Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (39 page)

We should stay with him a spell, Caenith. As dark as certain hourglasses have been, we have each other, and he has no one but ghosts. He doesn’t even have me anymore, my Wolf
,
at least not all to himself
, whispered Morigan, and caressed Caenith’s arm.

Caenith took her fingers and kissed them, tip by tip.
You, and only you, should stay with him a spell, then. I don’t think he much cares for me, as much of an accord as he and I have reached. Be his daughter for a day. I feel that he misses one. And for you, my bloodmate, I shall prepare a den of fire-flowers and silks, a place so soft and welcoming that when you lie upon it, every piece of you will unfold like an eager mouth, and we can finally taste our desire
.

After the wave of his heat passed, Morigan straightened up. “I was thinking, Master—sorry, Thackery. Caenith has a few duties to tend to at the Armsman.”

“Important duties,” growled Caenith, sniffing the lily trail of perfume up his Fawn’s neck and into her hair.

“Yes.” Morigan shivered. “I was thinking that you and I might have supper together, like we used to, after Mother passed.”

“You don’t have to take pity on me,” replied Thackery.

But I do, you stubborn old man
, thought Morigan. Leaving her Wolf, Morigan tiptoed across the turbulent cabin with unexplainable dexterity. She sat next to Thackery, who refused to look at her, though he softened as Morigan stole one of his hands. Thackery continued his cranky charade for a while, pretending that he had work to do or tomes to read.
I’m very busy, you know. I’m a sage. I have responsibilities
, he argued. Eventually, Morigan’s unrelenting grip and the sudden sunshine in the cabin as the skycarriage prepared for descent, dispelled his resistance, and he accepted that the young woman was sincere in her offer. Once he had halted his protests, the trip to Eod finished in silence. Both she and the Wolf could sense that a calm had blanketed Thackery’s troubles, which neither wanted to disturb.

As soon as the skycarriage set down in King’s Crown, the passengers were unceremoniously ejected from the craft. No fanfare or bows this time, only a stern, slicing glare from the sword of the queen—a reminder of what she had said earlier. In spite of her menace, the sword was no more intimidating than before, and Thackery gaily waved good-bye as he and his handmaiden, with arms linked, left the vessel.

“My regards to Her Majesty. I am sure we shall be summoned if we are needed.”

Caenith’s parting remarks were less genial, muttered as he walked down the glass-and-steel stairs.

“Do not threaten my bloodmate or the sage again. I can sense your strength, though it is not nearly enough to end me, or even scratch as a kitten would.”

As speedily as the sword’s hand shot to the hilt on her belt, she found the smith’s boulder of a fist already there, blocking it. He had moved himself without her seeing him do so. She was a fostered daughter of the Arhad, rescued by the queen herself. She did not fear men, not any of them, but she was terrified of this one. Only she had exited the skycarriage; the other
Watchmen were a shouting distance away, which might as well have been the length of Geadhain. Caenith clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Think before you do that again. Next time, if you forget that I am not your enemy, I shall take your sword and show you how to properly cut with it.”

A hint of her bloodmate’s hostility churned inside Morigan, and she turned to see Caenith walking away from the sword, who was sneering.
What was that, Caenith? That anger?

He gave a small shake of his head as he came up to them.
Not anger, my Fawn. A discussion on the order of the hunt. I do not trust this queen. She reeks of desperation, doubt, and terror, and I think she might be as dangerous as the viper in her stare if she is pressed. Her sword certainly is eager enough to spit venom
.

In the short steps it took to reach Thackery’s tower, the gust of the skycarriage’s departure had ruffled their backs. At the doorstep, they bid their good-byes. Thackery separated so that he and the Wolf could share a handshake and a scrutinizing appraisal.

“Thank you, Caenith, for making her happy. See that she stays that way,” he said—a command.

“See that she stays safe,” replied the Wolf.

As Thackery let go of the Wolf’s hand, he astutely noticed the absence of a scar on a palm that had been deeply wounded the other night. Now that he thought of it, Morigan’s hand wasn’t bandaged or even injured, to his knowledge. She certainly wore no dressings. A correlation between this oddity and another that he’d recently seen floated tantalizingly in his mind, but refused to spark to a thought.

“If you two are done trading me like a prized sow, it’s past midday, and we should get you a spot of tea before you fall asleep, Thackery. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, and you’ve already missed your first,” Morigan said with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind a proper bath, either, once we’ve dealt with that.”

I shall return for you at dawn
, vowed the Wolf.

They kissed. A tasting that lasted longer than was respectable, and had the prim umbrella ladies and suited gents of King’s Crown stopping to exclaim.

“Find something else to peer at! It’s love, you wretches! Love!” shouted Thackery.

The two parted with laughter. No spoken good-byes were needed, as they were never truly alone, not anymore. Caenith’s river did not ebb in its force, and the Wolf felt no less full of light and balance, and they harbored that togetherness with them as she shut the iron door of Thackery’s tower and he went off to prowl the streets.

Perhaps, were they not so immersed in their private wonders, they would have heeded the morbid stink and spiritual stain that had settled over King’s Crown. Indeed, Caenith smelled death, but attributed this to an actual passing somewhere nearby, as no one living could surely be responsible for the
unwholesomeness
, the aroma of a week-old corpse left to fart its gassy rot into the sun.

But the smell had a source: a man so handsome and trimly dressed in black that he should have stuck out like a sore thumb on Eod’s white streets. From the portico shade of a manse far across the square from Thackery’s tower, the Raven watched, sitting in a metal chair twisted in lacy designs and sipping the apricot spirits that his host had provided him. Though the mistress who served him screamed in terror, this was only on the inside. Her powdered face and coif did not sweat, and she did not cry for help, as her body simply would not allow it. Nor would anyone help her. Her maid, Rosalie, was surely dead by now, lying in some closet in a pool of her jellied blood, chewed to pieces by that second maniac that had slipped inside the manse. After watching the handmaiden being savaged and dragged off by a man with metal teeth, the dark stranger ordered her to stop screaming and find some spirits. She did
exactly
as he asked: her body was no more her own. He then had her follow him outside. She’d been tending to the nekromancer since the morning now, watching him watch the square.

As soon as whatever he is waiting for has happened, he’s going to kill me
, she realized.

The Raven tapped the table he had his drink upon, and the mistress refilled his glass.

“After this drink, my dear, we shall take you away. Your life appears quite dull. No husband, no children, no sense of taste—this glassware is
reprehensible.” He dinged the crystal. “How unremarkable you are. But your life will end with a
flourish
. I promise you this.”

“That was him, yes?” hissed the Broker.

Between the pillars of the elaborate portico were fragrant rosebushes in which the Broker hunkered. If the mistress wished for the one mercy in this nightmare, it was that her head was not locked in his direction: he was picking out scraps of what she felt to be Rosalie from his monster teeth and either sucking them off his fingers or spitting them into the flowers. A bit of vomit rose, but it never made it quite past her tongue and just soured the back of her throat. Fear didn’t seem to squeeze her bladder, either, and she had never needed or wanted to piss herself so badly.

“Yes,” answered the Raven, after a contemplative pause. “The young witch that Mother wishes us to retrieve is with him, too.” He tapped his chin. “I don’t know who that large brute of a man was, but I would fancy making a move before he decides to return. Before dusk, if we can. The dark hand of fortune has slapped us, my filthy friend, and we would be fools not to slap the bitch back.”

“What if the young witch is with him?”

“Oh, she won’t be. He won’t allow it. He sees himself as a
protector
.” Slamming back his drink, the Raven stood. “Cover up your face; we can’t have you smiling at anyone. And you, my dear”—he carelessly flipped his hand—“whatever your name is. Time to go.”

“A symphony of screams,” said the Broker.

“It will be quite the show,” promised the Raven.

III

Morigan sank into the scalding heat of the tub, allowing it to lap at her like a giant tongue. The whole room was a billow of steam, and she picked out shapes in it as if cloudwatching. Most of her fancies were impressions of the Wolf—his gray stare, his rumbling voice, his heat—and it was hard to contemplate anything else as his river ran so fiercely through her flesh. If she closed her eyes, she could smell his musk. When she ran her hand over her
lips, she could taste his brandy kisses. And as she lathered up her breasts, she could feel his coarse hands on them. These were more than fantasies, she knew, for he inhabited her now. A welcome possession that did not take control of her, but filled her nonetheless.

Rap! Rap! Rap!

“Everything all right?” called Thackery. “You’ve been in there awhile.”

“Everything is fine. I shall be out in a moment.”

“If you say so. Keep in mind that you’ve been in there almost an hourglass. You’ll be as pruned as old Miss Hattersham down the way if you don’t get out soon.” He became nervous. “Oh, I’ve left something for you outside the door. It’s nothing special. I just…well…it’s there, in any event.”

Footsteps padded away.

Morigan forgot her fancies for now, as they would be real soon enough. She got out of the tub and didn’t take much time throwing on her tired garments and a parting gift from Mater Lowelia: a fresh sanitary napkin, which the woman had slipped into her clothing like a master pickpocket. She threw open the door to see what Thackery had been talking about. Displayed on a silk cloth at her feet were two small twists of living fire: earrings, and exquisite in their make. Morigan was not wooed by material gifts, though she could sense the love and thought behind them, and next to her promise bracelet, she had not known a gift so pure in its giving. She hurried to the mirror to slip out the silver studs she wore and spent a few sands admiring the jewelry as it dazzled against her white flesh.

“You like them?” whispered Thule, peeking around the door frame. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

The old man hastened away before she could reply—he was acting stranger than usual. Nonetheless, actions were weightier than words, and she thought of what she could do in gratitude, then rushed to the kitchen and rustled up a midday repast for herself and Thackery: smoked-fish sandwiches and a pot of white-thistle tea for them to share. If this was to be their final time to toast in memory of old, she would do it right and with all the things he enjoyed. While pouring the water for the pot, she paused, distracted by the buzzing of the bees.
Let us out. We need to feed. We have things to show you
, they seemed to say, and in that moment, the gloominess of the kitchen intensified: its hanging cast-iron pans a little blacker; its meek,
solitary window a jail’s slit of light. The feeling came and went like a wind, and the bees settled down after a speck. Morigan shrugged off the strangeness and took her finished tray upstairs, where Thackery awaited her in his study. Perhaps the glimmer of darkness in the kitchen was foretelling of his cheerlessness. For his hands were gnarled and clawed on the arms of his chair as a vulture’s talons, and his face was black and pouting. He looked as if he was about to confess a murder or something worse.

“Thank you for the gift. They are lovely,” she said. “I shall never take them out.”

“I saw them in the market the other day. I thought that they would look beautiful on you and they do.”

Her smile had done nothing to clear up his mood. Morigan walked to him, cautiously speaking as she went. “I could probably tell you what’s gotten you so sour, though I’d rather you tell me. I’d like for this night to be one that we remember till our silver days.”

Thackery sighed. “Sit down, dear girl.”

Morigan claimed the empty footstool and set their meal upon the floor. She knew that she wasn’t going to like what Thackery said.

“Is this about Caenith?” she asked.

“No. Though he is, in a sense, related to my contrition. He is an honorable man. He has come clean with you, and so should I.”

While he took a pause, the bees grew angry inside her, filling her vision with silver spots. Morigan assumed that this was a new branch of her power, for it carried a sense of apprehension, a warning of events to come. She managed to shoo them away, but not before Caenith caught a ripple of her unrest.