30
HENRY
le sloshes from Carter’s mug onto the knotty wood table as he bellows aA deep laugh.
Despite the boisterous music and loud conversations around us, Carter’s laughter has heads turning all over the bar.
“Could you two pull it together?” I snap.
Bryce is practically wheezing. He wipes tears from his eyes. “All that and then she slams the door in your face,” he says between gasping laughs. “You must be aching.”
I am. I tried to lure Harlow out with food and wine, but she remained stubbornly locked in her little sanctuary all afternoon, doing Divine know what. I’d imagined the many things she might be doing alone in that room.
When she refused to come out to eat, I finally surrendered. Leaving her with the ever-watchful Gaven Pomeroy posted outside our bedroom door, I immediately went to the Havenwood House recovery room to try to calm down. The quiet helped, as did my breathing exercises. The recovery room has become a sanctuary for the Returned. Sometimes the world here is too loud and overwhelming. Sometimes our sharp senses are too much. The recovery room has been the place where we can find moments of peace.
Once I’d had some time to soothe my nerves, I left the house to blow off some steam.
No doubt my parents will hear about it from the servants and I’ll get an earful tomorrow about upholding traditions and being patient. I know we
need Harlow to open up and tell us not just about what kind of magical blessings her siblings have, but also any other secrets that might help us remove her father from power.
But my parents don’t know that Harlow is a Divine-damn serial killer.
After the ceremony, my father said that she must be a blessing delivered straight from Kennymyra, but I swear to the Divine she’s a curse from Polm.
That woman is all malice.
Never mind that it doesn’t look good that I’ve left my new wife alone the night after we wed. If I spent any more time in that room waiting for her to come out, I would be climbing the walls. At least Harlow is contained for the moment.
My friends finally settle their raucous laughter and eye me with something akin to pity.
“Your girl is fun,” Bryce says. “That ceremony was—” He whistles, and I briefly think about murdering him right here in this pub.
Carter leans forward in his chair and presses a hand to my chest. “Easy, killer. You look like you’re ready to rip his throat out with your teeth.”
This is normal for us. Though the Returned instincts have made many of us more territorial, we’ve also done plenty of sharing. Bleeding woods—I shared Miriam with Bryce last month, and I enjoyed every moment of it almost as much as she did.
I should feel proud that I put on a believable performance, that I made the woman I loathe come so hard that her pleasure broke Kennymyra’s sigil. I can’t blame Bryce for enjoying it.
The sound of Harlow’s scream will be burned into my brain forever. But there’s some part of me that wishes I had it to myself.
I spin my mug in a puddle of condensation, trying to breathe through the territorial feelings.
“You both seemed like you enjoyed yourself despite your differences.
You’re a lucky man,” Carter says diplomatically. He looks across the room to where Naima is pulling pints for a couple of men at the bar.
Bryce rolls his eyes. “Enjoyed themselves. The woman broke a century- old magical sigil. I’d say they have Divine-blessed chemistry.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I snap. “And you’ve never been known for being pious.”
“I don’t know. Seeing your wife’s tits might have renewed my devotion,”
Bryce says.
I know this is just what Bryce does. Ever since we’ve all returned—and in particular since Carter fell in love and started seeing in color again—Bryce has struggled between being a true believer and making light of the Divine. I don’t know if it’s just a response to the trauma of dying and coming back, but he’s always trying to sell us on how much he enjoys casual flings, when in truth, I think he envies what Carter and Naima have.
I don’t look up from my ale. “Harlow is off-limits.”
Bryce and Carter both freeze. I’ve been with plenty of women over the past few years, and I’ve never once said someone was off-limits to them.
While I’m sure Bryce’s interest is as much to annoy me as it is genuine, Carter isn’t interested in anyone but his wife. I can practically read the thoughts in his head from the way his eyes narrow on me.
“You don’t have to tell me twice, but I thought you said you weren’t at risk of seeing color,” Carter says.
“I’m not. I’m just feeling the normal aftereffects of the ceremony,” I say.
The two of them glance at each other and drink in unison.
I need to talk about anything else. I am under enough scrutiny with my parents. I don’t also need my friends getting in on it.
“Abusers. That’s who she’s killing,” I say. “It’s not a hobby so much as a calling. She kills men who abuse their wives and children in Lunameade.”
The distraction works. Carter sits up straighter. “Wait—Harlow is the Poison Vixen?”
I stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“A couple of men were gossiping about it—city guards.”
“Kellan’s men?” I ask.
He nods. “They’ve been trying to catch her for months. They were convinced the Poison Vixen is just one woman, but apparently Kellan believes it’s a network of women doing it and the name is just to give a sense of mystery and because it makes for a better story. Apparently, the men’s wives always have alibis, but when they questioned neighbors and friends after the fact, the city guards discovered all of the Vixen’s victims were stepping out on their wives—and also that many of the wives had seen healers for treatment of mysterious bruises and broken bones. There seems to be some suspicion that it wasn’t just adulterers but any man who did something wrong.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this?” I ask.
Carter waves a dismissive hand. “Those men are bored. They haven’t
seen real action in years. I thought they just needed the myth to feel a sense of purpose. I didn’t put it together because the Vixen always leaves a vial of poison behind, and also because every witness has described her appearance differently. It sounded like it was a network of women, not just one woman.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “They might get suspicious now that the killing will stop.”
They both lean back in their chairs, considering it as they drink.
Bryce runs a hand through his copper hair, tucking it behind his ears.
“Why, though? Why does a pretty, rich girl care about the plight of women in her city?”
I take a long swig of my ale. “Rafe Mattingly.”
“The mayor?” Carter asks.
“He’s married to her sister, and he’s hurting her,” I say.
Recognition tears over Carter’s face. “He’s too much of a public figure
for her to take out?”
I nod.
“So she takes out everyone else,” Bryce says.
I take a sip of my ale. “So she says. She told me in communion, but it just
feels too —”
“Understandable?”
“No,” I snap. “It feels a little too convenient. Harlow claims someone gave her my description and told her what line I’d say the night we met. I was supposed to be meeting someone who had valuable information about passageways in the Carrenwell residence. My father wrote to us with the specific line to say in order to let the contact I was meeting know I was who they were looking for. They told me she would be a beautiful young woman, but they didn’t give me a description of what she would look like. They just said she’d show an interest in me, and I should use that line.”
“But what purpose would her family have to start an all-out war before they knew what you wanted?” Carter asks.
That’s the problem with my theory. If her family wanted to kill me, they obviously wouldn’t anticipate me being unsusceptible to poison, but it would be stupid of them to kill me as soon as I got to the city. They’re more strategic than to murder a lead without using them for information first.
“I think it was the rebels,” Bryce says. “They have a great reason to want us all fighting each other. What better way to get us to take each other out?
The more chaos, the better for them.”
That does make a lot more sense, but I don’t want to surrender my suspicion of Harlow. If this is purely a thing she does out of the relentless drive to see some sort of justice where she can have none—if she’s really watching her sister suffer slowly from afar—it transforms her from a cruel serial killer using her magic to pick off unblessed men into someone who uses her power to protect people who can’t protect themselves.
“I’m sorry that you have to face the possibility that your wife might have some redeeming qualities,” Carter says with a sardonic smile. “You know who would love this? Holly.”
As soon as he says it, I know it’s true. It’s the kind of thing Holly would respect. It’s the kind of thing she would do if we hadn’t always been so vigilant about domestic violence in our community.
I can practically hear her laughing at me from beyond the veil. I take a long drink to try to chase away the tightness in my chest.
This grief is old, but some days it feels so close. Perhaps my mother’s devotion to Asher makes it feel so, or perhaps it’s because, despite his gift of returning, the Divine of Endings still has claim over me.
Sometimes I wonder if Bryce and Carter feel it too—this strange sensation of being slightly out of time with the rhythm of life—but I don’t know how to ask. We never talk about it because no words ever feel quite right to describe what it is to die and then come back.
A quick shift in the crowded bar has me immediately on edge. Someone is cutting through the room with purpose. Carter and Bryce turn to face the hooded man approaching us.
I reach for the dagger at my back, but when he draws closer, I recognize his gait. It’s Gaven. My fight instinct turns to fear.
“Where is she?” I ask.
Gaven’s face is all hard lines. “You said there was only one way out of your rooms.”
I glare right back at him. “I lied. Don’t act like you haven’t been poking around.”
“It’s my job to poke around,” he snaps. “I’m one man defending a reckless woman against a fort of people who hate her. It’s my duty to assess
threats and plan escape routes.”
“That’s my job now,” I say.
He narrows his eyes. “I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night, boy. You’re not fooling me and you’re certainly not fooling her. The
only one buying your performance is you.”
I glare at him. “I vowed not to harm my wife in front of the Divine. If that’s not enough for you to believe I will protect her, I don’t know what else I can do.”
Gaven jabs a finger at me. “I’ve watched you—walking into every room like you’re the most dangerous thing in it.”
“I am.”
He scoffs and shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You’re too young and dumb to know the truth, which makes you the least qualified person to guard
her.”
“What truth?” I snap.
Carter’s hand clamps down on my arm to remind me this isn’t the place, but I’m sick of Gaven’s superior attitude.
“The truth,” Gaven says, “is the most dangerous one in every room is the one who’s willing, and you will find no one more willing than Harlow Carrenwell. If you don’t know you’ve met your match yet, there’s nothing I can say to prepare you.”
I know that’s not true. She trusts Kellan and Aidia, and maybe that bartender she was whispering with back in Lunameade. Perhaps there’s no one she trusts entirely, but there are ways to know some of her. I don’t need to have her in totality. I just need enough to drive a wedge between her and her family.
“Then why do I know about her scar?” I ask.
As soon as the question slips from my lips, I wish I could haul it back. I just surrendered every bit of progress I made with her for the sake of proving something to her bodyguard. He’ll tell her what I said and she will lock herself back up like the vault she is.
Gaven’s dark eyes burn into me as if he knows me for exactly who I am.
Someone not to be trusted. Someone who wants to use the woman he’s been sent to protect.
He shakes his head and laughs. “You were bound to see it eventually.
What’s more pressing than your ego is that she’s already slipped out because you were more concerned with me knowing the layout of your manor than keeping her safe.”
I hold my hands up, chastened by the truth. “There’s a passageway from my room. I didn’t show it to her, and it’s well-hidden, so I didn’t have reason to believe she would find it.” I shake my head. “Where would she go? She
was annoyed I wouldn’t let her go for a run today—maybe she tried to do that?”
Gaven frowns. “She only ran occasionally at night back in Lunameade and only because she knew the territory well. I swear she could sprint through those streets blindfolded. She’s more of a morning runner, though, and I don’t think she’d try for the first time at night here. She can be reckless, but that would be a lot even for her.”
I lean in close to whisper. “Well, I have no idea. I gave her a safe room as part of her wedding gift. No one can get into it but her, and she used it as a way to hide from me all afternoon.”
Gaven’s mouth twitches. “Did you mention anyone? Anywhere important?”
I shake my head. “We were in our room all day. The only place I took her was the art gallery.”
Carter and Bryce both whip their heads around to look at me.
“You took her to the gallery?” Bryce asks at the same time Carter says, “The sculptures or the paintings?”
I hold up a hand to brace against their questions. “Don’t read into it. She wanted to go for a run. It was the only compromise I could think of that kept us inside the manor.”
Gaven watches the exchange with too much interest. He’s far too observant—yet another reason he needs to die sooner rather than later—but the larger concern is the way my friends are looking at me like they doubt me as much as Gaven.
“Can you think of anything else?” Gaven asks.
I pore over everything I said to her this afternoon. The art, the toys. The book.
I jump to my feet, sending more ale sloshing onto the sticky wooden
tabletop. “Raining Star Bar.”
“What’s that?” Gaven asks.
“It’s the storyteller’s bar,” Bryce says. “On the fourth level of the fort. It’s not that far from the manor.”
“And I mentioned the storytellers to her this afternoon when I gave her part of her wedding present,” I say. “She has to be there.”
I make for the door without looking back to see if they’re following. It’s not until I’ve pushed through the crush of dancing couples and flirty barmaids into the cold night air that I can sense them behind me.
Their boots echo on the stone ground in a percussive rhythm that’s soothing to the panic clawing at my chest.
Harlow is smart, and she knows how to defend herself. She’s not a damsel in distress. She’s a Divine-damn serial killer. I know she’ll be fine, but my pulse doesn’t settle at all.
Why couldn’t she just be a beautiful, naive idiot like I was expecting?
It’s terrifying that one heartbeat separates me from the peace I’ve been chasing.
All I can think about is how quickly this ten-years-in-the-making chance at vengeance could be dashed if she’s hurt. It might already be too late thanks to me and my stupid mouth.
