Page 2 of Mistress of Lies

The door creaked open, and Bart whispered, “Is it done?”

When her father’s guards didn’t rush in after him, she knew that he had played his part as well. Shan dragged her fingers through her father’s blood one last time. This blood lacked vibrancy, cloying and congealing. There was power still there, but it was dulled.

It was the blood of a dead man.

“Yes,” Shan said, relieved, empty and tired all at once.

Bart dropped the tray in his hands, the poison-laced cups clattering to the floor as he rushed across the room. For a moment he just rested his hand on her shoulder, but Shan continued to tremble. He pulled her close, letting her tuck her head against his shoulder. In a brief moment of weakness, Shan buried her face against her friend. “You’re free,” he whispered. “You’re both free.”

“We’re all free,” Shan said, clutching her skirt. “But we’re not done yet.”

“I know,” Bart said. “But it’s okay to feel.”

Shan pulled away, slipping out of the embrace with ease. Bart didn’t chase her—he knew better than that. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to her feet, to put some steel in her spine. “There will be time for feeling later. Now we have bodies to dispose of.”

Bart inclined his head. “As you say.”

Shan ripped her knife from her father’s neck, ignoring the loud, squelching noise that accompanied it. Drawing a handkerchief from her sleeve, she carefully wiped all traces of blood away, scrubbing until the metal shone. She dropped the soiled handkerchief into a small linen bag—the proof of death collected—then slipped it into her corset, tucked safely away.

“The incinerator?”

“Already lit,” Bart replied. He was pulling long sheets of linen, sheets with which to wrap the dead, from where he had hidden them in the closet. Shan took one end in her hands, draping it over her father. With ruthless efficiency, she tucked the ends in around him, rolling him into the cloth. It was a clunky, undignified end for a Blood Worker, but Shan didn’t care.

He had lost the mercy of a clean, dignified death long ago.

Together they cleaned up every bit of blood, soaking it into the excess cloth they had brought for this precise reason. She was especially meticulous in this regard—aside from what they needed to prove his death to the Council, they couldn’t let one drop of blood get away. Lord Antonin LeClaire might be dead, but there was still a lot a Blood Worker could do with his blood.

So, like her father, into the incinerator it would go.

With Bart grabbing the shoulders and Shan scooping up the legs, they made their way past the corpses of her father’s personal guards and down into the bowels of the LeClaire townhouse. It was a tricky journey, moving the body round tight corners and down narrow staircases, but it had to be done.

Shan was sweating by the time they made it to the incinerator room, and her arms ached from the awkward burden they were carrying. Bart was breathing heavily, less accustomed to such physical work, and unable to draw on Blood Working to supplement his strength. But he carried on without complaint, and Shan was grateful for that. For all that he was willing to do for her sake—for her brother’s sake.

It was more than she had ever expected, even from him.

But the incinerator was there, and they tossed the body in with hardly a care for how it landed. This wasn’t a formal cremation. Shan didn’t dress her father in his finest, didn’t cross his arms over his chest, or make sure his features were peaceful.

What did it matter? Soon he’d be nothing but ashes.

“The others,” Shan said, and Bart groaned. She understood his pain, but they needed to get rid of them, too. Leaving her father’s corpse where it lay, they returned upstairs to grab his first guard, and then, tired and aching, repeated the trek for the second.

“There,” Bart wheezed. “We’re done.”

“Our clothes,” Shan corrected, and Bart sighed. He stepped up behind her, quickly unlacing her dress. Shan let it fall to the ground, landing on dust and soot. Bart stripped her petticoats as well, leaving her in naught but her underthings. “Any blood get through?”

Bart leaned back, studying her. “No, there’s none.”

Shan nodded. “Now you.” Bart wrinkled his nose, but peeled off his shirt, revealing his dark skin. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a whole wardrobe of fine outfits to replace this,” Shan promised. “Though if Anton had his way you’d never need to wear them.”

Bart laughed, the serious expression dropping away, reminding her of his youth. Their youth. They were both so young. “The things I do for love.” With a few quick movements, his clothes joined hers on the floor.

Shan didn’t pause. She scooped them up, uncaring of the streaks of soot that stained her arms, and threw them into the incinerator with the bodies. “There.”

Bart stepped around her to slide the door shut, locking away all the evidence. “It’s done.”

Shaking her head, Shan grabbed her friend by the hand, leading him away from the incinerator. Together, they left the room, shutting the heavy metal door behind them. Grabbing the lever, Shan pulled down hard and released the fire.

“Now it’s done,” she said, as the flames roared.