As my fingers work up the back of her neck, the knight lets out a soft, dangerous sound that makes the blood at the apex of my thighs pound as hard as hooves on cobblestones. I amviciously aware of every place where my clothing presses against my skin, where my feet meet the floor, where my bust heaves into the tightly corseted garment.
And so I think only of the flail in my bedside drawer. There are no heavy silken strands between my fingers, no long, sharp body hidden just beneath the bathwater’s soapy, opaque surface, no perfect lips from which that sinful, husky sound emerged. It works, though just barely, and soon the knight is rinsed and ready to emerge. I begin to move to notify the guards, but before I can, she grips both sides of the tub and stands.
Even in the candlelit gloom of the Vincula, the Lupa Nox is the most glorious thing I have ever seen. Water sluices down the hard angles of her flawless skin, her collarbones sharp as a knife, her breasts small and firm, the expanse of her upper body little more than flat, muscular planes, two hard lines meeting in a V low on her belly. At the apex of her powerful thighs, damp black curls tangle like the kind of bramble thicket that always hides the sweetest berries.
I finally manage to drag my eyes away, breathing heavily, frozen in place. Every part of me throbs, like my wickedness is doing its very best to get out, to puppet me like a diaboli’s marionette.
“You are welcome to try to convert me,” she says, her eyes glittering dangerously, chin tilted haughtily. She grins—a weapon in itself—as her gaze slides down my body, like she is perfectly aware of what she’s doing to me. “As long as I can attempt to corruptyou, little dove.”
Longing unstitches itself from my ribs, from the very place I thought I’d cut it free, and barrels into my throat. I stand there, motionless, watching steam curl around the Lupa Nox in the same way my hands would like to, dreadfully incapable of doing anything but sin.
And then suddenly, a sharp crack of pain explodes at the back of my skull. It takes me a long moment to realize I can no longer see the knight. My breath is short now, though not because of candlelit skin; instead, something cold has found its way around my neck. My mind attempts to make sense of fragmented images: An eye of cloudy haze. A slope of gleaming gold. A flutter of storm-gray vestments.
Black flies swarm across my vision on many legs and my lungs stretch tight across a painful abyss. One of my hands reaches out of its own accord, desperate, locking around the wrist of the monster that has pinned me against the damp stone of the Vincula. Distantly, I realize the purpose of the Lupa Nox’s distraction—to conjure up some vile spirit while I tumbled into the trap of her wiles.
Beneath my grasping fingers is gauzy cloth, death shroud-thin, and cold, rubbery skin—corpse skin, surely, my healer’s mind recognizes in an instant, the skin of something that shouldn’t be venturing beyond a grave, let alone pinning me to the wall with such force I fear I may die. For she is, after all, Fallen Fatum. The last of the Death-Bringers.
“Foundling.” The name bites into my consciousness on a sinister tongue, the scent of rot invading the little air I can manage to inhale. “We gave you another chance to glorify your Lord, and yet?—”
The words cut off abruptly just as my lungs are permitted to fill for the first time in what feels like an eternity. I slump against the wall, gasping for air, and look on helplessly at the utterly maddening sight before me:
A member of the High Ecclesia, Their tall, narrow frame shuddering, limbs flailing beneath Their vestments, as the Lupa Nox—clad in only a long linen overshirt that’s clinging to her damp skin—wraps one of Their pearl-studded chains around Their throat.
She should not, I know, be able to leave the Mysterium-charged copper tub. She should not, I know, be able to face down a member of the High Ecclesia, should not be capable of knocking Them to the ground like a child, one bare foot stamping on the hem of Their vestments to pin Them like a taxidermied butterfly.
She should not, I know, whisper something as she leans close into that gold-masked face, her voice soft and deadly as foxglove petals. And of all things, it should not bethosefour words the Lupa Nox murmurs to her most hated enemy and imprisoner:
“Donottouch her.”
Chapter 13
For the second time, I am seized and dragged from the Lupa Nox’s chambers as if I am little more than a corn dolly in the hands of a child. I clutch my cane tightly this time, though my head swims, my throat throbbing. Other parts of me—strange parts—pulse, too.
Do not touch her. The words echo through me, that ferocity in her tone burrowing into my bones. It is almost enough to banish the deep-seated fear flooding my veins—almost, but not quite.
The High Ecclesia is disappointed with my efforts. Withme.I have failed this last attempt at salvation, my final prayer directed to a God that I only just learned might be listening. My back meets one of the wide stone pillars in the corridor, and I slump against it.
The Vincula is in chaos. Knights and guardsmen are running, shouting orders, Mysterium thrumming so loudly it makes my head hurt. My breathing comes in ragged gasps, my chest burning. I watch, useless, as the High Ecclesian is escorted from the chamber, supported on either side by knights dressed in full mail, as if they are about to head into the fray of battle.
It is difficult as always to tell what direction the High Ecclesian has cast Their divine gaze, but I feel Their attention sear across my body for a moment, and then it is gone. The Vincula quiets, and the Mysterium lessens to a low thrum. I tip my head back against the cool stone, my breathing finally evening out.
I am, it seems, doomed.
A burst of motion draws my attention before I can collapse into despair, and I see more knights coming through the Vincula’s narrow golden gate. Among them is Renault, who rushes toward me. Without a word, he pulls me into his arms, entrapping me in fine woolens, in the smell of clean soap and teak.
“Ophelia, you’re all right,” he murmurs, cupping the back of my head in one hand, the fronts of our bodies pressed together in a way that my mind distantly identifies as unseemly, improper. “You’re all right. It’s just part of the play.” His voice drops even lower, and my heart dares to throb with something not unlike desperate, keening hope. “The High Ecclesia is not angry with you. They simply wanted to make the Lupa Nox think you would truly be hurt. That’s all.”
Tears stream down my face. I manage a long inhale, then another. “So that wasn’t real?” I whisper into Renault’s chest, the words scraping the sides of my throat.
“No, no, love, it wasn’t,” Renault tells me, his lips moving against my ear. “Just for show. Just to trick the Lupa Nox. It’s difficult, I know. But we must meet her wickedness with some degree of trickery on our own part, or I fear we will fail.”
“What do They even want with her, exactly?” I ask, trying to pull away, leaning my weight against the enclosure of Renault’s strong arms. He gives, only a little, raising one hand to wipe a tear off my cheek.
“Let’s get you home,” he replies, examining my face, my eyes surely puffy, my hair no doubt mussed. “I think you’ve had enough of the Vincula and these political games for today.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply, but he knows me so well that he doesn’t need to. Of course I wish to go home. An errant desire to peer into the Lupa Nox’s prison, to see her again, to make sure she’s okay, rises within me—surely just a stray thought, the influence of her darkness. An image of her standing bare stirs in my mind, and I shove it away roughly.
Renault takes my arm, and I steady myself on my cane. Then we begin to walk toward the gate with slow, measured steps. His attention sits heavily on me, and I dare not turn my head, dare not give into that strange urge. It is only my eyes that move, snatching at the barest chance to see her.
