Relishing it.
His face turns redder than his garb, the veins in his temples and neck bulging as I slice his bloodred tunic open, bare his chest, then snag his other hand that won’t stop grabbing at me. I hoist it high, flatten it against the wall, and use my blade to pin it in place so I can focus on my task.
His entire body spasms again, wetness leaching down his trousers.
“Funniest thing. The next dae, your bound found a way to reach out to us. You know who we are, of course. The Fíur du Ath.”
From the Ashes.
His features crumble.
I lift my skirt and pull another blade from the inside of my boot. “She’s lovely, your bound. Striking. I’d barter the entire contents of my coffers that you purchased her too—hoping the brown bead she wears would guarantee you powerful offspring.”
More strangled jerks, his heaving chest slicked red from the blood pulsating free of his severed stub. It doesn’t elude me that he’s now painted in the color he loves so much.
The color he boasts.
Head tilted to the side, I study my crimson canvas, dragging the tip of my blade across the expanse of his chest. I plant a little pressure down the length and begin to carve my crude code into his flesh.
“She said you do terrible things to her. To others,” I say while I slice.
Slice.
Slice.
“To anybody you can get your grubby mitts on.”
R.
Rapist.
The letter weeps more of his favored color as he squirms, his mouth wide in a silent scream.
Beautiful, blessed silence. I could kiss Clode at times like this.
“She also mentioned that although you don’t make your null son fight in your prestigious Undercity battle pit, you often call upon Ignos to paint him in flames for being such a great disappointment to your bloodline.”
The words are forced past gritted teeth, that immense, icy presence within me shifting.
Rumbling.
I carve a C. Then an A.
Child abuser.
I’m tempted to give him the entire alphabet, but time is of the essence. Instead, I finish him off with three more letters:
A-S-S.
Self-explanatory.
The wind becomes a cutting torrent, whistling around corners, lifting my veil.
Baring me.
I don’t bother trying to cover up, wondering if he still likes my voice.
The color of my dress.
If he regrets following me, trying to assault me against the wall.
His chest jerks to the manic tune of Clode’s twirling giggles, practically hanging from his hand nailed to the wall while treasured breath squeaks through his throat.
“Ignos started speaking to your daughter, did you know?”
His face contorts, baring deeper folds of agony as his boots gouge the blood-steeped snow.
“She’s been escorted out of the city this slumber, along with the rest of your family, but not before your bound told us everything we need to extinguish your fucked-up operations and set those younglings free.”
Take them somewhere safe and secure where they can learn to be children again.
I repeat Clode’s suffocating tune, and she flicks around me at a voracious speed, churning my hair into an inky mess while Tarik’s face turns blue.
Then purple.
“How does it feel to be nulled, Tarik?”
His now-bleeding eyes take in the lobe of my ear. The one supposed to be pierced with a transparent bead to signify my ability to hear Clode’s ever-changing, riotous song. Way I see it, it would only serve to single me out as a threat to The Fade’s militant society.
Fuck their system.
“How does it feel to suffer at the hands of someone ‘beneath’ you?”
Still smacking his throat with his mangled arm, his mouth shapes a single word:
Mercy.
An eviscerating rage torches my spine, licking around my ribs, feasting on my cold black heart.
I wonder how many times the younglings who fought in his pit of death pleaded for that very thing. How many times his son said the word, looking up at the male who was supposed to nurture him.
Protect him.
I wonder how many times hope perished in his small chest before he begged his mah to seek us out. To break free of Tarik’s invisible shackles.
Too many.
“Your family sends their regards,” I sneer, then slash my blade through his throat.
Tarik’s blood splashes across the snow, plumes of it spurting from the gory gash.
I reach into my pocket and slip on my ring.
The racket banging against my eardrums snips off, leaving only the organic sounds of Clode squealing past corners without her manic laughter or slicing song.
I crack my neck from side to side, rolling my shoulders—ever thankful for iron’s nulling properties. I can tune her out on my own if I concentrate, but it takes effort, and my guard drops while I sleep. Clode’s great and all, but not when you’re jostled awake by a midslumber squeal. And she’s painfully loud. Plug-fingers-in-my-ears loud, though I wouldn’t dare.