Charon looked at Yves. Yves was the highest-paid courtesan since Laurent, and he’d thrown the nobility into chaos just for the chance of having his hand in marriage—a step up from being a kept pet, because marriage meant a share of a lord’s title and holdings. His retirement from the Pleasure District would create a vacuum, one that other courtesans would struggle to fill.
If a man wanted to create his own string of brothels far from the king’s control, he couldn’t simply abduct Yves. People like Jesse, the boy who’d set the fire, didn’t have powerful friends to seek them out. Olly was a Katoikos citizen far from home. But if someone were to marry Yves, that would give him a way to spirit Yves away without causing a fuss. People would think that they were retreating from the public eye for a time, and so long as Yves appeared in public now and then, his new husband could use his skills and submissive magnetism to gather new clients to the brothels. It would be risky, but far more profitable than torturing scared young urchins into obedience.
A spark of rage burned in the core of Charon’s body, hotter than the sun that had beaten down on him in the desert. Lord Theodore Marteau had family holdings by the sea. He even played at being a pirate in his choice of dress, prancing about like the thieves who raided Staria’s shoreline. If he’d taken Olly, then he wouldn’t hesitate to use Yves until he was like the boy who’d died in the cells, starving and hopeless, desperate for any comforting word.
“Charon.” Yves’ voice shook. “You’re scaring me.”
“What is it?” Johan asked, as Charon stood. “What’s happening?”
“Stay here,” Charon said, with as much dominance as he dared to use so close to Laurent’s office. “Tell Laurent and Sabre that they needn’t clean up after me.”
“No, I’m not doing that,” Yves said, scrambling after Charon as he strode for the door. “You don’t think it’s him? But he’s been so public about courting me. Wouldn’t he want to stay low? And I can’t imagine him killing anyone. Charon. Charon, maybe you should turn around.”
“Stay in the House of Onyx, Yves.” Charon found the tone he’d used on his way to Staria—cold and hard, strong enough to cut through the bite of hunger and grief. “Plan your wedding.”
Yves’ footsteps faded behind him. Charon kept walking, steady and resolute, his hands bare, a calm, quiet fury eating through every vein of his body. It was more powerful than dominance, as hot as love, as desire, as years of nights spent reading in his room with Yves drinking tea by the fire.
Then he heard footsteps again, faster this time, and Yves appeared beside him with his hands pressed flat to his ears and a scowl forming over his beautiful face.
“I’m not leaving you,” he said, with all the ferocity of a true brat. “And you can’t make me.”
“If I tell you to run, you will listen,” Charon said.
“I can’t hear you and I’m not running.”
“You will listen,” Charon said again, harder now, and Yves stared at him for a few steps before slowly nodding.
“You’re…” Yves’ pupils were blown wide, but there was fear there, and Charon wasn’t sure how much of it was because of him. “You’re talking like an Arkoudai, like you did after the fire.”
“Good.” Charon turned onto the street where the noble houses stretched out before the palace. Their glass windows glittered in the light of the sunset.
Yves fell silent.
Charon remembered the way to Lord Marteau’s house easily enough. The colorful washing had been taken in for the night, and the window shutters were open to catch the breeze. Charon tried the front door, and it opened under his touch. Lord Marteau hadn’t expected anyone to break into his home, or he trusted his servants to turn away any unwanted visitors. Yves crossed the threshold nervously after Charon, and Charon held an arm out to stop him as a servant appeared from a room down the hall. He was a young man, his brown hair slightly tousled, and he blushed as he looked up at Charon.
“Um, sir,” he said. “Lord Marteau isn’t accepting visitors.”
“Be silent.” Charon’s voice held enough dominance that the man tried to fall to his knees there in the hall, but Charon caught him by the shirt collar before his knees hit the floor. “Did Lord Marteau bring a person home with him last night? They had dark hair, like mine. Nod or shake your head.”
The man nodded. His legs were limp, and his feet slid for purchase as he trembled under the weight of Charon’s dominance. Yves gasped behind him, and Charon heard a clatter as Yves must have reached for something to steady himself.
“Where are they?” Charon asked. “The person who came here last night. Where are they being held?” The man glanced down. “A basement? A cellar?” The man nodded, and Charon loweredhim to the ground. “Good. And he plans to take them to the coast? Speak.”
“Yes, sir.” The man got to his knees rather than attempt to stand. “He’s been taking some of the maids lately, when they disobey. Jaz let two out, and we haven’t seen her or Prim since. We aren’t allowed down in the cellar anymore.”
Charon nodded to himself. It had been Lord Marteau then, his cheery demeanor barely hiding a simmering temper, a small, petty tyrant wielding his title like a truncheon. “How many servants remain here?”
“F-five, sir. Only five. We didn’t want to, sir, he made us, we were too afraid to tell anyone. He can send us to the brothels or bury us, and no one’ll raise a finger. We didn’t have a choice.”
“Find them,” Charon said. “Tell them to run. They will not have to carry out your lord’s wishes again. However, if you summon your lord, you will discover that there are people far more fearsome than a Starian noble. Do you believe me? Yes or no.”
“Yes,” the man said.
“Good. Find them.”
Charon let go, and the man half-crawled, half-ran down the hall.
“You shouldn’t do this,” Yves said. “If Olly is down there, we need to get Sabre, the king…the guards, even.”
