My throat is so dry I have to swallow several times before I manage to find my voice. “Father…my father was killed by Crimson Malus?”
A furrow forms between the man’s brows as he stares down at me. Then he steels his expression and grunts a gruff answer. “Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a bounty hunter. It’s my job to know as much about my case as I can.”
I try to make sense of what he’s saying, but the sudden wave of grief that has me in its grips is clouding my mind. My fingers itch to reach for my vial, to numb this awful emotion, but now would be the worst possible time to prove my possession of the drug. “I knew my father was poisoned,” I say, voice small despite my efforts to keep it level. “So that part doesn’t surprise me. But how are you so sure it was Crimson Malus?”
His jaw shifts side to side. At first, it seems he won’t answer. Then he releases a heavy breath. “I have an impressive sense of smell.”
“And you…smelled the poison? How? Where?”
“Two weeks ago, Queen Tris called me in to find you. She’d left the dining room in the same state it had been the night of the murder, cast under an enchantment to suspend decomposition.”
My eyes go wide. “Even my father’s body?”
“No, he had already been buried by then. But I’d seen the sketches taken by investigators.”
I close my eyes against memories of Father’s face, of the black veins bulging against his pale skin, running from his mouth to his neck. With a shudder, I force my eyelids open again. “So you investigated the crime scene by…smell. You smelled Crimson Malus. Where did you smell it?”
“I think you know that answer.”
I do, but I want to hear him say it. “Tell me. Please.”
“I smelled the poison in the pie he took a bite from before he died. The very pieyoumade for him.”
Pain sears my heart, bringing tears to my eyes. I already knew it was the pie. Knew it as soon as he began to choke, as soon as I saw those black veins rise to the surface of his skin. Father had taken just one bite before he began to grasp at his throat, clawing the sides of his neck, his lips.
And there was nothing I could do.
Nothing but watch. Shout. Cry for help. Help that wouldn’t come until it was too late.
A sudden wave of sound comes from nearby—the patrons from the fight emerging from the front door of Wrath. I almost forgot hearing the cheers that marked the duel’s recent end, right before the bounty hunter dragged me up the stairs and into this alley. Now that the fight is over, the guests will spill out onto the walking paths and find vices at the other departments to enjoy.
My captor tugs my cuff, pulling me from the wall. “Walk. And don’t cause a scene. My earlier threat remains.”
I wonder if he’s bluffing. He’s already had several chances to tear out both my throat and my heart, and so far he has done neither. I still don’t know what he meant when he asked me how my magic made it impossible for him to hurt me. It must have to do with whatever he sees reflected back at him. With my mood so low, my earlier dilemma remains. If I call for help from someone I’m not already acquainted with, they will find only their worst qualities in me now. And even if I were to find someone I know…
I remember how Norace—someone usually so friendly to me—let my captor drag me by like I was no one. All because of who the bounty hunter works for.
There’s little else to do but to follow. For now. I’ve glimpsed…somethingin him a time or two. The way his brow furrowed a few moments ago when he looked at me. The way he tore his hand away from my heart instead of ripping it out. Perhaps there’s a chance I can convince him of my innocence.
He leads me to the mouth of the alley where we are quickly swallowed by the crowd spilling out of Wrath. Several patrons stream straight into Department Lust while others head for Greed or Gluttony. The only building that sees less activity at night is Envy, for most guests prefer to do their shopping during daylight hours.
We bypass Lust and follow a slightly less busy path toward the back of the largest building—Sloth. Even with Pride comprising the front of the building, with its enormous lobby, ballrooms, and parlors, Sloth takes up the most real estate.
As we proceed down the path, I keep my eyes averted from those we pass by. I’m determined not to make any new impressions until I’ve steadied my mood with another dose of Crimson Malus. Still, I have to at least return the polite nods directed at us. I’m not used to such attention when I’m alone. Does everyone get noticed this much, or is it only my captor’s towering height and confident bearing that has so many people tipping their hats and nodding? Is this what it’s like to be…normal?
“Fine evening,” one man says, stopping entirely. He frowns down at our hands, and I feel a flutter of hope in my chest. If he sees our cuffs, perhaps—
A warm, heavy palm presses against mine, claiming my hand in his. My heart lurches at the sudden touch, the feel of a man holding my hand. It’s considered far more proper for a couple to stroll with a lady’s hand at her companion’s elbow. Some circles of society—especially the human upper class—find hand holding to be vulgar.
Heat rises to the other man’s cheeks as he lifts his eyes from our joined palms.
“Evening,” my captor grunts back. He doesn’t release my hand as we brush by the man and continue our journey.
“Where are we going?” I ask, part out of necessity, part to distract myself from the heat of his hand.
