Jeweled (8 page)

The man bristled and his friends swelled with manly indignation. The energy of the alley tensed with violence. Evangeline could feel the emotion of the men imploding. They wanted to teach her a lesson for being a female with a smart tongue and they were going to do it by pounding her flesh.

“You ain’t his sister,” the blond man spat.

“You calling me a liar?” Anatol pounced on the blond before the man could take further action. His fist connected with the blond’s cheek and he went flying backward. Pivoting to the side, Anatol caught the second in the gut, turned and kicked the other in the side of the head. It was over so fast, Evangeline could only stare.

“Where . . . where did you learn to fight like that?” she stammered, watching the three men scramble back away from him and then turn to limp down the alley.

“That was not a fight. They didn’t have the will. They didn’t really want it. They were just men out sowing their oats. It was easy to discourage them.”

She blinked, frowning. What he called discouragement, she called lots of blood.

Anatol rounded on her, cradling his hand. “Listen, princess. You need to take off your tiara right now. That attitude will only get you killed on these streets. I will only be able to protect you for so long. That’s twice now. Three times if you count Belai.” He turned and kept walking, shaking his hand once like it hurt and swearing.

She stopped and stared at Anatol’s back. Rage coursed through her veins at his reprimand, but she knew he was right. These were not the treacherous, back-biting halls of Belai. These streets were a different kind of vicious, the sort she was not groomed for. She needed to find a new set of armor, new weapons, but she was at a loss as to how to construct those things. She knew how to survive palace life. That was all.

She had no idea how to survive on these streets.

Her rage turned to cold fear and she marveled at the change in her emotion. How long had it been since she’d felt actual emotion—her own, not someone else’s? It was strong. It was horrific. She didn’t want it.

“Evangeline?”

She blinked and looked up, seeing that he’d backtracked to find her staring at a puddle in the alley, lost somewhere in her head. “You’re right.”

“What?”

“You’re right. I’m not prepared for this. I don’t know”—she motioned at the alley—“this. Oh, Blessed Joshui, I’m afraid.” She swallowed hard and pulled the frayed cuffs of her ugly dress over her hands. “I’m filled with grief and terror in equal turns. So much emotion. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything and now I’m feeling everything.” She drew a ragged breath. “I hate it. I
hate
it.” She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “I can’t remember the last time I had enough emotion of my own to hate so much.”

He stood there, looking stunned.

“Anatol, don’t look at me like I just grew another head.”

He blinked. “You did.”

She swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.”
Lie
. Nothing would ever be fine again. Her stomach roiled.

Anatol only kept staring at her.

Scowling, she reached out and took his hand, looking at the already-blooming bruise and split skin on the back on his hand where he’d punched the man on her behalf.

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not.” She frowned. “It needs to be washed and disinfected.”

He glanced around them. “Not much chance of that.”

She held on to his hand, warm, broad, and strong in hers. “It will give us a goal. We need something to concentrate on other than what’s going on in front of Belai.”

He drew his hand from hers. “We have another goal—finding food and shelter.”

“Yes, there is that.” Her stomach still wasn’t sure if it wanted food or not yet, but give it a couple hours and she’d be starving.

“You can feel now,” said Anatol with wonder in his voice.

“It was the beheadings.” She glanced to the side and pressed her hand to her stomach. “Or, I don’t know, it’s all this. I used to have beautiful strong walls up all around me. Now they’re gone. Now I can feel.”

Anatol smiled. “I’m happy for you.”

She licked dry lips, her breath puffing white in the cold. “I’m not. It’s a curse.”

“It’s a gift. It just might take you some time to see it that way.”

She shook her head. “No, Anatol. You don’t understand. I don’t remember much from my childhood, but I remember emotion. I remember feeling.” She paused, catching the tail end of a memory and then losing it before she could close her mental fingers around it securely. “Emotion almost killed me as a child. Grief. Loss. Rejection. The walls I built saved my life and now they’re gone.”

Anatol took her hands, making her flinch. “You’ll adapt. Eventually you’ll see this for the advantage it is.”

She met his gaze and held it for a long moment. She didn’t believe what he was saying, but she couldn’t find the words to reply to him. Using just the thinnest threads of her power, she reached out to touch his emotions. Hope had bloomed in him. He liked her. Blessed Joshui, Anatol was
fond
of her.

Footsteps on gravel drew their heads to the mouth of the alley. Evangeline’s blood chilled at the sound, expecting more trouble, but it was a finely dressed woman who stood there instead of a group of men. She wasn’t a noblewoman, that much was clear. Someone from the middle class, Evangeline assumed. The middle class had mostly been left alone by the mob. Evangeline shivered, jealous of the woman’s expensive coat.

The dark-haired woman blinked once, slowly, her jaw locking as she took them both in. Then a smile spread over her lush, red lips. “Who do you two think you’re fooling?”

Excuse me?” The chill had returned to Evangeline’s blood. She’d give anything to have the walls back up around her emotions. Numbness was far more comfortable. Like a newborn babe, she felt ready to cry at anything and everything right now.

The woman studied them with dark eyes too keen by half, then took a couple sauntering steps toward them. “You’re both too beautiful to come from anywhere but the aristocracy.” She encompassed them head to toe with a sweep of her gloved hand. “Oh, sure, your clothes are worn and tattered, and you’re bruised and dirty, but look at your healthy hair, perfect skin, straight white teeth. You have no glow of the sun on you from outdoor work. You, beautiful dark-haired man, you have a far more muscular build than would be expected of a well-heeled court fop, yet you can still tell you’re no low-born. And you,” the woman motioned at Evangeline, “there’s no question you came from Belai. Where are your reddened, calloused hands? The stoop in your back from bending over a washboard? Where’s the hungry, defeated look in your eyes. I gaze into your eyes and I see icy pride.”

Beside her, Anatol stiffened.

The woman held up a gloved hand. “I won’t turn you over to the mob. You can trust me. My name is Lilya.”

“We can’t afford to trust anyone.” Anatol put an arm around Evangeline’s waist in an almost protective gesture. “What do you want, Lilya?”

Evangeline took her in—from her classy, expensive heeled boots to her fur-lined coat to her perfectly coiffed hair. Her makeup was minimal, her accent educated. Her glossy dark hair hung in voluptuous, artful curls around her shoulders. This was a courtesan from the Temple of Dreams. It was the only way a woman dressed so richly could travel these streets right now, middle class or not.

The woman smiled and dropped her hand. “That’s smart. I wouldn’t say my intentions are completely innocent, so maybe you shouldn’t trust me. All the same, you’re hungry, aren’t you? Cold? You look like you could use a warm fire about now. In need of shelter?”

Neither of them replied.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Lilya turned and walked toward the street. “Come with me if you’d like to eat and maybe I can find you somewhere safe to lay your head tonight. All I desire is a few moments of your time, during which I can provide you both with options.” She glanced over her shoulder and offered an annoyingly confident smile. “You could both use some options right now, couldn’t you?”

Evangeline turned to look at Anatol. He stared at the back of the retreating woman, his jaw locked and his blue eyes intense. “Anatol? What do you think?”

He glanced at her. “We go with her, but not too far. We need to be careful. Keep your eyes open and stay aware.”

She agreed.

They followed the woman to a nearby cook shop, where the scent of fresh baked bread and meat pies made Evangeline’s stomach forget its earlier revulsion and remember it hadn’t been filled by anything of consequence in over a day.

Lilya guided them to a table near the kitchen and gestured for them to sit down. Evangeline couldn’t see the harm, so she sat, soaking up the heat from the fire in the hearth and letting it sink into her frigid limbs.

Anatol hesitated a moment longer, eyeing Lilya with a glittering and suspicious gaze. Lilya peeled her gloves off, set them on the table, and stared up at him with a challenge in her eyes. “You remind me of me many years ago, after I’d lost everything. Sit.”

He sat.

The waiter came to the table, dislike of the two poorly dressed patrons clear on his face. He eyed them. “I don’t think—”

Lilya held up a hand, cutting off his sentence. “These are friends of mine.” Her voice was steel.

“Very well.” The server’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

Lilya ordered. “A baked chicken, boiled potatoes, whatever vegetables you have in season, and a bowl of steamed rice, please. Enough for two. Oh, and three glasses of wine.” The server retreated to the kitchen.

“You’re doing this to make us grateful to you,” leveled Anatol from his seat across from Lilya. “Why?”

“How do you know I’m not simply a helpful person, giving aid to those who need it?”

“You’re from the Temple of Dreams,” Evangeline countered.

Lilya’s face went from surprise to slyness. “I see I’m not the only one with the power of keen observation.”

“Your position is secure,” Evangeline continued. “Why would you care about us? We’re perfect strangers and have no power. We can do nothing for you.”

Lilya’s face took on an expression of pity. “Do you really think the only reason to help another is for personal gain?”

Evangeline’s shoulders straightened. “It’s how the world works.”

Lilya shook her head. “Not my world. Tell me your names.”

Anatol seemed to relax a little even as Evangeline’s anxiety racheted upward. He leaned back in his chair. “My name is Anatol and this is Evangeline. I don’t need to tell you where we came from or what our circumstances are because you’ve already figured all that out.”

Lilya leaned toward him and whispered, “You’re nobles hiding out from the raid on the palace.”

Anatol hesitated. “No, we’re J’Edaeii.”

Evangeline leaned forward and gave an alarmed whisper.“Anatol!”

Lilya leaned back in her chair with a small smile playing around her mouth. “How intriguing.”

“Now why are you interested in us, Lilya?” Anatol asked. “And stop with the altruistic intentions, they’re not ringing true.”

Lilya pouted. “I think I’m offended.”

“Just tell us.”

The waiter brought the wine and Evangeline drank deeply, closing her eyes and enjoying the sip of the half-rate vintage as it slid down her throat. She was so thirsty that she didn’t even care about the common quality. The alcohol warmed her blood, too. Maybe a glass or two more and she could dull the emotion that battered her so much. Or at least trade her fear and anxiety for silly giddiness. She’d never felt silly or giddy in her life. She’d only ever had weakened sips of such feelings secondhand.

Lilya took a far more measured drink of her wine. “You’re both very pretty and at a bit of a loose end—”

“And you’re recruiting for the Temple of Dreams?” Anatol asked.

Shock rippled through Evangeline. The possibility that Lilya was attempting to lure them for the temple had not occurred to her.

Lilya nodded. “I’m not saying the temple would even accept you, but you’re both good candidates—educated, cultured, and nice to look at. It would be an option for you. It’s nice life, a good life.”

Evangeline set her empty glass down, feeling the first effects of the wine on an empty stomach. She shouldn’t have drained it so fast. “You want us to be prostitutes?”

Lilya made a moue with her lush red lips. “That’s an ugly word. I like courtesan much better.”

“Semantics,” Anatol growled.

The food arrived, breaking the sudden tension. The scent of the warm baked chicken nearly made Evangeline swoon. Both Anatol and Evangeline tore into the food, eating and not speaking for about five minutes while they wallowed in the sensation of full mouths and stomachs.

“The life of a courtesan is not for everyone.” Lilya sipped her wine and watched them eat. “You must enjoy sex while not attaching emotional tethers to it, loving it for the pure acts of ecstasy and the giving and receiving of pleasure. You must enjoy having sex with many partners and be open to all the various kinks and fetishes of those you sleep with. You cannot be predisposed to falling in love—”