Before I can gasp, Taclo yells as he’s pitched forward, unable to catch himself from his arms being tied behind him. He faceplants on the hard stone, blood spills from his broken nose, and then he’s being dragged toward the door . . . and up.
The leash attached to his ankles rises until Taclo is hanging upside down from the rafters of the room. He spins in place, groaning as more droplets of blood dribble from his nose and mouth, falling over his eyes and forehead before plopping to the ground.
“Now then,” Kleora says once the rope stops moving and Taclo is left hanging by his ankles, his head five feet from the ground. She reaches behind her and produces a thin blade that flashes in the firelight. “Let’s try the other extreme. If you won’t save him, perhaps you wish to exact your revenge on the man?”
I blink wildly, my head lurching.
Kleora advances on me with the blade held out. I squirm, rattling my chains as I try to move away from that jagged point.
Then Kleora flips the blade, handing it to me hilt-first.
A memory rushes through me unbidden—Baylen Sallow handing me my first dagger as little more than children, telling me to stick someone with it if things go awry.
I fight back the temptation to grab the blade and glare at Madame Kleora. “No,” I announce flatly. “This man’s life is not mine to control. I have no sway over his fate. I am no monster.”
Kleora laughs. “Keep trying to convince yourself of that. Very well.” She scoops her empty goblet up from the table and wanders back to Taclo.
My teeth grind together so hard I think they’ll crack. I try to keep the horrified expression from my face. I know I’m doing a bad job at it. This was wholly unexpected and has shaken me to my core.
How does she know this man’s connection to me? Where did she even find him?
“You see, Lady Lock, we have been watching you for quite some time,” she says, as if reading my mind. “Overseer Verant is dogged in his pursuit of you. I can’t fathom why.”
She turns around once she reaches Taclo, keeping the man’s groaning face next to her shoulder. Her red eyes drop to mine and stay there, narrowing devilishly, and she raises her goblet in a toast.
“I gave you the option,” she says. “Don’t say I didn’t.”
I gasp. “W-Wait—”
Kleora drags her blade across Taclo’s throat. The cut is so fine and surgical, nothing happens for a second—
And then the waterfall of blood bubbles and spills, splashing down as Taclo’s groans become a gurgle.
Kleora’s eyes dilate as she lifts her goblet and lets the blood fill her cup. It overflows within seconds. Taclo’s face is a sheet of red now, his features impossible to recognize under the curtain.
The chronicler wanders back to the table, sets her dripping goblet down . . . and grabs mine. With a wink, she says, “Your turn.”
Taclo’s body spasms as he dies, hanging, the blood draining from his corpse.
Once she has my glass filled, she returns and takes a seat. The macabre visual of Taclo’s slowly spinning body, pitter-pattering the ground with droplets of gore, juxtaposed to the pristine ivory mask of Kleora’s face and her giddiness, is almost too much to bear.
I’m close to vomiting. I hold it back—
Until Kleora slams the goblet down in front of me, spilling blood over the rim, across the table.
Her tranquil features shift into a wretched visage of anger and wrath and hate. “Now quench your thirst as you demanded, Bitch-Queen Sephania, and tell me of the Loreblood before I lose my patience with you and findotherways to pass the time.”
Chapter 9
“You are my property because I have paid good coin for you at auction,” Lukain Pierken told our group, seven prisoners sitting before him.
His dark eyes glanced behind us and I stiffened when I felt a presence. I craned my neck to see our hooded carriage driver shuffling behind our chairs. With quicksnaps, the human severed our ropes with a knife, unbinding us one after the other.
I looked sidelong to give confused glances to the other prisoners who were also unceremoniously freed by the human. Our chairs were aligned in a row, everyone hesitating to stand now we were unbound.
Our grayskin captor made no request to keep us seated, only studying us with an intense gaze as we stood in unison on wobbly legs.
“Good, your legs still work,” Lukain muttered.
