One drop under the tongue. Two.
Soon I’m back to content. Numb. Perfectly fine.
* * *
Three days later,I’m in my bedroom at Department Sloth, preparing for my night’s work. I’ve secured two new jobs since finishing up with Miss Hampstead. My first new client is a fawn who works in the hat department at Envy. She’s desperate to learn what it would take to win the heart of the well-dressed merchant she fancies. My second is Mrs. Haywood, a concerned mother of the fae aristocracy. Her youngest daughter is set on marrying a wealthy human who recently began courting her since arriving in Irridae. Mrs. Haywood, however, would rather her daughter wait until she’s officially presented at the next social season, in hopes of snagging an even better match.
Tonight, I’ll be investigating the latter case. I don’t always work at night, but the intel Mrs. Haywood gave me is too good to pass up. Turns out the suitor in question, Mr. Donnelly, attends nearly every fighting match at Department Wrath. Who could blame him? I too find myself seated around the fighting pit several nights a week.
I glance at the clock perched on the nightstand beside my narrow bed—the only furnishings in my tiny room aside from the low chest I keep my clothing in. The clock reads eight forty-five. Fifteen minutes from when tonight’s fight begins and my spying on my target ensues. I change out of my clothing in favor of a clean linen skirt and blouse that hasn’t already suffered from the sweltering heat of the day and the unavoidable sweat that comes with it. Not that my new ensemble won’t soon be exposed to much of the same once I enter the fighting pit. With my fondness for soft textiles comes a preference for clean ones too. They always feel nicer against my skin. More calming when I run my hands over the fabric. Not nearly as calming as fur, of course, but enough to have my clothing chest overflowing with an abundance of simple comforts bought at Department Envy.
I only shop on the lower levels, where secondhand clothes and basic attire can be found. There’s always something there that suits my needs—skirts in soft cotton, lightweight linen blouses, smooth satin. I have no need for the designer dresses with fancy trimmings found on the upper levels. Not when no one sees what I wear anyway. That and I’d rather not spend money on frivolous things. This is why I live on the bottom floor of Department Sloth, in a cramped unit with a single window and no iced fan to cool the room. I’ve saved a decent amount from matchmaking and could likely afford a room on the second or third floor, but I don’t want to risk being destitute should I be forced on the run again.
At five minutes to nine, I leave my lodgings and head for Department Wrath. A breeze settles over my skin, the air cooled in the sun’s absence. It dances up my neck, rustling my short tresses. I reach Department Wrath, a circular single-story building of brown sandstone topped with decorative crenelations. Instead of heading for the ticket booth at the front door where a long line of patrons file in, I skirt down the alley between Wrath and Lust, then around the back. I breathe deeply as I pass the fragrant garden, which is one of my favorite places on the hotel’s property. Once I reach the rear of the building, I enter the back door to a dark hallway. Norace, the centaur working security, half rises before he recognizes me. What he recognizes is his own honesty, strength, and sense of justice. The only true thing he knows about me is that I’m an investigator of sorts working for Madame Desire. It’s a true kind of lie that gets me free entrance to watch the fights. At least tonight I really am here on business.
Norace shifts on his hooves to allow me to pass. “Who are you spying on tonight, Miss Lovecraft?”
I wink at him. “You know I’ll never tell.”
He gives an appreciative grunt. “Client confidentiality. I respect that.”
I follow the length of the dark hall until it opens to the brightly lit main building. It’s comprised of a circular walkway with an obsidian marble floor edged in a black rail. The center of the room is hollow, ending at the fighting pit four floors down. The walls are papered with red and gold brocade while warm light glows from bright lamps encased with black metalwork, casting sinister shadows on the gilded frames lining the walls. Each frame bears a different painted portrait of the most renowned fighters who have graced the arena in years past.
The walkway is crowded with excited guests—men and women, human and fae—funneling in from the main entrance. I exit the hall to join the flow of foot traffic. The air fills with chatter as we circle the perimeter of the room, then descend the spiral staircase that continues down to the cylindrical underground portion of the building. The lighting grows dimmer the farther we go, the walls darker, the mood more excited. Finally, the staircase lets out to a walkway that surrounds the circular tiered seating. In the very center of the stadium is the sandy floor of the fighting pit. I continue around the stadium until I reach the aisle my client indicated at our meeting.
According to Mrs. Haywood, Mr. Donnelly owns one of the private boxes at the very front of the arena. The most dangerous—and most coveted—seats in the pit. His is just left of center, so I only leave the walkway once I’ve located the box I think is his. Instead of heading for the front, I slide onto a bench at the far back. This might be one of the least ideal seats in the house, but it means I won’t be bothered much. No one would dare ask me to trade seats so their companion might sit next to them, nor will anyone notice a nondescript girl staring at the front box too long.
The arena fills up quickly, and I’m nearly bouncing in my seat with anticipation. I’m so excited that I almost miss the arrival of Mr. Donnelly. He claims his seat in the box with three other male companions, each with a drink in hand. That’s another benefit to owning a box. Those patrons get meal and drink service while the rest of us must visit the concessions at the far end of the arena. Aromas of foods from said concessions waft into the air, filling my nose with the zesty tang of fruity ices, the mellow earthiness of chilled teas, and the heady sweetness of Agave Ignitus wine—Fire Court’s signature spirit.
Any minute now, every aroma will be drowned out by the scents of blood, sweat, and maybe even magic. It’s a morbid thought, yet it excites me nonetheless. I clamp my hands together at my chest, Mr. Donnelly forgotten, and lean forward with bated breath. I’ve been looking forward to tonight’s fight for a week. An ogre will be fighting a griffin. Not just any griffin, but the famous Helody, who decapitated the last person she fought against with a single swipe of her claws. Helody doesn’t appear in the pit often, as she isn’t a career fighter. However, griffins are known to have no tolerance for bad manners. If someone so much as insults a single hair on one of her children’s heads, she’ll challenge the perpetrator to a duel. And this is the only establishment on the isle of Faerwyvae where such duels can legally take place.
That’s what makes the pit in Department Wrath different from other fighting arenas. Where most sports were brought to Faerwyvae by humans, organized by careful rules and regulations, and host primarily human athletes, Wrath features fae fighters who don’t often come from professional fighting backgrounds. These duels are personal in nature, granted only to those who can prove to Madame Fury—the head of Department Wrath—that their grievance is just. Unless you’re an established fighter, petitioning her costs almost a hundred opal rounds. But it’s a price many are willing to pay to claim vengeance at their own hands. To see justice served where Faerwyvae’s legal system fails—or to die trying. There are very few rules aside from sound-minded consent to fight and a restriction from harming anyone but one’s opponent during the duel. The fighters can battle to the death or until the other yields. They can fight with magic or they can use strength alone.
My favorite fights are the ones that utilize wits over all else. One of the first I witnessed was like that. A tiny fire sprite challenged a dragon over the murder of her soot sprite lover. Everyone knew the dragon would win. Even with both combatants being fire fae, the dragon had the advantage of size. And yet, the sprite was fearless, constantly baiting him to chase after her, tossing insult after insult. In the end, she tricked the dragon into confessing his crime. The sprite immediately yielded, losing the duel. But she won the war. After such a public confession, the authorities were able to act and arrest the dragon.
That’s the kind of fight that makes me so determined to stay at the Seven Sins Hotel, fanning the flames of a hidden hope I hardly dare to acknowledge. A hope that, perhaps one day, I’ll save enough opal rounds to buy a meeting with Madame Fury and earn my own shot at vengeance. A hope that, if I watch enough fights, sooner or later someone will set a precedent, and I’ll learn how a powerless half-human girl can defeat a queen.
It’s a childish hope, merely a fledgling fantasy that I know I’ll never see materialized, but I cling to it nonetheless.
Hopes and frail fantasies aside, this fight will surely be one of brawn over brains, and I can’t wait for it to start. As soon as I heard Helody was returning to the pit, I knew I had to be here. Based on how crowded the arena is now, I’m not the only one. Even the back bench I’m seated on has become packed. I’ve already been shuffled from one side to the other several times as excited spectators flank me until hardly an inch separates me from my bench mates. I glance down one end of the bench, finding it mostly occupied by young men dressed down to their shirtsleeves, probably laborers from the warehouse district. No one pays me the slightest heed, which suits me well enough. But when I glance down the opposite end of the bench, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest.
A pair of honey-colored irises stare back at me beneath two auburn brows. The man quickly looks away before we can properly lock eyes, but I can’t do the same. For seated next to me, so close that the hem of my skirt brushes his pants, is the stranger from the alley. His appearance has somewhat changed since our encounter a few days ago. Hair no longer in disarray, his copper tresses are neatly styled in a light wave. His beard is trimmed close to his chiseled jaw. His outfit has changed too. Instead of evening wear, he’s dressed in linen pants, a lightweight waistcoat, and a cotton shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. The fact that each article of clothing is black makes him stand out against the lighter hues most people favor in the heat of the Fire Court. His pointed ears tell me he’s fae while the set of his shoulders reveals the same tenseness he held in the alley.
Slowly, I drag my eyes away from him, but I can’t help the uneasy feeling that settles in my gut. Is it only a coincidence that the same man from earlier is sitting next to me now?
The lights suddenly dim, sending a spike of alarm through me, but it’s quickly washed away as three spotlights illuminate the sandy pit. My concern over the stranger trickles away as two gates on opposite sides of the pit creak open, splitting at the center to unveil two dark archways. Silence fills the arena, and I find myself scooting to the edge of my seat. Finally, after an unbearable wait, a taloned foot emerges from the shadows of the first archway, followed by an enormous birdlike head. Next, Helody reveals her lionlike midsection and hind paws. She snaps her beaked mouth and struts to the center of the arena, gold wings splayed wide while her slim tail whips side to side, painting her aggression in quick strokes. The audience erupts in a cheer, then begins to hum with an equal number of boos as her opponent marches out of his gate.
I read up on the match days ago, so I know the ogre is named Murtis. He’s making his debut in the ring after he tried to eat Helody’s youngest daughter. He must have been difficult to persuade to come here, considering the massive sum that will be awarded to tonight’s champion. Each fight’s prize is calculated based on the fame of the fighters and the cost of getting both parties to agree to fight. Since Helody’s previous fights awarded no more than five thousand opal rounds compared to tonight’s ten thousand, I suspect the latter factor had the strongest influence.
I honestly wouldn’t blame Murtis for being hesitant to fight Helody, what with her fearsome reputation. He looks like he’ll pose an adequate challenge for the griffin regardless. He’s a head taller than her and twice as wide, dressed in only a loincloth. His skin is thick, green, and roped with scars. As he circles the arena, he gnashes his pointed teeth in an attempt to intimidate the griffin. She merely stands with her feathered head held high, patiently awaiting the Master of Ceremonies’ announcement that they may begin.
Silence falls again as a fae in humanoid seelie form strolls to the center of the pit, dressed in a purple top hat and frock coat. His bellowing voice introduces the two fighters and recites the pit’s few rules. Once the Master of Ceremonies concludes his announcements, he leaps into the air. A pair of violet wings sprout from his back and take him a dozen feet above the sandy pit. “Begin!”
Both the stranger next to me and Mr. Donnelly are entirely forgotten as the two fighters charge toward each other. I bite back a squeal and nibble my lower lip as Helody slices a wide gash across the ogre’s chest. Murtis leaps back, his wounds closing up and leaving only three slashes of blood behind. Since fae are essentially immortal, they are very hard to injure, much less kill. Most fae—especially the pureblood kind—heal quickly from superficial wounds. The only way to reliably end another fae’s life is to sever their head from their body. Other methods include trapping another fae in a bargain. If they fail to fulfill it, they die. The final method is to wound them using iron, but the metal is illegal in Faerwyvae. The last time it was seen on the isle was during a bloody rebellion several years back.
With a roar, Murtis charges and sends a fist straight for Helody’s face. She weaves to dodge it and lands another swipe across his torso. I cheer with the rest of the crowd, sitting so far at the edge of my seat, I wouldn’t be surprised if I toppled off. I grip the bench’s ledge for good measure. Helody claws the ogre again, then lunges her beak toward his hand. She comes away, sending a spray of blood where she bit off a finger. A startled laugh bursts from my lips. Fae may be able to heal from almost any wound, but lost appendages don’t tend to grow back.
The fact that Helody hasn’t simply beheaded her opponent shows just how furious she is. She intends to make him suffer. As grim and unladylike as it might be, I can’t help but enjoy every minute of it—
