Absolved of sin, freed from aging and death, the Sinless reign over humanity as the purest of us all. Since they are the only beings who don’t attract Shades, they are above reproach.
My jaw tightens. I lift my gaze from the puncture wounds on the woman’s neck to the bloodstained lips of the Sinless male. Like the musician, he wears no mask, revealing his sharp cheekbones and empty blue eyes, his golden hair that falls over his forehead. He has no reason to hide who he is or what he does. No reason to feed from his sacrifice in private. He can claim who he wants as his blood sourceand force them to consume his blood in turn, making them his obedient thralls.
Mr. Rockefeller welcomes his guests and announces the start of tonight’s entertainment. Forcing my attention away from the Sinless and his thrall, I stride to an empty marble box, lifting the hem of my robe as I step up on it. Throughout the room, my companions do the same, some with musical instruments, others holding paintbrushes, sketchbooks, or other artistic tools. A few are empty-handed like me, though I won’t remain so for long.
Clasping my fingers at my waist, I stand tall. Pretend to be fearless as I make myself a target of interest. Despite the anonymity my mask provides, I always feel naked during this part. Too seen. Too vulnerable. But I refuse to let it show.
Mr. Rockefeller weaves through the crowd, whispering temptations to our patrons.
The Blade juggles knives without drawing a single bead of blood.
The Bard has the scarred hands of a killer yet the voice of an angel.
The Lover waltzes like a prince from the forgotten faerytales of old.
The Harlot has thighs as smooth as silk and a pen that will draw you between them.
The Seamstress stitches a tale of horror and hope that will tug on your heartstrings.
None of us go by our true names, not even with one another. Long gone is Inana Westwood, replaced by the Seamstress. Thanks to the gossip my master spreads, a small audience soon grows around me, hungry for the Seamstress’s fare.
My patrons maintain a modest distance, bodies angled slightly away as if they fear they’ll catch my vileness by proximity alone. If they were truly worried, they wouldn’t have come to the Wretched Lair. In truth, their disgust is feigned. I can see the excitement that flashes behind their masks, the anticipation that dances in the shivers that roll through their beautifully clad bodies. They’re as thirsty as the Sinless, though not for blood. As hungry as the Shades, though not for flesh.
The harpist’s tune slows, and our patrons make their final selections. Some attendees keep to the walls to more convincinglymaintain an air of indifference, like the Sinless male, who hasn’t left his chair—thank the gods. I hazard a glance his way, a ball of tension easing from my shoulders. So long as he keeps to himself, I can give my performance my all. Otherwise, I would have to walk a fine line between entertaining my audience and remaining unmemorable. It’s the most talented ones the Sinless seem to favor on their rare visits to the Wretched Lair.
My heart falls as I lower my eyes to the harpist once more. Her smile is so peaceful, her gaze so empty. What does it feel like to be drunk on a Sinless’s blood? Is there a part of her that remains lucid, slamming helplessly against the cage of her mind? Is that the part of her that continues to play so well, her only act of rebellion while the rest of her body obeys?
I don’t want to know. Only someone in her position could answer that question, and I would never wish her fate upon myself. Perhaps it’s selfish to be grateful that I’m not her, but outlaws don’t survive this long by being selfless.
As the Sinless lowers his lips, pressing sharp canines to the gaping bite marks on his thrall’s neck, his eyes lift and lock on mine. Or perhaps I only imagine they do. Surely he can’t see my eyes from where he sits. I tear my gaze away. Just as quickly, the harpist’s song cuts short. My pulse hammers in the wake of her silenced tune.
She might not be dead,I tell myself. She could have temporarily lost consciousness from blood loss. Not all Sinless drain their sacrifices to death. Some keep pets.
Not all Sinless stop at drinking blood,my darkest side whispers back.
I resist the urge to rub the scar on my chest, hidden beneath my robe, and remind myself why this is all worth the risk. Why I will choose to return here, even after I’ve bought out my contract.
Because this is my best chance at funding my escape from the continent.
And the one way I can satisfy my darkest longing.
Gathering a bracing breath, I lower my eyes to the audience that surrounds my tiny marble stage.
“Mine is a story of a woman who lost her heart,” I say, my wistful tone barely carrying over the din that has risen as each performerstarts to spin their craft. Unimpressed eyes droop behind their masks, my patrons second-guessing whether they chose the right performer. An intentional diversion on my part, as I loosen the top closures of my robe. Then I claw my fingers beneath the garment, letting the front sag open enough to reveal the puckered line of flesh that runs from my sternum to the upper curve of my breast.
My audience’s eyes widen on seeing my jagged scar. Their interest is piqued.
I lower my voice to a harsh rasp.
“Mine is a story of a woman who lost her heart,” I repeat, more sinister this time.
From beneath my robe I extract the still-beating organ in question.
“Mine is a tale of the treachery of love.”
Chapter Two
Inana
