Page 61 of Mistress of Lies
Her plan was madness, she wasn’t too proud to admit that to herself. It was like a mortal fighting a god. It didn’t matter how talented a Blood Worker she was—the King’s power had been augmented by centuries of murder and blood, and if they couldn’t find a way to tear him back down to their level nothing they did would matter.
Anton glanced up, his dark eyes burning as realization struck him. “That’s why you’re back with de la Cruz.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I was never with him, precisely.”
“Liar,” Anton snapped, the hurt etched across his features. “I thought you didn’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying!” Shan rubbed her temples. “It was never anything formal, never anything… serious.”
It had been their last year at the Academy, when their stress was at their highest, tumbling into each other’s arms more times that Shan could count. But it had never been anything more than two friends blowing off steam, not until the end.
After finals, when they were waiting for their grades to come in. They had celebrated in the flat Isaac had inherited from his parents with several bottles of wine that Shan had sneaked from her father’s cellar.
And, for just a single night, they had believed that they could make a future together.
Then the next day the final rankings were posted, and the King summoned Isaac to his side.
And nothing was the same.
“Besides,” she muttered, “it was just a stupid, childish infatuation. It meant nothing and it changes nothing.”
“Blood and steel, Shan.” Anton sighed. “You’re playing with fire. I’m not fool enough to miss that he wants you back—and neither are you.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. She had, after all, seen the way he had looked at Samuel—so sweet, so innocent, so tempting. “I can handle it.”
“Please tell me you’re not thinking about it.”
Shan shrugged. “It would be a useful alliance; you have to admit that.”
If he isn’t the serial murderer.
Anton made a noise of disgust, and she couldn’t help the bristle of anger that rose, sharp as her own claws. “Just because you found yourself a love match doesn’t mean that it’s possible—or even feasible—for everyone. I have a duty.” She held up her hand to stop him from arguing, always with the arguing. “We’re here.”
The carriage pulled to a stop around the back of the club, and Anton leaned forward. “Fine. But just hear me out—if de la Cruz hurts you again, I don’t care how strong of a Blood Worker he is, I will break him.”
Shan laughed. “Nothing like a display of gross masculinity to warm a sister’s heart,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “But I am glad that you care. Have fun in there.”
He caught her hand, squeezing it once for luck. “You, too.”
Throwing him a final grin, Shan slipped from the carriage and into the seedy back alley before the carriage took him round to the front where he’d enter with all the other patrons. But Shan wasn’t here to gamble. She was here to work.
Holding her head high, she walked in as if she belonged. With her outfit and her attitude, no one questioned her. The girls who worked here rotated in and out so quickly that there was always a new face, new girls filling in, scraping out a night’s wage when it was offered. It was better than the other options, after all. The Fox Den kept their patrons in line—they tolerated no wandering hands or private back rooms. It was frequented by Blood Workers of all types—and the occasional Unblooded with enough money or prestige—but the customers were there for the tables and the alcohol, not for the company.
And if a few of the serving girls or table dealers caught snippets of their conversations, what of it? If the Blood Workers never bothered to learn the names of the people who served them, barely treated them as human, what harm could it do to sell those little secrets to the one who treated them with respect and lined their pockets with gold?
It was a good system, and Shan had missed this work in the past weeks. Being Lady LeClaire was its own kind of thrill, stepping into the games of Dameral and earning the respect of those around her.
But this? This was just fun.
Shan grabbed a tray of goblets from the kitchen, lifting them up over her shoulder as she sauntered out onto the floor of the gambling hell. She was immediately assaulted by the noise—the shouts of the patrons over the craps table, the groans from the vingt-et-un, the rattle of the roulette wheel.
And while she slipped between the tables—between the Blood Workers she had grown up with, their brothers and sisters and cousins—not a single one of them recognized her. They just took fresh goblets as she snatched their empty ones, their eyes passing over her as if she were just a piece of furniture.
But the workers? They took note of her, they were the ones who recognized her, who bothered to learn her face, her name—well, the false name she used for this—and the Sparrow she wore around her neck. As she dropped off her tray in the kitchen, they leaned in and whispered in her ear. As she brought fresh, cool water to the dealers, they, too, thanked her and whispered in her ear.
There was an undercurrent of panic, though, that Shan hadn’t encountered before. For every bit of gossip they brought to her, there was another whisper of fear. Who was this murderer? What did they want? Who was next? How could the Blood Workers not care at all? Why wouldn’t they do anything to help?
She didn’t have any words of comfort. What was another Unblooded in the streets to them? There were still so many others to drain blood from, anyway.