After the battle, the undercity would have been in chaos, if not for Chantisse and her meticulous planning.
Work crews cleared the bodies as other resistance personnel constructed makeshift barricades at the entrance to the undercity. Nobody would be permitted to pass until the resistance was ready to take the fight to the upper tiers. We don’t have long. Rowena surveyed the scene, taking inventory of the untainted food stores while Slay inspected the weapons confiscated from the guard barracks. They had the expected number of electric prods, a few hidden blades. He uncovered no secret caches of high ordinance; it would be strange if he had, as the tyrant had sent most of it on the march with his troops.
Weapons wouldn’t matter that much after they ate their fill. With plenty of grain to bake multiple loaves of bread, mushrooms and dried meat for a hearty stew, tonight they’d feast like champions. There was no need to stockpile, as they weren’t preparing for a siege. No, they just needed to get stronger in preparation for the final rush. Likely, it would be more akin to a terrible riot than a glorious battle.
Setting aside such considerations, Rowena finished her notes and turned to Chantisse, who was on hand to check in at the eastern barracks. Soon she would move on to soothe fears in the former prisoners who hadn’t known about the rebellion beforehand and to ensure things were running smoothly. She took the list and skimmed it, checking Rowena’s numbers.
“Is there enough to feed everyone in your sector?” Chantisse asked.
Rowena nodded. “It’s incredible how much food the guards were hoarding while offering only enough to keep us alive.”
“One or two meals can’t make up for such a long deficit,” Chantisse said with a sigh. “But the longer we delay, the greater the risk that they realize something is wrong down here. We can’t afford to let them trap us.”
“Timing is everything. We’ll feast tonight, eat again after some rest, and then—”
“We strike,” Chantisse finished.
Her mouth compressed into a grim line, dark eyes focused on a future only she could foresee. Sometimes Rowena glimpsed shadows of it, but she feared failure so much that she was afraid to fully envision what success would look like, how a free Golgerra might appear. It wasn’t that she’d lost hope, but optimism couldn’t take root fully in the dry-scrabble soil of her soul. Generally, she teetered between the brilliance of possibility and the abyss of despair, a grimly gray zone where a nebulous ‘maybe’ fluttered with faint promise.
With that pledge, the resistance leader moved on, greeting others with warmth and care, pausing to listen to concerns and assuage them. Rowena watched for a few seconds longer, then Hettie found her in the crowd. She endured the spontaneous hug and breathed through it, relaxing a fraction when her friend stepped back.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Ro said. “Did the fighting reach the comfort house?”
Hettie sighed. “A little. I shouldn’t care about the damage since I can’t wait to get out of here, but part of me hates to see something I built up broken this way.”
“That’s understandable,” she said gently.
“Rowena, we could use a hand on kitchen detail. Do you mind pitching in?” The question came from Kani, who was holding a pot that looked too heavy for her slight frame.
She’d learned a bit on the march, as she often ended up on meal prep in Alastor’s retinue. The others thought they were doing her a favor, sparing her from the heavier chores, and she hadn’t really minded. With a wave for Hettie, she hurried to join the girl, plucking the cooking implement from her grasp.
“Lead the way. Let’s see how far they’ve gotten.”
Fortunately, the soldiers had been too lazy to fix their own meals, so workers knew how to bake bread and make the mushroom stew. From the doorway, Rowena spotted the head cook, who hadn’t sampled enough of his own food to hurt him, as he unknowingly prepared the last meal for most of the guards. The man slammed a fist into the wall as Rowena entered the mess hall, shouting something she didn’t catch right in Nolen’s face.
As she drew closer, she caught the tail end. “…don’t fucking care. I have a stomachache and I only had a few bites. Others who pilfered more are puking their guts out. You could’ve killed us along with the guards and I doubt any of you would care. Why should I help people who tried to murder me with their silence?”
“I’d be angry too,” she said, drawing the cook’s ire from the boy who wasn’t responsible for leadership choices.
“We can keep our mouths shut,” the man snapped. “Yet nobody approached us. I—”
“The last time we brought new people in, we were betrayed. Most of us were executed. It took years for Chantisse and Hettie to rebuild. I’m sorry to those who are sick. I hope they’ll be all right.” She paused to lend the apology gravitas, then soldiered on. “But even if they aren’t, we’d make the same choices. Everyone who survives is welcome to join us. We’re heading to the upper tiers as soon as we’re strong enough. Please understand the stakes and forgive our transgressions.” Rowena pressed her hands together in an apologetic posture.
When she straightened, the cook was staring at her with an odd expression. “You’re the one who belonged to the tyrant.”
She clenched her jaw around a spate of angry words until she could offer a more measured response. “He claimed that I did. I never agreed. And my name is Rowena.”
“Maksim. I didn’t know that you’d come back. The sickly prince took you away from here, last I knew.”
His curiosity about her predicament indicated a lessening of anger, so she responded in good faith. “I was captured on the battlefield outside Hallowell, and I’ve been working with the resistance since then. They offer the best chance at deposing the despot once and for all.”
Maksim listened with apparent interest, then said, “Fine, it’s pointless to hold a grudge now, though I might ask for reparations later if any of my people fail to make a full recovery.”
Ro smiled, her entire body easing. The last thing they needed was an internal struggle when every second counted. “I’m sure Chantisse will be glad to discuss the possibility, once we’ve liberated Golgerra.”
“That sent a chill down my back,” Maksim said.
“Mine too, every time I picture it. Imagine us in the upper tiers, free to come and go. Prince Alastor is outside, mounting an external attack so we’ll never have a better opportunity. The tyrant is tired, his resources exhausted, his forces beleaguered on both sides.”
The cook wielded his metal spoon like it was a weapon of war. “Then let me play my part. I have little ones that ought to see what the sky looks like.”
Rowena added, “And have dreams of their own making. They won’t toil in the workshops like we did. Once we take the upper city, your little ones can do—or be—anything.”
The joy that lit Maksim’s face was contagious. Ro found herself smiling as well, as if hope were a virus that could spread through the rest of the populace, giving everyone strength and courage where there had only been fear and doubt. She didn’t have Chantisse’s confidence or charisma, but maybe her words could help in a small way. She followed Maksim into the kitchen and heeded his instructions, assisting with the preparation of the largest feast the eastern sector had ever seen.
Eventually, Slay came looking for her when she was up to her wrists in dough, kneading with all her strength. She realized how tense he was when he gripped the edge of the worktable until his knuckles whitened. The metal cracked a little in his hold, and Rowena’s eyes widened.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I lost track of you,” he said in a hoarse tone. “You were there with me and then…you weren’t. Couldn’t find you in the chaos and nobody knew. I thought…”
Something terrible happened. Or Tycho took me.
He heaved a shuddering breath and she dusted off her hands before closing the distance between them. Rowena reached up and cradled his sweaty face in her palms, drawing his forehead to hers. This close, she felt the tremors running through his big body.
He’s so scared. For me.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m safe.”
Slay kissed Rowena because he couldn’t refrain.
He couldn’t simply opt not to. Her mouth was oxygen, feeding air to his starved lungs, and when she parted her lips, digging her hands into his back to drag him closer still, the inner turmoil smoothed from desperation to desire. It didn’t matter that they were in the middle of the kitchen with people passing by all around. The only thing he cared about was having her in his arms—that and the fact that she trusted him to touch her when she allowed nobody else close.
That was such a precious gift, one he didn’t deserve, but he’d spend his life trying to be worthy of it. She pulled back slowly like there was an invisible tether between them, and she rubbed her cheek against his. Maybe she’d noticed the gesture during her time in Ash Valley or possibly she intuited the best way to show him affection.
“Better?” she whispered.
“Undoubtedly. Sorry for overreacting. I don’t know what got into me.”
That was a lie. The mate bond was forming, the one he hadn’t allowed to grow between him and Pru, for a ton of reasons that all mostly seemed like excuses now. If things had been right between them, he never would’ve been able to resist. This wasn’t something he could manage or walk away from. Already Rowena was alive in his bloodstream, an irresistible magnetic pull, and he wanted her all the time.
Someone called, “Get back to work if you want everyone to eat tonight.”
Slay didn’t know the man, but Rowena stepped back, heeding his words, so he must be in charge, at least in the kitchen. “Coming, Maksim.”
“Can I help?”
In all likelihood, he’d get in the way, as his mother had cooked for him until she died. Pru had made him food as well, until she didn’t anymore. Then he ate what he was given while being hauled around by his captors, who tortured him daily to keep him too weak to fight. He was feeble as a kitten by the time the Eldritch finally delivered him to Golgerra.
Maksim flicked him a look. “Can you use a knife?”
“Sure,” he answered, hoping it would be too simple to fuck up. But even if he did cut himself, he’d heal. No big deal.
“Then wash and chop the mushrooms.”
Relieved to have a task that let him stay close to Ro, he got to work with a few whispered suggestions from her. She seemed to sense that Slay wasn’t experienced in the kitchen, but as predicted, it didn’t take great skill to dice up the mushrooms. In fact, the work was reflexive and relaxing, nothing complicated that he needed to think about. When he finished, he had a veritable mountain of chopped shrooms, and Ro helped him ferry them to Maksim’s workstation.
The cook was preparing all kinds of dishes, incredible bounty from the guards’ secret stores of dried meat and frozen vegetables, dehydrated spices, and fresh fruit. It occurred to Slay that working for the guards must’ve been hell, making delicious meals that the prisoners weren’t allowed to eat. He didn’t know how they’d resisted temptation, which led to punishment and isolation. The guards also had nutritional supplements to counteract the problems that arose from lack of sunlight. Theoretically, the prisoners were supposed to get them too but often they were withheld or given as rewards for good behavior. The system was all kinds of fucked up.
And it’s finished now.
That thought inspired immense satisfaction. With his part completed, Slay went to see if he could help Rowena with the dough. Kneading took strength, and he had a surfeit of it. She stood close and showed him what to do, then turned one of the mounds over to him. The finished ones went further along the production line, eventually ending up in the oven.
“It’s amazing to think every barracks kitchen is buzzing like this,” he said, knuckling down hard on the dough and then flipping it as she’d demonstrated.
“We need a win. To make everyone believe we can do this—that it won’t end badly. This time, the situation is completely different. The tyrant is on a ledge, no way out but down, and Prince Alastor is bashing down the gates.”
“Perfect time to strike,” Slay agreed.
“The despot won’t see it coming. In the upper tiers, they can’t conceive of a revolution, but anyone will fight if they’re pushed past a certain point.”
Maybe it was the wrong time, but he couldn’t hold the words back. He sought Ro’s silver gaze with his, marveling at the fey beauty that made his heart ache. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad they took me. This is where I’m supposed to be, right here, right now. With you.”
Her smile was like a sunrise on a mountain, sharp and sudden, and so beautiful that he almost shaded his eyes. When she was happy, nobody glowed like Ro, and his heart turned over at knowing he had the power to put that expression on her face. She reached across the table and touched his cheek with a floury fingertip. He smelled the yeast and the gluten, and the tang of the spices, everything that had gone into the dough. Beneath that, there was only the sweetness of Rowena—her warm skin and the pheromones that promised she wanted him, maybe as fierce and delicious as the desire simmering inside him.
“You say these things at the most inopportune times.” Her molten look was a promise.
At least, he hoped so.
Though he worked almost as hard on the bread dough as he had the sewing machine, the reward was infinitely more palatable. Frankly, the incentive for finishing a shift had been terrible before he met Ro. That was why he shot off his mouth and got sent to the box so often. Guard tactics for demoralizing a prisoner didn’t account for Animari healing and Slay figured he’d rather brood alone than break his back for assholes who had no right to make him do hard labor. He’d settled down after Ro’s arrival, not wanting to lose precious time with her.
She smiled at him as she drew back, returning to work with a dedication he admired. No matter what it was, Ro gave her best. When the time came, Slay hoped she’d be as all-in on their relationship as she was this revolution.
Hours later, the kitchen was swarming with personnel, carrying platters and trays. Because they were feeding the entire eastern sector, the barracks wouldn’t hold everyone, so they’d annexed the old marketplace, stalls and tables set up in the middle of the warren. It felt like a festival because somebody had strung up chemical lights, stolen from the emergency caches, and others circulated among the crowd with plates of food, little bites that could be grabbed quickly and eaten. In some circles, they’d be called appetizers but here, the people were so hungry that they couldn’t wait for larger portions. They needed to pace themselves or they’d get sick, and the resistance couldn’t afford any delays.
Slay watched everything come together with a dawning sense of wonder.
Years from now, I’ll be able to say, ‘I was there. I saw it happen. I witnessed the day they won their freedom’. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d never participated in anything so important or momentous.
“You look happy,” Ro said, settling herself against his side with a casualness that made his heart sing.
“I am.”
“It’ll be even more impressive when we do this in the grand piazza in the upper tier.” She sounded so sure, so confident, that he believed too.
Slay knew in that moment he’d follow her anywhere.