They all murmur about being loved, but they really mean being wanted. When I was younger, I was just like them.
Being wanted is the way out, a ticket that will carry them beyond their family home to a house they run, their own haven in a bustling, walled-off city. They don’t know the way want sours into control. They’ve not seen how men use wanting to excuse their violence. They haven’t seen the things I have.
I don’t dream of being wanted anymore. I’d rather be feared.
I want eyes wide and full of terror as I whisper the name of the woman who sentenced them to death for their crimes. There’s always a moment of shock as the poison spreads through their bodies, but it quickly turns to a bargaining, choked “I’m sorry.”
They never mean it. Sorry is a thing people feel in their hearts—a regret born of realizing a wrong and wanting to repent.
They’re not sorry for the harm they’ve done. They’re sorry they’ve been caught.
I duck behind the curtain at the back of the bar, and the woman at the table jumps. I sit down across from her.
From what I can see under her hood, she’s young and pretty, with dark eyes and smooth brown skin complemented by a light blue cloak. One look at the hunch of her shoulders and I know she’s my client even without the purple ribbon on her wrist and Bea’s confirmation.
For a moment, she just stares at me, her eyes wide in fear and doubt.
“Miss…Vixen?”
None of these women suspect that the person helping them is the youngest Carrenwell daughter, but they like to have something to call me. They’ve nicknamed me the Poison Vixen on account of the almost-empty vials I leave at every scene wrapped in a small purple ribbon. The clues have become my signature, and I’ve left a trace of a different poison in each one to throw Kellan off my trail, since he and the rest of my family think I only have access to a singular poison.
“No names, please, except your intended target,” I say.
The woman withers, nodding in the shrinking way that only women who have taken regular beatings do. I can practically feel the poison pulse beneath my skin as my anger rises. I take a long pull of ale, hoping to calm the burning in my lips.
“Go on, tell me your story,” I continue.
Her eyes dart around the bar before she tips her hood back slightly. Without the shadow of her hood, I can see a bruise around her right eye and an older fading one along her jaw. She shifts the clasp of her cloak so I can see dark blue fingerprints dotting her throat.
“It’s getting worse,” she says in a harsh whisper. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt, but last week when he did this,” she gestures to her neck, “my vision went so dim I thought he was going to kill me. And my oldest jumped in and Ron put a beating on him too. I cannot watch the pattern repeat with them. I have three children, miss. Please.”
I study her closely. There’s a natural cadence that most victims have, a line they go up to where the words don’t seem to come and I can hear what’s unsaid in the silence. The fear is bigger than words, and that’s something I understand.
But this woman speaks it all and leaves nothing unsaid.
She slips her hand under the table, dumping a heavy pouch into my lap.
My eyes dart to hers. “This is too much.”
She shakes her head, tears forming in her eyes. “I swear it’s not. I will do whatever I must to keep my children safe. Put it toward another woman who can’t afford your help.”
I press my lips together. I only charge a fee to those who can afford to pay something. I donate most of it to women who need support after I dispose of their abusers, or to relocate young girls who need to escape their violent parental homes.
But this woman doesn’t seem wealthy enough to afford so much coin. Warning bells ring in my head.
“What about your children? How can you afford to sacrifice so much?” I ask.
The woman hesitates. “Mabel at Ink and Willow told me that your time is largely donated. I won’t ask how you can afford that if you don’t ask me how I afforded this.”
I nod. Mabel is an excellent judge of character and a trusted part of our network. I could postpone until tomorrow and check with her in the morning to be sure.
I tie the coin purse to my belt. “All right. Where will your husband be tomorrow night?”
The woman’s eyes go wide. Now I see the raw desperation in her face. She’s truly afraid. “Oh no, miss. Please. I already took a huge risk just being here. If it doesn’t happen tonight, he’ll find out I had a neighbor watch the kids. Worse, I had to follow him to find out where he’ll be. I doubt I could do it again tomorrow without getting caught.”
I hold up my hands. “Okay, calm down. I’ll do it. Just tell me where to find him and what he looks like.”
“He went to Heartless Haven Pub with some friends. They’re thick as thieves, but be careful of them as well. He has dark hair and olive skin, and eyes like a dark blue stormy sky. You’ll know him by his coat, though. It’s finely made, dark navy with gold leaf embroidery on the lapel. When we met, he told me the stars had nothing on my eyes and gave me a rose. He has such easy charm, but don’t be fooled,” she says bitterly.
