Page 5 of Mistress of Lies
In that moment, Samuel hated all of them, the Blood Workers and the magic, his country that was drenched in the blood of those like him, born without these so-called gifts.
“We are honored by your presence here today,” the Royal Blood Worker continued, his voice deep and clear and gaining in confidence. “For your continued support. It has been a strong year for Aeravin, and we have all of you to thank for that.” Placated by his words, the crowd cheered. “Through his sacrifices, King Tristan Aberforth has kept our country strong for centuries past, allowing us to flourish where others see Blood Working banned, has kept our borders strong against those who would see us eradicated for the gifts in our veins. He has done this for a millennium, as he will continue for centuries to come. But in order to do so, Blood Working demands a price.”
Samuel clenched the fence in front of him so hard that his knuckles turned white, biting the inside of his cheek as the Royal Blood Worker continued to speak, to justify this horrific act. This murder done in the name of their nation.
“This man is not just any criminal,” the Royal Blood Worker continued, pointing a single clawed finger at him. “But a thief and a traitor. He was caught trying to smuggle state secrets out of Aeravin, secrets that would have undermined our position in the world. Our security. Fitting, then, that he will serve his King far more in death than he could in life.”
The crowd cheered, accepting the crown’s judgement, their hate and anger flowing over him. Samuel himself was almost caught up in the moment, in the sheer power of it as they called for death and blood.
The King tangled his hand in the sacrifice’s hair, pulling it so that he was forced to bare his throat, and spoke at last. His voice was gentle but clear, carrying over the crowd as silence fell. “Know that your sacrifice is for the good of your nation.”
The man hissed, finding his courage in the final moment. “Fuck you.”
The King didn’t even frown, didn’t even react. He just reached out with his other hand, dragging his clawed thumb against the man’s throat. Flesh split easily under the metal tip, blood welling bright and red. The sacrifice gasped in sudden pain, but the King already had his mouth at his throat, his teeth digging into the skin as he sucked the man’s blood.
Samuel couldn’t look away, even though the scene was a violation of everything good and right. The sacrifice was gripping the King’s shoulders, as if he were trying to shove him away, but the King held him in a fierce, almost intimate embrace.
Time seemed to slow as the sacrifice’s grip grew looser, his skin turning ashy and grey. It was like watching the body wither before him, all the moisture and vitality being drained from the man as the King seemed to grow brighter, more vibrant, until he practically shone with life.
The sacrifice—the once-man—croaked out his final breath, then slumped forward.
The King looked up, his lips and teeth stained red as he smiled—feral and alien—then he shoved the corpse aside. It fell to the floor with an ungraceful thump, the body curling up on itself.
Samuel felt bile burn the back of his throat, and he had to look away, sucking in steadying breaths to keep from hurling his lunch onto his neighbor’s boots.
“You will be remembered,” the King said, though there was a bite to his words. It was ceremonial, Samuel knew enough to realize that, but surely it wasn’t normally this sarcastic. This cruel. Then again, they hadn’t even bothered to name this man, hadn’t bothered to treat him like a person with a life before him. In the end, he had just been another source of blood. A source of life, drained and stolen.
This couldn’t be over soon enough.
The crowd was cheering, though, for their King. For the one who had allowed so many of them to practice their Blood Working freely and openly, when every other country in the world banned the practice. For the one who had given them an entire nation without caring about the backs that broke under it.
“Thank you for being here this evening,” the King said, blood still dripping down his chin. “Remember, all that I do is for the good of Aeravin, and for you.” He bowed then, to his people, then turned to disappear back through the curtain.
Samuel rolled his eyes, focusing on the discarded corpse as the Royal Blood Worker stepped forward once again, rambling about plans for the country—new legislation that was coming as the House of Lords opened for the year, the plans to redo Dameral’s central square by midsummer, changes to the policies for requisitioning blood, given the all-time high enrolment at the Academies this year.
It was bullshit. None of it was for him, or those like him. The poor. The Unblooded, born without the ability to use blood magic. Those who kept the country functioning while struggling to simply survive.
At last it was over, the Royal Blood Worker inclining his head before stepping over the freshly made corpse and disappearing after his King. The Blood Workers were moving through the crowd, muttering about the news for the year, eager to be back to their lives now that the entertainment was over.
Samuel didn’t rush. He let them fight their way out, following in the relative quiet behind them. It wasn’t like he relished rubbing elbows with them anyway, or that he had anywhere to go. Just another night of stale bread and mealy apples for dinner, a book until it was time for sleep, then another day of the same.
Day in and day out, an endless cycle that would repeat itself until he starved or broke, whichever came first.
He shuffled on home as the sun set against the ocean, shivering at the cool breeze that came in off the sea. Spring had just begun but the shadows still rose early, chasing him through the narrow streets to his doorstep, fought back only by lampposts filled with witch light—oil and blood, lit by Blood Working, fire that burned cleaner, cheaper and longer.
He barely noticed the woman slumped in the narrow alley around the corner from his flat, huddled in the shadows between the lamps. He wouldn’t have noticed her at all if he wasn’t so tired that he couldn’t lift his eyes from the ground in front of him. He almost passed her by anyway—it wasn’t his problem—but he had just seen a man drained of life, killed by a Blood Worker and a King.
He couldn’t in good conscience do nothing. If he ignored her, he knew what would happen—the woman would simply disappear into the night, vanished like so many others. Never to be seen again. Dameral was a dangerous city for those like him, and he couldn’t let another be claimed by it.
Sighing, he stepped closer to the woman. “Come on, then,” he said, quietly. Carefully—always so careful never to let it slip. “You can’t sleep here, it’s not safe.” He reached out, planning to shake her awake, but jumped back when he realized the woman wasn’t sleeping.
She was dead.
Cut open and drained, desiccated and ruined, sliced open along the veins and bled out in a disgusting, vile death. Dried blood lingered at the edges of her wounds, and her mouth hung open, caught in the rictus of her death scream. She had passed slowly and painfully, suffering all the while, and the pain she had felt had been written into her very flesh.
This wasn’t some random mugging. She had been murdered by a Blood Worker, then dumped here like just another bit of trash. For a moment he just stared, going cold as he realized what it meant.
Blood Workers, for all their power, still had to follow rules—only a handful—but this was one of them. This was a violation of the very thing that kept Aeravin stable, a promise of safety to the Unblooded. They were not to be taken and tortured this way, used in experiments and cast aside. They bought this protection with their loyalty and their Blood Taxes, and to see it so flagrantly broken?