Rowena couldn’t sleep.
Partly because of the way her mind raced, but also because of how Slay placed himself between her and everyone else, like he had a duty to protect her. No, more baffling than that—as if he had a right. Surely she hadn’t given him the impression that she was making him a real offer when she’d said they ought to pretend they were fucking?
But no, he’d said he had to act that way for their pretense to be credible. Rowena wasn’t sure why since most of the prisoners had never even seen an Animari and likely wouldn’t know Slay was one unless he spelled it out. In the undercity people lived looking straight ahead, minute by minute or even breath by breath.
Before Prince Alastor freed her, she had never allowed herself to imagine what her future might look like. Mostly she’d accepted that she didn’t have one—that she’d die in filth and squalor or at long last be murdered by Tycho Vega during one of his demented games. If not, he’d order her execution again after she refused to be his concubine.
So far, she’d beaten the odds. What’s one more time, eh?
She rolled onto her side, bizarrely conscious of Slay at her back. That wasn’t like her. She was used to being a female minority among the rest of the Exiles, so this was nothing new. The other prisoners were snoring, some louder than others.
Earlier, she’d asked Slay why he wanted to be all the way back here by the wall and he’d said, “If anyone comes for us in the night, they have to wade through all of them first. It’s a simple defensive tactic.”
She had to admit that was sound thinking, but now she felt strangely cossetted, though not in a bad way. Shifting, she listened to Slay’s breathing, trying to see if he was asleep. No explanation for that curiosity—it simply existed whether she welcomed it or not.
“Can’t get comfortable?” he whispered.
That was the most plausible explanation, as their beds were rag pallets tossed directly on cold stone, but creature discomforts lacked the power to keep her from resting. Life in the undercity and then constant travel had toughened her up, along with marching with Prince Alastor and camping in the wild after the bombing of Ash Valley. None of that had been easy.
“I wouldn’t be any more relaxed on a cushioned mattress with silk tapestries,” she replied. “A sound sleep is impossible for me as long as the tyrant is still breathing.”
There, that’s blunt enough. For some reason, she didn’t have the same filter with him as she had with others. She’d tried desperately to make friends with Sheyla Halek, but she cared too much what the other woman thought, and Rowena suspected she’d come off as awkward. But with this Animari, talking came easy. Since he’d experienced the undercity firsthand, he already understood; there was no fear he’d judge her origins.
“We’re on the same page,” Slay said. “I’ve thought about it and I listened to cooler heads discussing more rational solutions, but I really think we need to kill that bastard.”
“It might require a larger purge.” She wished that wasn’t true, but the unrest wouldn’t end for good until the old guard was gone. Otherwise they might try to make a martyr of Tycho, rally support in his name with some other demagogue shouting propaganda.
No, the movement needed to die alongside its leader. And she experienced a frisson of satisfaction at learning that her new ally saw things the same way. Some shied from violence; they saw it as a last resort, a solution seized upon by simple minds. But sometimes the festering wound ran so deep that the infected area needed to be cut out, and then cleansed with fire to make sure the organism could survive.
“I’m in it for the long haul. If we don’t free Golgerra, I’m never getting out of here. Never going home.” A pause, as if he was considering his next words. “Then again, there’s nothing and nobody waiting for me there.”
That revelation startled her. “You must have friends?”
“I thought so.” From his tone, he doubted that truth now.
Likely his anger and sadness related to the love he’d lost and the friend who had betrayed him. Unexpectedly, she searched mentally for words of comfort. That wasn’t usually one of her impulses.
“I’m sure there are people who are worried about you,” she finally offered. “And who are waiting for your return.”
Slay let out a tired breath. “Mags, maybe. I don’t know where I stand with Dom and Pru. Since I was sneaking around, trying to dig up dirt on Talfayen just before the attack, I wonder if they think I’m a collaborator.”
“Dom would be…Dominic? The leader of Ash Valley. You were his second, as I recall.” Her voice was too soft and low for anyone else to overhear, even in close quarters, but that meant Slay moved into her space so he could catch every word.
She…didn’t hate it. The floor was cold, and her body hurt. His warmth unexpectedly provided some solace. Attachments were dangerous in the undercity; she couldn’t afford to rely on anyone else, but maybe she didn’t have a choice. Not when the task that awaited them was so monumental. Foment a rebellion, lay a despot low? No problem.
“I was, yeah. And Pru was my lover. Until I sent her to the seer’s retreat, where Dom was holed up, grieving for years after his first mate died.”
“But the situation changed when Pru joined him? You must’ve been so lonely.” Possibly that was the wrong word, but she could imagine the hurt.
Slay had lost his lover and his friend in the same stroke, then he ended up here. Rowena didn’t frame the thought lightly, but his shitty luck might be comparable to hers. Not lifelong like hers, but currently? Yeah, right on target.
“I was,” he said in a wondering tone. “I mean, I am. There was nobody I could talk to about it. And it didn’t help that I was an asshole to Pru. I didn’t communicate or treat her well, so it’s at least halfway my fault that we ended up like this. With a failed relationship. I’m not saying I belong in a dungeon over it, and my crap has nothing to do with you, so I’m not including you in that ‘we’.”
A quiet laugh escaped her. “No, I understand what you mean. For what it’s worth, it sounds like you’re sorry and you regret what you did wrong. That’s more than many can manage. You’d be surprised at how many people never feel remorse, never accept fault.”
“Guess you’re talking about the tyrant now?”
“Him and his entire cohort.” Rowena shivered, wishing she had blankets.
Even when the Exiles had bivouacked, the stint seemed downright luxurious because she’d had a tent, a bedroll, a chemical heater, and various other amenities. Sure, she’d shared space with a bunch of grunts who farted and snored, but it had been warm, if stinky as hell, and Dedrick partnered with Graff to keep anyone from bothering her.
Never thought I’d be nostalgic for the days when we marched from Ash Valley to defend Hallowell. We were so cold and hungry that we ate those caribou raw, but I’d be grateful for them now.
It wasn’t likely she’d see meat again anytime soon, unless it was part of some terrible game of Tycho’s. Rowena understood that most of her mother’s people didn’t eat meat, but shifting demanded it, and she’d made peace with the Golgoth side of her nature.
“You’re cold,” he said softly.
There was no point in denying it. “Aren’t you?”
“Animari run hot. If you don’t think I’m perving on you, I’ll share the wealth.”
Rowena hesitated. She’d just met Slay, though it seemed much longer thanks to their mutual confinement. But he didn’t seem like the type to try anything with so many witnesses around, and judging from the slant of their conversation, his heart still belonged to Pru anyway.
It’ll be a test. If I don’t panic, that means I pass. Or he does.
Finally she said, “Sure, if it’s no bother. I’ll try not to kick you. Graff said I’m a mule when someone creeps too close.”
“Graff?”
“A friend and fellow soldier in Prince Alastor’s service.”
“Someone important to you?”
“He was, yes.” My closest friend, in fact. She didn’t know if Graff was alive or dead. The same held true for Dedrick and Prince Alastor, her closest companions otherwise, but they’d always seemed to be…above her. She tried not to dwell on the potential for loss because that was a way of life for her, the pain of always being left behind. The prince had always chided her for wearing her hair loose, refusing the braids that reflected her status as his first lieutenant, next in command after Dedrick.
“I’m sorry,” Slay said, though she was unclear on why he was apologizing. “But anyway, even if you kick me, it doesn’t matter. Bruises heal in an hour or so. Even broken bones only take a day or two, depending on severity. There’s no hurt you can inflict on me that I haven’t already healed.”
Slay cursed himself for making that impulsive offer.
Further, he couldn’t imagine why he was being so careful, coaxing her like snuggling was something he wanted. Or even needed.
Maybe it was this fucking place. He was tired of being alone, weary of dealing with the endless despair, and any warm body would feel good right about now. Doubtless, Arran would say it was an affirmation of life or some psychological bullshit.
All he knew was that he experienced palpable relief when Rowena scooted over enough for him to pull her close. She settled against him, feeling slight in his arms, and he flashed on the moment when she’d fallen into them earlier. The heat exchange started. He hadn’t lied about running hot and he could feel her body warming with proximity. Damn, she was a little bundle of shivers.
“How’s that?” he whispered.
There was no answer, and after long moments in silence, he realized she was asleep. Already. He didn’t know how he felt about that, like she’d decided he was safe as a heated blanket. But he felt her body go lax and he let out a silent laugh.
I never really held Pru like this.
He’d always been in a hurry to disengage, afraid of bonding to her, needing her, before he had his mother’s blessing. In trying to walk the middle path, he’d ended up wounding everyone, himself included. Because his mother had certainly noticed his distance and resentment, the way he avoided her company and dodged her nagging. And in the end, she died without ever seeing the grandchild she wanted so desperately.
Dammit, I wish I could sleep as easily as Rowena.
Probably her conscience was clear. That might have something to do with it. Slay constantly looped on all the shit he’d done wrong, the way it piled up until everything broke wide open, like a trash bag bulging with his unresolved issues. Hindsight gave him a lot to reflect on, but it changed nothing.
I’m still here. No escape from this predicament or my own brain.
To his astonishment, Rowen kicked him in the shin, hard. Then she did it again, fighting in her sleep, or maybe running. Given what she’d confided about her history with that bastard, he didn’t want to imagine what she was dreaming.
“Shhh,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ve got you. Nobody’s getting by me, so you can settle down.”
Against the odds, she seemed to hear and believe him, even in her sleep. His chest tightened because he hadn’t expected a simple reassurance to have any effect on her lasting trauma. But Rowena quieted, her breath coming soft and steady. And that success fed a hunger that he hadn’t even known he was nursing. The feeling flared to life like a river swollen with weeks of rain.
Yes. This. More.
Slay wanted to be vital to somebody, as a friend or a protector. Didn’t matter a damn how she saw him. His hand trembled when he raised it to touch her hair, far too light for her to feel it. Since she’d agreed to share body heat, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. The strands slipped through his fingers like moonlight, the softest thing he’d ever felt. Carefully, he wrapped a length loosely around his fist, and only then did he manage to get to sleep.
He woke to a boot in the ribs, Timms wading among the prisoners, kicking at random. On instinct, he shielded Rowena who was still cuddled against him. Even under these circumstances, he battled a baffling pleasure that she’d stayed close all night long.
“Get up, you lazy fucks! You’re late!”
Since the sixth bell was ringing this moment, that was utter bullshit, but he knew better than to pick a fight with Timms, who acted pissed off already. Another guard joined Timms, and the duo herded their prisoners to the mess, where they got a pitiful ration of gruel and bitter beer. Those provisions wouldn’t keep Slay alive long term. He’d already lost critical muscle mass, and soon he wouldn’t have the energy to shift. There was a terrible logic in this deprivation. Otherwise the Golgoth in the undercity might muster the energy for defiance, change to their demon forms, and run amok.
We need better food. And more of it.
Maybe it was possible to work through smugglers and make that happen, but it would take contacts and resources he didn’t possess. That was why he’d allied with Rowena; he had to believe that he’d met her for a reason.
Keeping his eyes down, he ate what they gave him and drank the beer. Rowena startled him by tipping a portion of her food into his bowl. His eyes cut to hers, and out here with all the lanterns lit, signifying daytime, though it was still fearfully dim, he could see that she had deep gray eyes with swirls of silver. Her hair was platinum and gilt in equal measure, long enough that the ends brushed her hips. A little shock went through him, powerful and inexplicable. With some primitive part of himself, he grasped the tyrant’s obsession. She possessed a haunting beauty, the sort that snared the senses. Slay could well imagine her luring sailors to their doom or driving people mad with desire.
Quickly he looked away, not wanting to reveal those thoughts. They were deeply unwelcome and not at all like him.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“No talking! Finish up and get your asses to the workshop,” Timms shouted.
The guards didn’t always do this, only when they had a new arrival like Rowena. Normally prisoners moved about the undercity with the illusion of freedom, though the consequences for deviating from routine were swift and painful.
En masse, the group ate quickly, were given a few moments to use the stinking holes designated as waste receptacles, and then they presented themselves for another day of work. Until his capture, Slay had never used a sewing machine in his life. Now, he was close to a fucking expert and his production rates stayed high. Dresses, shirts, trousers, he could stitch together anything. And they expected folks to keep at it, no matter what. Once, a little girl had gotten her hand caught in her machine, endless blood and screaming, and the guards hauled her away while shouting at the others, “Get back to work!”
In Ash Valley, he’d assumed that Golgerra was hell and his internment hadn’t changed his mind. The upper tiers hid the poverty of the undercity with layers of luxury and excess, but the whole place needed to be purged, like Rowena said. Some divides were too big to cross with words alone. To end this nightmare and free the prisoners, blood had to be spilled and the ruling class cast down.
The hours crawled by as they always did. At twelve bells, they were allowed a short break to dine on coarse bread and more bitter beer.
I had no fucking idea that anyone lives like this.
In painting all the Golgoth as monsters, Slay realized his fellow Animari had let the rest down. Nobody deserves this. Hell, we treat murderers better in our holds. Not that it was easy to kill an Animari; that shit took careful planning and execution, special poisons and treated weapons too.
As he settled with his meagre meal, Rowena joined him. Once again, she broke off a portion of her food and offered it. Slay raised a brow.
“Why are you doing that?” he asked.
“It’s part of the pretense.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You said that to be convincing, you need to be territorial. This is a cultural difference. In the undercity, you show your regard for someone by sharing your rations. It means you care for them more than your own life.”
Though Slay knew damn well she was faking, his foolish heart still skipped a beat.