The woman’s eyes flashed with interest. “Done. Daisy, show her a room and fill her bath.”
Selene dropped coins on the bar as she went by—thankfully, Augustus had tied the purse to her belt before they departed the ship. “Just in case,” he had said with a kiss to her temple.
Her heart squeezed. She’d never needed to see his face more than she did at this moment.
She was shown inside a woman’s bed chamber with an empty claw tub near the fireplace. From the doorway, Daisy told Selene to make herself comfortable, then promised to return with heated water.
The door snicked shut, and in the room next door, someone laughed, light and flirty.
Selene wanted to scream, but instead, she yanked open the wardrobe full of thick skirts, corsets, and blouses in bright colors. She pulled one of each from the rack and tore off her boots, tights, and the man’s shirt she stole from the clothesline, now stained with blood.
After some confusion over the skirt’s slip layers and stays, and the hassle of hefting its weight, she finally got herself dressed. Her reflection in the floor-length mirror was still a sweaty mess, but the clothes were clean and would help her blend in. She refastened her weapons belt last—the women around here were similarly armed, so she wouldn’t stand out.
Selene wrapped her head and shoulders under a yellow scarf and returned to the hallway. No one questioned her as she passed, and when Daisy came through with two young girls—all carrying full water buckets—the woman was too busy trying to hold her skirts up and keep the water steady to notice.
The bartender, however, must have recognized the clothes because as Selene headed out the door, she shouted after her. “Daisy! Where do you think you’re going?”
Selene stepped into the aftermath of smoke and cleanup, heart hammering. There was no sign of Tomas. She stayed within the smoke as long as she could, keeping a steady pace as if she had no place to be…just a woman out for a stroll.
The farther from the whorehouse, though, the more her nerves vibrated. She had a rough idea of where to find Oskar, and following the crowds would lead to Augustus. The docks would be easy enough to find…
But Tomas wouldn’t be fooled for long. If at all.
She had to put an end to this onherterms.
Selene stood in the creaking shadow of a tailor’s shop, the windows full of outfitted dress forms and a man inside sewing a garment by hand. She held onto one of the support poles as she took a minute to catch her breath.
The wind whistled by, and the wall groaned. The pole shook. Inside, the tailor froze and looked up.
Selene followed the support pole all the way up to the roof, to the building, and finally swept the entire district as an idea began to form.
A very stupid idea. One she would follow to the bitter end.
For Petrina. For every woman they thought they could silence.
Selene pulled the scarf from her head and let the wind carry it off.
“Come and get me, you fucking bastard.”
Through the scorching pain the leather left across his back, a familiar voice called out from the far side of The Crossroads.
“I asked you to wait for me,” Tristan Thorne said.
Augustus raised his head. Blinked away the white clouding his vision. He squinted past the plankboard that kept him from giving in to the weakness of his knees. His shoulders stretched with the weight of his body, and the cuffs cut into the bones of his bound hands overhead.
Thorne was outfitted in a leather waistcoat, shined black boots, and a smirk Augustus hoped to one day cut from his face. A cutlass was sheathed to his thick belt, and a turquoise scarf fluttered around his waist.
The pirate captain tugged a chained man behind him, stumbling, bare-chested, and shoeless.
Mettius Labienus Triarius was bruised and bloody—but not broken.He held his chin high even as his body struggled to stay upright. Blood crusted his thick beard, and his nose sat askew.
Augustus choked on the depth of relief crashing through him. His father lived. Despite the weeks of hoping that would be the case, he hadn’t let himself truly believe it. A part of him had been preparing for a world without his father in it.
Above them, the air shifted, and the presence Augustus had been sensing on the outskirts appeared like fury incarnate. The bone-crowned beast landed on his beam, and the wood groaned in protest.
Was it here for him, anticipating his death? Here to feed on his agony and rage?
The Vorash’s wings flapped on the breeze like torn sails, and its tail curled and uncurled like a noose in waiting.
