Steel's Edge (38 page)

“Tell me about his habits. What does he like?”

Miranda sat on the bed. “Nothing too twisted. He likes to feel he owns you. Sometimes he makes me crawl to him and beg him to fuck me. I don't care—as long as he's paying. He's got this thing about all women being secretly whores. Sometimes he makes me dress up in a nice prim outfit, formal gown, flowers in the hair, the whole thing, and suck him. He gets off on the perversity of it, I guess.”

“Do you know that you have Dock Rot?”

Miranda grimaced. “I know. Damn soldiers. I already took my medicine.”

*   *   *

AFTER
the perfumed air of the Palace of Delights, the cold night breeze felt refreshing. Charlotte and Sophie walked down the street. Charlotte walked fast. Regrettably, the closest place where they had been able to leave their phaeton was a brisk five-minute walk away, and the neighborhood wasn't exactly safe. They left the dog tied to the vehicle just in case.

“Making her crawl to him is sick,” Sophie said.

“Brennan likes to debase women. He also likes to feel powerful.”

“Why did we need to know that?”

“Because he's investigating Richard, which means he hasn't bought our story completely. Angelia's ignoring him in favor of Maedoc. He'll look for ways to punish Angelia and possibly replace her. There may come a time that I will have to distract him.”

Sophie mulled it over. “Just like that?”

“Brennan is power-hungry, and I'm his type: tall and blond.”

They turned into the phaeton lot. Two men blocked their way. The taller of the two flashed a knife. “Money. Now.”

Nice tactic. The Palace had to have maintained security because mugged patrons were bad for business. So someone there either noticed that they left early and surmised they were looking for information rather than pleasure, or Miranda had raised an alarm. Likely the first option—the proprietress had given them a sharp look when they left, and Miranda was paid too well to blab. Now they were being scared off, just in case they had any thoughts of coming back.

“Money, you cow!” The man raised his knife.

“May I?” Sophie asked. “Please?”

“Leave, or she will kill you,” Charlotte said.

“Suit yourself, whore.” The man lunged and gasped as his arm slid off his body and fell to the pavement. His mouth gaped open in the horrified beginning of a scream. He never got to make one. Sophie swept past him, and he crumpled to the floor. The other thug backed away, his hands in the air, and fled into the night.

Sophie pulled a cloth from her tunic and cleaned the blood off her blade.

Charlotte looked at the body on the ground. He was damaged beyond her skill. A child had just ended the man's life and seemed completely untroubled by it.

“Come.” Charlotte headed toward their vehicle. “Do you enjoy killing, Sophie?”

“I enjoy the shadows,” Sophie said.

“The shadows?”

At the phaeton, the wolfripper hound licked her hand. Charlotte let it into the back, and they got into the vehicle. Sophie started the phaeton, and they rolled off into the night.

“I walk the path of the lightning blade. A warrior poised between light and darkness. It's difficult to explain.”

“I would appreciate it if you tried anyway.”

Sophie frowned, her profile, lit by the golden glow of the instruments panel, etched against the night outside. “The death isn't important. The only thing that matters is the moment of decision. My path is a line. My opponent's path is another line. In the instant we meet, we're forever altered. We may both walk away, or my line or his line may end, but for a brief time we exist in the same space on the verge of action, and that space is full of possibilities. It's the moment in which I truly live. It's short. It's always so very short.”

An old memory flashed before Charlotte. She was sixteen, attending a dance during a summit with another college, and as she stood there, chatting with her friends, she saw an older boy looking at her from across the floor. She saw admiration in his eyes. In that brief instant, when their gazes met, an array of possibilities flashed before her: he could come over, he could talk to her, there could be the start of something . . . It was a sweet kind of thrill, slightly frightening, but exciting. But Sophie found it in battle and was addicted to it.
How could you even begin to fix something like that?

“What's the next step?” Sophie asked.

“The next step is to prepare for the Grand Thane's wedding. We need to pack and leave in three days. It will take us at least a day to get there, and we need to make sure we don't arrive too early or too late. You will love Pierre de Rivière. I saw it first when I was your age, and it is a beautiful castle. We'll attend the wedding, where I'll catch Brennan's attention, and find some way to connect Hunter and Maedoc.” She wasn't quite sure how she would go about it.

Thinking about the wedding made her feel uneasy. Anxiety took her heart into a cold fist and squeezed. What if something happened to her or to Richard? This was no game. If they stumbled, Brennan would kill them.

She didn't want to do it, Charlotte realized. She was afraid. She wanted to run away with Richard back to the cabin in the woods and pretend none of this had ever happened. The anticipation of what she was about to do pressed on her like a crushing weight. She wanted to escape.

“That's where Spider will be,” Sophie said. “At the wedding.”

“That's where you won't kill him.”

“What if I could?” Sophie asked.

“Tell me, what does Spider do?”

“He's an agent of the Hand and the head of a Hand's crew,” Sophie said.

“People under his command are enhanced to monstrous levels. I find it very unlikely that he would travel alone. Look at me, Sophie.”

The girl turned her face to Charlotte.

“Promise me that you won't kill him. I placed so much trust in you. Tell me you won't betray it.”

“I won't,” Sophie said. “You've been very kind to me. You don't have to worry, Lady Charlotte. I keep my promises.”

FIFTEEN

THE
long-distance phaeton shot out of the woods. It was time to wake Sophie. Charlotte touched the girl's hand, and she awoke instantly, fully alert.

“Look out the window,” Charlotte said.

Sophie leaned toward the wide panel of glass in the phaeton. A vast river stretched before them, its placid waters golden and pearl, reflecting the glory of the setting sun. A flat bridge spanned the endless width of the river, and in the middle of the bridge, thrusting straight out of the water, a castle rose.

Sophie took a sharp breath.

The castle of Pierre de Rivière towered before them like a massive stately mountain of buildings crafted with cream stone. Couched in green trees growing from planters, its walls and countless terraces and balconies all but glowed in the sun. Thin, ornate spires stretched to the sky. Giant windows looked out onto the world from among the textured parapets and ornamental wall carvings so delicate, so light, that the entire enormous structure seemed to float upon the waters of the river.

“It's so beautiful,” Sophie whispered.

“I hoped you would like it. It's one of the wonders of the continent.”

The phaeton entered the bridge. The wolfripper dog raised his shaggy head in alarm.

“It's fine,” Charlotte told him.

She'd suggested leaving the hound at the Camarine estate, but Sophie had hugged him and looked at her as if she'd suggested cutting off an arm. Faced with two pairs of sad puppy eyes, Charlotte had capitulated. She had insisted on a leash, a bath, and a haircut, all of which had failed to turn him into a pampered pet. He still looked like he chased wolves through the woods. They would have to make an effort to walk him, and he would make things less convenient, but it couldn't be helped.

A high, forlorn cry rolled through the sky, as if the clouds had sung.

“Look!” Charlotte pointed at a bright green spark dropping from the sky.

The spark plummeted, growing, becoming an enormous scaled shape armed with massive wings. The wyvern circled the castle, the sun reflecting from the cabin on its back. Another joined it, then another . . . One by one, they landed on the castle grounds.

“The elite of both realms will be there.” Charlotte smiled. “Are you excited?”

Sophie nodded.

“I'm so glad. Enjoy it,” Charlotte told her. “It's magic.”

They had work to do, but for now she would just sit here and watch the world of wonder blossom in the child's eyes, and for a few brief moments, she could be fifteen again, riding in a phaeton to her first ball.

The bridge brought them beneath the portcullis to the main thoroughfare that circled the castle. The phaeton veered right, along a side route, and finally came to a stop in the courtyard before a grand stairway. A familiar man stood on the bottom step, speaking to a noble in a dark doublet. Brennan, Charlotte realized.

Their driver opened the door, and Charlotte stepped out.

“Charlotte!” Angelia called.

Oh Dawn Mother.
“Angelia!”

Angelia Ermine swept into her view. “I'm so glad you could make it.”

At the stairway, Brennan turned. His gaze snagged on them. He smiled at the man he was speaking too and strode toward them.

Anxiety pierced Charlotte. She pretended to listen to Angelia. She wore a silk tunic and trousers, both in a beautiful shade of green. The clothes were formfitting and only a hint suggestive, which made them rather prim by the standards of society. She hadn't counted on meeting Brennan right off the phaeton, but the possibility existed, and she had dressed precisely for that occasion.

“Angelia,” Brennan said.

The other woman spun, surprised. “Robert . . .”

“My dear, I'm most put out.” Brennan took Angelia's hand and kissed her fingers. “You've been denying me the pleasure of your company. One would almost think you were displeased with me.”

Angelia blinked. “Of course not.”

“Who is your friend?”

Angelia produced a charming smile. “Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran.”

Brennan blinked. The name had the desired effect.

“Charlotte, Lord Robert Brennan.”

Charlotte curtsied. “Your Highness.”

“Oh no, please. No titles.” Brennan waved his hand. “My memory may be betraying me, but I'm almost positive I haven't encountered you before. I would have remembered our meeting.”

“May I tell him?” Angelia asked. “May I?”

“As you wish.”

“Charlotte comes to us from the Ganer College of Medicinal Arts. She has spent quite a long time there.”

“They don't let us out much.” Charlotte smiled. “It's almost like a convent.”

Interest sparked in Brennan's eyes. She was right—the idea of seducing a woman shut off in a convent appealed to him.

“How peculiar,” Brennan said. “I don't believe I've ever met a College escapee.”

“Then I'm flattered to be the first, my lord.”

“Are you a healer?” Brennan asked.

“Only a physician, my lord.” Lucky for her, Ganer College was home to both magic healers and their mundane counterparts. Given that Brennan had gone to visit the Island of Na, he must've heard of Silver Death killing people on the island with strange magic. She didn't want to advertise her talents. He could connect the dots.

“She's a healer,” Angelia blurted out. “An excellent one.”

Charlotte heaved a small sigh. “Forgive me, my lord. We don't usually identify ourselves outside of the College.”

“Perfectly understandable. I imagine you would be inundated with requests otherwise.” Brennan glanced at Angelia. “I had no idea you kept such exotic company. I do hope you haven't been ill, my lady?”

Angelia's composure crumbled. “Lady Charlotte is a friend,” she squeezed through her teeth. “But now that you mention it, yes, I have been ill. I've caught a most unpleasant disease from a most surprising source. I can't wait to tell you all about it.”

“I would love to hear it, but we're being rude to your friend.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Charlotte said. “I'm tired from my journey, and I need to do all those small secret female things women do to make themselves presentable before the dinner. Please excuse me.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” Brennan said. “The loss is entirely ours.”

Charlotte curtsied and watched them walk away. Angelia's spine was rigid like a spear—she was fuming. She was about to reveal to Brennan that he had infected her with Dock Rot, and that conversation couldn't possibly go well.

“How did it go?” Sophie murmured at her elbow.

“It went well. Now we must lay our trap.”

An hour later, Charlotte paced in her dressing room. Her dress waited on the bed. She wore a long black robe. Her undergarments had been very carefully chosen—she wore the tiniest of black lace panties, a bra that was a collection of translucent lace and black straps, and black stockings held up by thin ribbons simulating leather. She'd had the ensemble custom-made, modeled after some of the sexy garments she had seen advertised in the flyers from the Broken. The outfit wasn't just seductive, it was erotic, explicit, and raunchy. A woman of her status had no business wearing these kinds of undergarments unless she was aiming to provide very specific entertainment to her lover. Her spike- heeled shoes raised her to dangerous heights. Her hair had been arranged into an elegant wave appropriate to a formal function. Her makeup was perfect, and she was as ready as she could be.

This was a prime opportunity—Brennan still remembered her—and capturing his attention later would be significantly harder. Being unmarried, he would be inundated with women. She had to make an unforgettable impression immediately.

Sophie sat on the bed and watched her pace. “What if he isn't interested?”

“He will be. Men like Brennan think that every woman is secretly wanton. He loves the juxtaposition of the prim and proper with the dirty and seductive. He loves to corrupt. It makes him feel powerful.”

“How can you walk in those shoes?”

“Practice. Lots of practice.”

“What if he—”

The door swung open, and Jack stuck his head into the crack. “He's coming!”

Thank you, gods.

The door clicked shut.

“Quick!” Charlotte tossed the robe aside and moved into position in plain view of the door. Sophie grabbed the gown and held it up as if to put it on her.

*   *   *

GEORGE
leaned against the column and watched out of the corner of his eye as Brennan walked up the stairs. The Guest Keep resembled the Broken's hotels in its architecture: a stairway led from the bottom floor to a long landing connecting to a hallway, then another stairway at the opposite end of the landing led to the next higher floor. Each of the visiting bluebloods had been assigned a set of rooms, and the roster of the rooms had been posted at each intersection of stairs and hallways. From his vantage point on the fourth-floor landing, George had an excellent view of the lower stairway and the roster.

Brennan was a third of the way up the stairs.

Kaldar, dressed in the gray-and-blue uniform of the castle staff, walked out of the hallway. He casually stepped to the roster, slid it off the wall, hung a new one in its place, and walked away.

Cutting it close. Kaldar liked to live dangerously.

Brennan conquered the stairs and paused before the roster. The original list put Brennan and the rest of the royal relatives on the fifth floor. This roster placed him on the third.

George pondered Brennan's back. He was a large man, strong, athletic. Thick, muscular neck. Jack could snap it, but he would have trouble.

This man was responsible for Sophie's torment. He turned slavers from random raiders to an organized force. His hands were stained with Mémère's blood. He made it possible for John Drayton to sink so low, he drowned.

A small, furious voice chanted inside George,
“Kill him, kill him, kill him . . .”
But there would be no killing, not now. No, first there would be public humiliation. Then there would be shame, then anguish, then punishment.

Brennan turned to the right, heading down the hallway toward Charlotte's room. George concentrated, sending his voice to an undead mouse riding in Jack's pocket.
“He's coming.”

Brennan disappeared into the hallway. Kaldar strode to the roster, swiped it off the wall, and placed the original in its spot.

*   *   *

THE
door swung open.

Charlotte took a deep breath.

Brennan stepped into the suite and stopped. His eyes widened. He gaped at her, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Sophie froze, her face suitably shocked.

Charlotte met Brennan's gaze. She knew her poise was perfect, but inside she was trembling. She made no attempt to cover up. She simply stood there, as if she were wearing the most conservative of gowns, her expression even.

Brennan's gaze roamed over her body, pausing on her breasts, her stomach, and finally on the triangle between her legs, barely obscured by translucent black lace. She had his complete attention. A woman of noble name, who was proper in all outward appearances and who had just come out of seclusion, secretly wearing an outfit that would embarrass a professional. He had to take the bait. It was made to order specifically for him.

A long moment passed.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, and said, her voice perfectly even, “I believe you're in the wrong room, my lord.”

Brennan blinked as if waking up. A lifetime of experience in etiquette kicked in. “Of course. My apologies, my lady.”

He shut the door.

“Knowing the precisely correct thing to do in every situation, then doing it with unshakable entitlement,” Sophie whispered.

Charlotte's knees trembled. She collapsed into a chair.

*   *   *

GEORGE
watched as Brennan emerged onto the landing and marched to the roster. His face wore a look of intense concentration. He stopped before the roster and stared at it for a long moment.

His room number and Charlotte's differed by exactly one digit. Hers read 322 and his 522. It had taken a great deal of manipulation on Kaldar's part to arrange this. Any significant difference between the numbers, and Brennan would've smelled a rat.

The man shook his head and started up the stairs. George stepped away from the column, back out of Brennan's view, and walked away quickly, staying close to the wall. He turned the corner just as Brennan stepped onto the fourth-floor landing.

*   *   *

DINNER
was served on one of the massive terraces and consisted of light appetizers.

“I'm hungry,” Sophie murmured.

“It's expected that after the ball we'll have a late dinner in our rooms,” Charlotte murmured, and adjusted the strap on Sophie's left shoulder. This dress, a beautiful variation of blue-gray with a metallic sheen, was a collaboration between her and the dressmaker. Two thin shoulder straps held up a modest linear bodice that hugged Sophie's slender figure. Thin leaves of pale and darker blue overlapped on the bodice, built from the left side and spreading in a fan to the right. Two gathered lengths of fabric draped over Sophie's hips, tight enough to accentuate the modest flare of her hips but loose enough to still be appropriate. Past the draped fabric, a wide skirt built from layers of chiffon streamed down to the floor.

It was a refreshing dress, youthful and light, and its style matched Charlotte's own gown. She'd chosen a blue-green chiffon. Two leaves of silvery fabric served as her sleeves. The pattern continued along her sides, the leaves stretching to hug her, underscoring her waist and the curve of her hips. Tiny silvery dots, each slightly less shiny than the leaves, traced a delicate pattern over her chest and stomach, until finally her skirt flared into layers and layers of weightless chiffon.