the collector. But what about tonight?
The obvious answer was the Fae-mily Home, but I didn’t want to risk an encounter with Fi, not in light of what I’d done. My gut roiled with remorse, and I didn’t want the kindly Faerie to read the guilt on my face or hear the resulting strain in my voice. But I also didn’t want to roam the streets. I contemplated my options, my head throbbing with the effort to concentrate. I could sleep in an alley, rent a room in an inn with the money I’d stolen, or perhaps find a bed in a human shelter.
At the sound of footsteps, I jerked my head around, my hand clutching the long knife at my hip. Though the couple approaching from the north looked innocuous enough, leaning close together, I couldn’t help but question their intentions. I backed away, then ran across the rest of the bridge, needing to get off the street, if for no other reason than to spare my rapidly fraying nerves.
A sign for an inn, advertising its lodgings and public bathing options, caught my eye, and I could see the light of a large hearth fire in its common room through the front window. Despite the hour, people were up, talking and drinking, enough average folk among them that I wouldn’t look out of place if I entered. Because of my hair-dyeing ploy, and the nice clothing provided by Fi, my fear of staying in a better establishment had diminished; and I had plenty of funds, thanks to Tom, Frat, and the Constabulary I had just robbed. I could afford to rent a room for the night—maybe even allow myself the luxury of a bath—and start anew in the morning.
Before I could change my mind, I pushed the door of the establishment open and darted inside. Laughter and the warmth of the fire washed over me, assuring me I’d made the right decision. A number of guests were gathered around a table playing a game of cards, their spirits high, more than a few empty glasses among the filled ones that stood at hand. A moment later, a serving girl wandered out of the back, her red hair lighter than mine had naturally been and curling wildly in defiance of management.
“Room for the night?” she asked, coming over to me.
I nodded, but before I could form a request for food or drink, she took note of my appearance. “And perhaps a bath?”
I apparently looked less put-together than I felt.
“Yes, please,” I murmured, trying to subdue the blush rising in my cheeks.
“Bath first,” she declared, hands on her hips. “Follow me.”
The girl led me through a swinging door and down a hallway off of which opened several private bathing rooms. She ushered me into one that was vacant, then shut the door behind us while I took stock of the area. A wooden washtub dominated the center of the floor, and a bench with folded towels sat against one wall, a water-spotted mirror hanging above it. Nothing exuded luxury, but it was nonetheless clean and inviting, and that was all I required.
“You can undress and hang your clothes here,” the girl told me, motioning to hooks set into the wall beside the door. “I’ll be back with buckets of hot water.”
I sighed. “Thank you. This will be lovely.”
She left, and I struggled out of the clothes Fi had given me. While the garments themselves were in good shape, the day’s activities had left me dirty and stinking of sweat. I heard the door open as I finished removing my tunic and, with a twinge of modesty, turned to keep my back to the serving girl.
Thud, the buckets hit the floor, followed by a half gasp, half shriek. Alarmed and confused, I shot a look over my shoulder, and my heart seemed to drop into my stomach. The serving girl’s gaze was riveted on my back. Hot water sloshed across my feet, and I hopped sideways, smacking my legs against the bench that held the stack of towels. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for one dizzy, mind-blurring moment, I thought I might scream, too.
Thick, rope-like scars crawled down my otherwise smooth back, from the tops of my shoulder blades to just above my waist. My wings had been attached by bone and muscle and skin, like any extremity, and where my body had frantically tried to repair itself, it had created a pair of raised dark red scars that spider-webbed into whiteness at the edges.
My breath coming fast and shallow, I sank heavily down on the bench, toppling a few of the folded towels onto the floor, where they immediately soaked up water. I carried a secret on my body. A secret thrust upon me by three strikes of a halberd. I could still feel the imposing shadows of the hunters like a shiver down my spine. People might look at me and see a beautiful young woman, but what lay beneath was ugly and revolting, a mutilation that would drive them away—if I needed any proof, the girl appeared ready to pass out. Who would want to be near the hideous proof of such brutalization? Not me, but I had no choice in the matter. If I did, I would run far and fast.
Then the worst prospect of all bubbled to the surface of my mind. Had my troubled fourteen-year-old cousin Illumina watched this happen to me? Left me bleeding, only to willingly relive the memory of it later? Relish it even, happily drawing pictures of my agony? Trembling, I gagged. No, no, no, it’s not possible. But something inside me disagreed, a part of me I had been trying to ignore, a part of me that not only believed she was capable of such a thing, but that she had done it.
The serving girl’s mouth was flapping soundlessly, her face going from deathly white to blazing red, but I could find no words to comfort her. Wanting to disappear, I threw on my tunic and cloak and rushed from the room and out of the inn, dragging my pack along with me.
The cold of the night air hit me like a slap on the face, and I realized there were tears on my cheeks, beginning to freeze. But I didn’t take the time to wipe them away. I was still running, running, running, desperate to outrun what I had become.
I knew where I was going, though my conscious mind insisted good sense would return to me; that I would change my decision; that I didn’t have to worry or bemoan my weakness because Anya, the principled niece of the Queen, would rear her head before the end. But the Queen’s niece only served to lend her expertise to the question of concealment as she pushed through the door of The River’s End. I pulled up my hood, unable to dispel my fear of discovery by Tom Matlock or some other Constabulary. I could not afford to be stopped now, not when I so desperately needed to lose myself.
The man seated at the table near the vestibule looked up at my approach.
“Back for another go?” he asked, his gold canine tooth the star attraction in his crooked grin.
I swallowed hard, willing my voice to come out evenly, needing to prove I was in control of what I was doing.
“More or less. I need to talk to whoever handles your, ah, inventory.”
“More you use, less you feel.” Robb snapped his ever-present deck of cards, then stood and walked to the cellar door through which lay the cloister of depravity that I craved. He muttered to a larger chap who appeared to be standing guard, and I shifted restlessly, tapping my foot and glancing over my shoulder. I was about to snipe at the men to hurry when they parted company, and I was waved over by the big fellow. I joined him, surveying the gruesome tattoos blanketing his forearms—scenes of beheadings, nooses, and weapons linked together with chains—and something inside said I should flee while I still could. But I stayed in place, seeking an alternate kind of escape.
The man examined me, presumably taking in my age, gender, rough appearance, and slight build.
“Follow me,” he gruffly instructed, apparently satisfied I represented no threat, chewing on the stub of a cigar that bounced around with every word he spoke.
I stayed on his heels while he
