“I was born there,” Calvin says. “My family was middle class, desperate to rise to the gentry. If they’d known their chance would come courtesy of my scraped knee, I think they would have shoved me onto the sidewalk themselves rather than wait for a newsboy to do it by accident. For the relentless flow of my blood caught the eye of Lady Gertrude. Between stanching my wound, scolding me for causing a scene, and begging Lady Gertrude’s forgiveness for inconveniencing her day with my appalling display, it took them a while to note the woman wasn’t upset; she was fascinated. One financial transaction later, I was hers.
“Gertrude took me to her manor, introduced me to her other dedicated blood sources—all young boys—and told me to call her Mother from then on. For six years she fed from me, then healed my wounds with a sip of her blood. She was my addiction, my master, and my mother. A more loving parent than either of mine had been. Until I came of age.”
Calvin’s eyes go unfocused. “Lady Gertrude didn’t like when her sources aged, and I’d already outlasted many who’d come before me. As quickly as she’d brought me into her home, the woman I’d called Mother for six years discarded me on the streets of Tarun the day I turned eighteen.”
My stomach turns with rage. Who takes in a mistreated young boy, cares for him, then discards him for such a petty reason as aging? That’s our perfect Sinless for you. Paragons of virtue. Incapable of sin. If that kind of cruelty isn’t a sin, what the hell is it? My fingers curl into fists as Calvin continues.
“My parents didn’t want me back. They’d been living pampered lives, thanks to Gertrude’s generous compensation. If I’d lost her favor, it was my fault, and they wanted nothing to do with me, fearing any association might send them back to the middle class. I wish I could say I was heartbroken, but I was more preoccupied with my craving for Mother’s blood. I returned to her manor, cried at thegates. I cut my palm and begged her to drink from me. The rest is hazy in my mind, as I was far from lucid by then. All I know is I eventually made my way to the fringes of the city and tried my luck at the brothels. No one wanted a discarded thrall, especially one in the throes of withdrawal, and the last person to reject me threw me physically from the premises.
“I sustained an internal injury, something that greatly surpassed a small cut or anything that could be treated by normal means. Even surgery would have been too great a risk, and none of the passersby were keen on summoning a healer. Then Dominic found me. His blood saved my life and helped release me from the call of Mother’s blood. Not every discarded thrall is so lucky. Even those without serious medical conditions like me wind up dead from withdrawal. Dom saved my life, and I’ve been by his side ever since, about two years now.”
My eyes flick toward Dominic’s sleeping form, something softening in my chest. I still don’t fully trust him or his promise, but his arrangement with Calvin seems genuine after all. That doesn’t change what he is. A Shadowbane’s sole objective, aside from hunting Shades and claiming bounties, is proving himself worthy of being made full Sinless. Regardless of whatever good he’s done, he seeks to be one of them. Seeks to be among the ranks of cruel immortals whose every wicked action is vindicated by having been Absolved of sin and turned into living gods.
“What about you?” Calvin says, gaze landing on each of us in turn. “How did you end up as performers at the Wretched Lair? I’m not privy to the finer workings of Dom’s business partnerships, but I know what kind of people Rockefeller recruits.”
“You mean purchases from jailhouses,” I deadpan.
Calvin shrugs. “Sure. How did you become, you know…outlaws?” Excitement flashes in his eyes as he says the last part.
I’m surprised when Harlow answers without hesitation. “Murder.”
“Murder,” Bard echoes.
Calvin nods along as if we’re discussing our favorite colors before turning an expectant look to me.
“Treason,” I finally say.
“Nice, nice,” Calvin says, nodding more. He glances at each of us again, then flourishes his hand. “And…?”
“And what?” I say.
“I want to know more about the murder, murder, and treason. I didn’t ask what you were accused of. I asked how youbecameoutlaws.”
Harlow scoffs. “Why would we tell you?”
“I just bared my soul,” he says, placing a hand over his heart in an exaggerated manner. “I won’t demand the same in return, but wouldn’t it feel nice to tell the truth and have someone listen for once? Someone who will believe your side of the story?”
“How do you know my side is any better than the other?” Harlow says.
“I don’t.” Calvin’s lips peel into a crooked grin. “And it’s just as good if it isn’t, love.”
They hold each other’s stare for a moment. Harlow’s expression is cold, while Calvin’s borders on flirtatious. I almost feel like I should excuse myself and let them finish this conversation on their own, but the thought of stepping away from the fire eliminates that idea.
“Fine.” Harlow speaks in a dry, dismissive tone. “I was sold off in marriage to a respected lord in my village. He was in line to eventually be made Sinless after a few more years of proving his devoutness. Better yet, he was recently widowed, which made him the ultimate prospect for every family seeking connections. I was fifteen and too young for marriage, but my family didn’t give a shit. In his benevolence, he promised he wouldn’t lay a hand on me until I came of age. What he failed to promise, however, was that his sons wouldn’t touch me either, or that he’d care if they did. Earlier this year, I decided I’d had enough and laced every meal, every drink, with a sedative. Then I ordered the servants out of the manor and drenched every doorway in oil. I struck a match and watched that manor burn until dawn.”
Calvin’s jaw is slack while his eyes dance with fascination.
She tilts her head with an innocent smile. “Whenever I smell roasting meat, I remember that night with great fondness.”
It seems to take Calvin no small amount of effort to tear his eyes away from Harlow to address Bard next. “How about you?”
Bard doesn’t look up from the fire or utter a word. The slow shakeof his head paired with his somber expression says enough. Whatever he’s been through, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Calvin takes the hint, giving him an understanding nod.
Which, unfortunately, means I’m next.
“Inana,” Calvin says. “Lady of high treason, how might you have gotten that dreadful scar?”
My hand reflexively moves to my chest, where my cloak has parted to reveal the puckered line of flesh above my bodice. I open my mouth, but Harlow speaks first.
