Page 37 of Chasing the Night
Chapter Fourteen
The Games We Play
Ender
Things were sticky for a few days. I kept an eye on the ever-boiling tempers and did my best to avoid the inevitable blow ups that emotion of any kind inspired in House Krypt. I wanted to scream, to pummel and stab. I needed something up close and personal.
Every time I allowed myself to grow idle, my mind returned to mull over the desperation I had seen and ignored in Reverie’s blue eyes I was desperate to free myself of the guilt, anger, and sadness that was slowly drowning me. I knew better than to linger around the Villa.
Atticus’ bawdy laughter exploded from the parlor and Icarus’ muffled tone followed. A door slammed in response. Not even bothering to see the cause of the upset, I hurriedly took my leave. I hadn’t slept without the help of the Nirvana Root since I’d heard the news. Cognac and the sweet surrender of the root had been my only intake. My hands shook, and I could feel the heaviness beneath my eyes. Sniffing, I rolled my collar up as best I could and kept my head down for the rest of the journey to my surgery.
All it took was a whiff of herbs and sanitized surfaces to melt half my stress away.
Get a grip, Ender, get a fucking grip.
But I couldn’t. She wasn’t there to grab anymore. I closed my eyes and exhaled, forcing myself to concentrate. When I opened them, the first thing my attention landed on was the fucking operating table.
How many bodies had I examined and ruled over? Somebody, somewhere had laid her on a table… The thought didn’t have time to register the sting it should have. No one examined her body. I was willing to bet, my entire freedom all over again… no one bothered to “recover it”.
The moment the sea swallowed her she had lost her worth. In the eyes of House Krypt, she was just another Iron Inlet slave that had been used as a tool.
My jaw set, and I tried to tell myself to be calm. There was no evidence anyone had harmed her. She was distraught and a silly girl with too many feelings…
You’re a man who has seen too much, and now your mind anticipates darkness at every fucking corner, I told myself.
Another breath and I managed to open my eyes. A large, hulking figure shrouded in black passed my window. I knew at once it was Messiah. I’d seen him wear that very cloak a hundred times. I’d also witness what he left in the shadows when his fuse ran so dangerously short.
He’d came to snap a neck or few and was moving like a fucking cannon to do it. I backed away from the door, fully expecting him to barge in and try to kill me. But why would he? He didn’t know I had forced her onto the boat. No one did. Except me, and my fucking conscience.
I grabbed the window, threw it open and took a few welcoming breaths of the crisp evening air. It immediately assaulted my senses enough that I could only focus on the here and now. Right now, Chalice was creeping along the shadows on the opposite side of the street. Her long legs made her glide like the Painted Ladies, but every time she scampered across the torch-lit street, her long curtain of black hair gave her away.
I hadn’t seen her like that since her first day in Rochambeau. Isabella would have a stroke if she saw her hair so free and scandalous. And in public, too… I couldn’t help the approving laugh that quietly escaped me. Nor could I help my growing curiosity.
What was she doing, following him? Oh, fuck. She was following him! I panicked so badly I couldn’t get the door to work. When it did, it connected with my forehead and slammed back toward my fingertips. Cursing the device and my own lack of self-control, I finally managed to open the thing and step out into the night.
The traffic was still light. It was too early for the Painted Ladies, but anyone of decency was likely making it their business to get home within the hour. I wiggled my neck, assuring that my color was up, and stuffed both hands in my pockets. Rather than confront her, I decided to see just how bold she would grow.
I didn’t cross the street; instead, I played her own game. Lingering and lazing on the opposite side, far enough to keep an eye on her, but not so close that she could distinguish my facial features without staring.
Messiah passed House Kantor and dipped into the ally beside the large three-story mansion.
Shit.
Just as I expected, Chalice hurriedly shot across the street. Panic shot through me and I took a few large steps, almost breaking into a run, before I saw Keif Kantor descending the stairs.
“Hey Beautiful,” he called.
I stilled, and so did she. Suddenly flustered, I made a snap decision to cling to the shadows and hope for the best. After a few moments of inward debate, I deemed his jovial greeting loud enough that Messiah had been warned. So, why didn’t I piece him up for being so forward? Why couldn’t I leave?
Keif
“Don’t tell me you weren’t looking at her. I saw you. You were salivating on yourselves. Shameful. Both of you,” Mother declared. Her dark eyes snapped like a hawk up and down her husband, and then she tried to throw her daggers toward me.
I snorted but managed to somewhat stifle my laughter. “Don’t go lumping me into the soup-sandwich you’re brewing. Keep that bullshit to yourselves.”
It was all fun and games with them two—until it wasn’t. My mother was a magnificent woman. The highest of all women in my eyes, but when she was set off, not even the Fated Few could help. And her set-offs came on a whim. The servants were too chipper, the sky to grey. Her dress wasn’t pressed properly, her shirts too stiff. One never knew which way the breeze blew around her.
What I had learned in my quarter century, was that the polarities of the world rested within her. She could be your savior, or she could rain scorn and scorch every ounce of a person’s life and liberty. There was no in between. Not with Klarissa Kantor.