Lifting my chin, I remind myself that I am still masked, and even if I weren’t, he may not know what Inana Westwood looks like. My likeness has never been captured, for portraiture is a forbidden art. Even if my appearance was conveyed for the sake of my bounty, that’s hardly definitive. He has no proof of who I am. He hasn’t even seen my scar, thanks to his intervening with Lord Wheaton. With the top two closures of my robe undone, only the base of my collarbone shows.
With as much controlled ease as I can muster, I say, “I haven’t a clue what you mean, Shadowbane. My name isn’t—”
“Try it,” he says, a threat in his tone and a maniacal hunger in his dark eyes. A dare. “Lie to me, sinner. They like the way it tastes.”
Who does he mean bythey? Our audience?
Just then, I feel something whisper-soft alight upon the side of my neck, then brush up the column of my throat. I fling my fingers toward the sensation, but there’s nothing there. Nothing to brush away. Nothing to cling to. Yet it remains pressed over my skin, the feeling of a hand splaying open and giving my throat a light squeeze. Panic courses through me and I open my mouth to cry out—
“Make a scene, and this will end poorly,” he whispers, stepping in close. He doesn’t move as quickly as Lord Wheaton did, but his proximity holds equal threat. So badly I want to pull away, but the pressure on my throat only increases. “Obey, and I’ll make this easy for you. But do not fucking lie to me.”
He holds my gaze for a few tense seconds, then the pressure eases. The invisible touch slides away. From the corner of my eye, I note a slithering darkness receding into the hunter. When I try to look at it straight on, it’s invisible. Then it’s gone completely.
Was that…a Shade? A godsdamned shadow monster, here in the heart of a Sacred City? It shouldn’t be possible, not with the blindingly bright chandeliers or the metallic walls, floor, and ceiling. The Shade shouldn’t have been able to enter the city’s silver gates. And yet…this man is a Shadowbane. Maybe the rumors about his kind wielding Shades like weapons were true.
They like the way it tastes.He meant his shadows. He can prove I’m lying by testing their attraction to me.
This is bad. This is really fucking bad.
“Come,” he says and tugs me forward by the upper arm. I don’t wrench myself from his grip, for he’s taking me in the only direction I want to go. Toward Rockefeller. Toward the hallway. Toward a slim chance to escape.
My master doesn’t meet my eyes as we brush past him, but he enters the corridor behind us, closing the door. Darkness envelops us, alleviated by spots of dim illumination from the sconce lamps along the walls. The Shadowbane halts me in place while Rockefeller continues past.
“Master,” I call out, but he pays me no heed. Instead, he stops outside the dressing room and leans against the wall, arms crossed. His rigid posture is the only outward sign of discomfort over what’s happening, but he is not my ally in this. Not that I expected him to be. It’s more that I needed an excuse to glance down the hall, to calculate how quickly I might make it to the end if I run at full speed. That’s my one fighting chance to reach the city streets, and then…
What fucking then?
“He isn’t your master anymore,” the Shadowbane says. He releases his hold on my arm, but that chillingothertouch returns, bracing my cheek beneath my mask before tugging my chin forward until I meet the hunter’s eyes. “I purchased your contract, which means your fate is now in my hands.”
My stomach drops. If Mr. Rockefeller sold me to the Shadowbane, I no longer have a home in his barracks. No job cleaning tavern floors and laundering sheets at brothels. No glimmer of joy in my dreary weeks as I express my art upon a stage among enemies. No road map to earning my freedom.
I have…nothing.
Nothing…
Except my life.
And as long as I have that, I will fight. I refuse to face death while holding still. I will dance with it like a fucking lady until it strangles the breath from my lungs.
The Shadowbane opens his mouth to speak again, but I surge forward, thrust an elbow into his gut, and take off running. Rockefeller straightens in alarm as I rush past him but makes no move to intercept me. The door at the end of the hall is in sight as I pump my legs faster, faster—
Something hard collides with my back, and the next thing I know, I’m pressed face-first against the carpeted floor, one arm wrenched behind me while the other is pinned over my head. My jaw aches where it’s crushed against my mask. That slithering touch returns, caressing the crimson veil that covers my hair with strokes so featherlight they make me shiver in revulsion.
Then comes a voice, a sultry yet masculine whisper almost tooethereal to hear. “I bet she’s pretty under there. Can I unmask her yet? See what those filthy lips look like when they tell lies?”
“She’s pathetic,” says a second voice, this one cold and haughty. “Not worth our time.”
“She smells good.” The third voice is slower, deeper, and comes from directly beside my head, along with a phantom breath that huffs against my ear. Terror climbs up my throat as I envision some toothy beast preparing to make me its meal.
“Control yourselves.” The Shadowbane speaks under his breath, but it sounds like a shout compared to those eerie whispers. The soft touches retreat. I release a whimper of relief, but it’s replaced with a cry as my arm is pulled tighter against my back. The hunter brings his face close to my ear. “I didn’t say you could run, sinner.”
I bare my teeth, fighting his hold to no avail while the beads on my mask clatter with my struggle. If only I could free one hand, remove my mask, and send one of those sunbeam spikes into his eye, his throat, anything. But his hold is relentless. “Fuck you,” I grind out.
“Oh, I’d take you up on that,” says the first whispered voice. “I like it rough, love.”
“Enough,” says the Shadowbane, though whether he’s talking to me or to the voice, I know not. “Stop struggling, Seamstress, or I will rescind my offer to make this easy for you.”
I huff out an exhale and cease my efforts, if only to save my energy for my next chance to escape. Therewillbe another chance. There has to be.
