Was this the way it should be?
If all went awry later, this would be her last nevernight in this world. And she’d known the first was usually the worst. She’d thought herself ready; soft enough, wet enough, wanting enough. That everything the other street girls had said between the giggles and the knowing glances wouldn’t be true for her.
‘Close your eyes,’ they’d counselled. ‘It’ll be over soon enough.’
But he was so heavy, and she was trying not to cry, and she wished this wasn’t the way it had to be. She’d dreamed of this, hoped it would be some kind of special. But now she was here, she thought it a stumbling, clumsy affair. No magik or fireworks or bliss by the handful. Just the press of him on her chest, the ache of him thrusting away, her eyes closed as she gasped and winced and waited for him to be done.
He pressed his lips to hers, fingers cupping her cheek. And in that moment there was a flicker of it – a sweetness to set her tingling again, despite the awkwardness and breathlessness and hurtingness of it all. She kissed him back and there was heat inside her, flooding and filling as his every muscle went taut. And he pressed his face into her hair and shuddered through his little death, finally collapsing atop her, soft and damp and boneless.
Lying there, she breathed deep. Licked his sweat from her lips. Sighed.
He rolled away, crumpled on the sheets beside her. Reaching between her legs, she found wetness, aching. Smeared on fingertips and thighs. On clean white linen with the corners turned down as if to invite him in.
Blood.
‘Why didn’t you tell me this was your first?’ he asked.
She said nothing. Staring at the red gleaming at her fingertips.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
She looked at him, then.
Looked away just as quickly.
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’
She was atop him, knees pinning him down. His hand on her wrist and her stiletto at his throat. An age passed, somewhere between struggling and hissing and biting and begging, and finally the blade sank home, sharp and so astonishingly hard, sinking through his neck and scraping his spine. He drew sucking breath, perhaps to speak (but what could he say?) and she could see it in his eyes – pain, pain, O, Daughters, it hurt. It was inside him – she was inside him – stabbing hard as he tried to cry out, her hand over his mouth to muffle the flood.
He was panicked, desperate, scrabbling at her mask as she twisted the blade. Nothing like the dreadful imaginings she’d filled this moment with. His legs splayed and his neck gushing, kicking against the mattress and wanting her to stop. To wait.
Is this the way it should feel?
Is this the way it should be?
If all had gone awry, this would have been her last nevernight in this world. And she knew the first was usually the worst. She’d thought she wasn’t ready; not strong enough, not cold enough, that Old Mercurio’s reassurances wouldn’t be true for her.
‘Remember to breathe,’ he’d counselled. ‘It’ll be over soon enough.’
He was thrashing, and she was holding him still, and everything about her wondered if this was the way it would always be. She’d imagined this moment might feel like some kind of evil. A tithe to be paid, not a moment to be savoured. But now she was here, she thought it a beautiful, balletic affair. His spine arching beneath her. The fear in his eyes as he tore her mask aside. The gleam of the blade she’d thrust home, hand over his mouth as she nodded and shushed with a mother’s voice, waiting for him to be done.
He clawed her cheek, the vile reek of his breath and shit filling the room. And in that moment there was a flicker of it – a horror giving birth to mercy, despite the fact that he deserved this ending and a hundred more. Drawing back her blade, she buried it in his chest, and there was heat on her hands, flooding and sluicing as his every muscle went taut. And he grasped her knuckles and sighed through his death, deflating beneath her, soft and damp and boneless.
Sitting atop him, she breathed deep. Tasted salt and scarlet. Sighed.
She rolled away, crumpled sheets around her. Touching her face, she found wetness, warmth. Smeared on her hands and lips.
Blood.
‘Hear me, Niah,’ she whispered. ‘Hear me, Mother. This flesh your feast. This blood your wine. This life, this end, my gift to you. Hold him close.’
The cat who was shadows watched from its perch on the bedhead. Watched her the way only the eyeless can. It said not a word.
It didn’t need to.
Muted sunslight on her skin. Raven hair, damp with sweat and hanging in her eyes. She pulled up leather britches, tossed a mortar-grey shirt over her head, tugging on wolfskin boots. Sore. Stained. But glad in it, somehow. Somewhere near content.
‘The room is paid up for the nevernight,’ she’d said. ‘If you want it.’
The sweetboy had watched from the other side of the bed, head on his elbow.
‘And my coin?’
She motioned to a purse beside the looking glass.
‘You’re younger than my usuals,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t get many firsts.’
She looked at herself in the mirror then – pale skin and dark eyes. Younger than her years. And though evidence to the contrary lay drying on her skin, for a moment, she still found it hard to think of herself as anything more than a girl. Something weak and shivering, something sixteen years in this city had never managed to temper.
She’d pushed her shirt back into her britches. Checked the harlequin mask in her cloak. The stiletto at her belt. Gleaming and sharp.
The hangman would be leaving the taverna soon.
‘I have to go,’ she’d said.
‘May I ask you something, Mi Dona?’
‘… Ask then.’
‘Why me? Why now?’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s no kind of answer.’
‘You think I should have saved myself, is that it? That I’m some gift to be given? Now for ever spoiled?’
The boy said nothing, watching her with those fathom-deep eyes. Pretty as a picture. The girl drew a cigarillo from a silver case. Lit it on one of the candles. Breathing
