.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
I glance back at her and nearly pass out, because she’s naked. Every stitch of clothing is gone.
Her white skin is covered in bruises—green and black and purple. The worst is in the center of her chest, over her breastbone. She’s blood-smeared, dust-covered, grimy. Her thighs are covered in shallow stab wounds, probably inflicted by Slaughter during their fight. Her hair is clumped together with sweat and blood, and her full lips are puffier than usual, split and swollen.
I hate that I’m responsible for so much of the damage to her body. I hate that she’s looking at me with a defensive kind of concern, like she doesn’t want me to bleed anymore but she refuses to show too much mercy. She has learned to be ruthless, but it’s not her natural state.
