Occasionally when a sand stag dies, we’re treated to its meat before it can rot. But that hasn’t happened in months, meaning the bugs in the mush are the only thing that changes from time to time when it comes to our diets. When I first arrived here, I’d have dreams of platters of fish baked in flaky pastry, pies, tarts so sweet and creamy they’d melt in your mouth. I couldn’t remember who or where I came from, but somehow I remembered food.
A longing for something I can’t quite recall fills my chest. I ache for the first time in a long time as delicious scents call to memories I can’t access no matter how hard I try. It’s as though a troop of nixies have taken on the task of cleaning my mind until it’s empty and sparkling. From time to time, my other senses try to muck it up, but the nixies always win in the end. Nothing surfaces. Nothing ever makes sense. I’m always left feeling bereft, with no true understanding of why.
Crit steps in front of me, and I force my muscles to stay loose instead of tensing at the threat that wafts darkly from his thick frame. He looks me over like Figg does, working to spy a hair or thread out of place. I breathe evenly as he reaches down and straightens Tilleo’s crest where it rests between my hips. Thin fabric is the only thing that separates the back of his intrusive fingers from my mound, and I stare blankly at his leather breastplate as he pretends to fuss over my dress in an effort to unsettle me.
Crit’s hand hovers where it will never be welcome to play, and I start to wonder if he’s who I’m supposed to kill? I recall Tilleo’s words from the hashery, and disappointment oozes like liquid tar from my chest into my stomach. Without question, he said it would be an Order member that I’d be expected to kill. Not some lowly guard who thinks he can make me feel small by touching things he wasn’t given permission to.
Then again, I’ve already decided to create as much mayhem as possible before I’m murdered. Why not start with teaching some of these lecherous monsters a lesson in why you don’t mess with a blade slave? A trickle of satisfaction drips into my heart with that thought.
Could I get away with it?
Do I care if I don’t?
I lean into Crit’s hand ever so slightly, not sure how he’ll react to the sudden contact. Crit likes to cause pain. He gets hot at thenoin our eyes, loves thedon’t touch methat we’re unable to place on our lips for fear that we’ll be punished for it. If there ever was a time to fight back, it’s now though, when the ludere and surrounding compound are chaotic, and there’s more trained killers here to take the fall than just us blade slaves.
I dare to look up at Crit’s face. My heart hammers with apprehension and excitement. He could have me beaten for this. He could track me down later and try to make me pay for what I’m about to do, or he could whine to Tilleo and immediately have me whipped or, worse, racked. I’m counting on his need to get even though, on his hunger to put me in my place. Crit’s pupils are blown. His conniving gaze drops to my lips, mistaking my pressing closer for interest. It takes him a breath to feel the blade now resting over the leather atop his hardening cock.
It’s a rousing thing to witness the heat evaporate from his eyes like a desert mirage. In its place, outrage sparks, and his body tightens against the threat it now registers I am.
“Touch me again, halfwit, see where it leads,” I warn, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Tilleo will flay you for this,” he snarls quietly back.
My worry flaps away like a flock of birds as he drops his voice to match mine. If he were going to involve Tilleo, he’d be screaming his head off right now that I have a knife I’m not supposed to have. No, he’s going to handle this all on his own, which is exactly what I want him to do.
“Maybe,” I agree, even though the threat is obviously empty. “But he’ll have your head for taking liberties you were never told to take, won’t he, Crit? We both know how well he tolerates disrespect,” I counter, and a tic starts in his jaw. “Run along now,” I tell him sweetly, pressing the edge of the blade against the suede of his pants a touch harder.
Crit glares at me, but after a tense beat, he steps back. As soon as he puts a centimeter of distance between us, the knife is back in its sheath, the movement so fast Crit could watch it for the rest of his life and still not see where I’ve hidden it.
“You’re a dead whore,” he snaps at me, but I drop my eyes back to his chest plate, blank my features, and once again pretend he’s not there.
I sense his hesitation for a moment, and then with a furious stride, he moves away from me and leaves the dining hall. If any of the other blade slaves saw our exchange, they’re not giving themselves away. All of us stand stationary, ready, with our unseeing eyes fixed on some faraway point in the room.
My head, however, is a mess of thoughts. It’s as though I’m waking up from a hundred-year-long sleep. Ever since Tilleo banished me here, I’ve mastered my ability to shut my thoughts and emotions down. I’ve followed orders, crushed the anger that collected in my soul. I’ve extinguished my need to react, to fight back, and come as close to an empty vessel of death as possible. But now everything they thought was tamed is bubbling to the surface. I want to kill, to wreak havoc, to unleash the suffering that’s rained down on me for the last six years. They taught me to be a ruthless killing force, and all I want to do is use it against them.
It’s hard to be patient about it.
I study the spark of vengeance now glowing in my chest, and remind myself that caution and stealth are key. I could lose myself to the call for blood, barely put a dent in Tilleo’s operations before they cut me down, or if I’m smart, I can cut his legs out from under him as much as possible in secret. Then, when I stand over my Master of Masters and slit his good-for-nothing throat, he’ll know that his empire, his legacy, is going with him.
I ponder that for a while before laughter and boisterous talking demand my attention. I’m not sure how long we’ve been standing here, but the lack of feeling in my feet tells me it’s been a while. I adjust my weight, inviting the sensation of pins and needles to fill my blood and wake my limbs. Just as I settle again, the doors to the dining hall are thrust open, and in strolls Tilleo with one of the members of the Order of Vulpi on his arm. She laughs demurely at something he tells her as he leads her into the room. They’re followed closely by the rest of her Order as well as the members of all the others. I spot the skeletons in my periphery, but thankfully their eyes don’t land on me. It’s as though we’re as much a part of the decor as the furniture and tapestries, but that’s fine by me. It’s safer to be as insignificant as a dusty vase on a sideboard.
The large group of killers and slavers find their places at the long ornately decorated tables. Orders stick together, some seemingly friendlier with one group over the others. Tilleo saunters to the head table, his guests tonight the Order of Vulpi. Figures. The Vixens, as they’re nicknamed, are the only Order composed solely of women. They’re a goal of many female blade slaves here, but as I watch them delicately take their seats at Tilleo’s table, I can already tell there are only a select few of us who would make the cut.
The four women are gorgeous, each of them very different from the other but stunning all the same. Their dresses probably cost more than any of the slaves in this room, and they’re dripping in jewels and layered in products that make their cheeks look flushed, their lips plump and red, and their eyes rimmed with a darkness that looks as though they’re inviting sin. They look expensive and decorative, but their gazes are shrewd and their manners exquisitely practiced.
A thick black-haired beauty sits to Tilleo’s left. Her eyes are a light crystal blue, and her lips are full and the color of a decadent merlot. Her breasts are pushed up and bound tight, and I wonder if she can even breathe in the contraption I can tell is cinching her stout waist under the satin of her light blue dress. On Tilleo’s right is a stunning statuesque woman with the richest, darkest skin I’ve ever seen. Her entire countenance is regal and smooth, and the updo of locks arranged on her head is just as captivating as the sparkling diamonds woven into the thick strands themselves. She plucks a glass of bubbly liquor from in front of her and laughs at something Tilleo says before bringing the crystal flute to her crimson-painted lips.
The other two women who sit at the ends of the head table are strawberry-blonde and beautiful. I realize quickly that they’re mirror images of each other and must be twins. Their hazel eyes survey the gathered Order members at the tables like their namesake suggests, foxes searching for prey.
Slaves carrying steaming trays of food come pouring through the back set of doors. There are more dishes and side dishes than I can count, and soon the long tables are overflowing with options. I catch the slight movement of other blade slaves bordering the room, and I know their empty stomachs are just as enraged as mine is. The room is loud with booming powerful voices and laughter. Surprisingly, this gathering looks more like a collection of long lost friends than a gathering of professional murderers and possible enemies. I know the Orders compete with each other for hunts, but this display makes me wonder if the competition isn’t as cutthroat as all of us have been led to believe. I suppose some of this revelry could be chalked up to peacocking and positioning, but certainly not all of it.
Plates are filled and cleaned. Glasses, emptied and replenished. The conversation never seems to lull, and I grow more and more tired by the hour. My eyes land on the Scorpions, my gaze flitting over their presence like a fly checking for fresh meat. Their backs are to me, which I count as a good thing. I don’t know what I would have done if I had fallen within their line of sight across the room. One of the skeletons turns his head, offering his profile as though he can feel my eyes on him. I hold my breath and watch for any further evidence that he can.
I can’t tell them apart from this distance or while staring at the backs of them. I didn’t spend enough time or focus enough of my attention on the things that separate them from one another. None of their gazes ever search me out, and strangely I’m not sure if I’m comforted by that or annoyed.
Raucous laughter explodes from one of the tables, but I’m not able to see exactly where or why, because a frail house slave steps into my line of sight and hands me a glass carafe.
“You need to go down to the cellar and fill this up,” she commands, her voice wobbly like she’s not used to being the one to give orders.
