Blessed be the wicked, p.8
Blessed be the Wicked, page 8
“Thank you,” Quinn murmured with a nod, turning for the direction she motioned. A soft, sensual laughter caught her attention, just as she came to a stop in front of an archway. Beyond was a garden, lush in greenery and well-groomed. It housed a small wooden table and two chairs. Seated there was Lorraine, laughing lightly as she leaned forward into none other than Dominicus.
Quinn paused and leaned against the stone arch, arms crossed over her chest while she watched them together.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Raine—”
“I’ve lived through far worse things to let an arrow keep me down.” She smiled through the pain, and Quinn wondered if Dominicus saw it as easily as she did. “Besides, I love this garden. It reminds me of home. We have trees just like this at Shallowyn.”
He smiled at her, and it was tender but also sad as he reached forward to clasp her fingers in his. A light blush crept up Lorraine’s cheeks, and Quinn leaned forward, her brows drawn.
“E’scuse me, Miss,” came a voice behind her. Quinn blinked and glanced back to see a young woman holding a tray with teacups, motioning toward the garden. Quinn stepped to the side and turned back to see both Dominicus and Lorraine staring.
“What are you doing here?” he asked her. Quinn bristled in response.
“I was coming to check on Lorraine, and the healer said she was out here,” she answered defensively. Quinn paused as if to wait for Dominicus to reply or Lorraine to say something, and when neither of them did, she continued. “Well, if I interrupted something—”
“You did.”
“—then I might as well stay.” They both fell silent. Dominicus shot her a withering glare, and Quinn grinned, unphased by his dislike. Lorraine let out a slight chuckle that turned into a cough, and the tea girl rushed forward.
“Here, drink this,” the woman said in Norcastan. She set two cups down and waited for Lorraine to start sipping before she turned to leave.
“Come join us, Quinn,” Lorraine offered, sighing happily as she set the cup down and settled back in her chair.
Quinn strode forward, glancing between the two seats as she came to a stop between them. Dominicus’ jaw twitched as he pointedly watched her, and she obtusely ignored him.
“Are you sure you’re well enough to be out here?” Quinn asked her. A flicker of something foreign spread through her chest as she took in the ashen pallor of the older woman’s normally tan skin. Hair that usually appeared thick and well-managed despite the elements was stringy and unwashed. Lorraine lifted the cup to her lips again, and the liquid trembled as her fingers shook slightly. Quinn lifted an eyebrow, and Lorraine sighed again. Softly. Wearily.
She was tired and hurting more than she wanted to let on.
“In this, the girl’s right. You really shouldn’t—” Dominicus started. Lorraine held up her hand, then closed it in a fist as her fingers shook more.
“Dom, could you go tell Harrietta that I’d like a bath drawn, please?” she asked him, leaning forward to place that sweaty hand over his. She gave him a sweet smile that Dominicus was hopeless to refuse.
“Alright, Raine.” He moved to stand, his eyes shifting from her to Quinn. He opened his mouth to say something when Lorraine spoke again.
“Could you ask her to put some extra epsom in it? It numbs the sutures.”
He stood there for a moment, conveying his displeasure with his eyes as he stared at Quinn, and she returned it with no small amount of disinterest.
“Of course, I’ll be right back,” he replied before striding out, emphasizing his intent for a quick return. Quinn took the now empty seat and glanced back at Lorraine, that odd sensation filling her chest again.
“What happened wasn’t your fault, Quinn,” the old woman said suddenly. The sugared tone she used with Dominicus dissolved as she breathed deeply, letting how unwell she actually was show. “Stop feeling guilty.”
“Guilty?” Quinn repeated. “I don’t—”
“It’s the eyes,” Lorraine interrupted softly. She took another sip of her tea, and despite her state, the eyes that gave Quinn an appraising scan were clear. Sharp. “You’re unapologetic about most everything you do, but you look at me like I’m broken and you’re the cause. I’m not, and neither are you.”
Quinn wasn’t sure what to make of this unusually forward Lorraine. She wasn’t sure if she liked it, especially not when she knew it was the pain causing it. It almost made her miss Lady Manners. Almost.
“You’re not well, but you’re sitting out here drinking tea like you are,” Quinn said. “Why?”
Lorraine chuckled once and then swallowed, her head tilting back to stare up at the trees. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve been through worse things. I might not be a Maji, but I’m resilient. It’ll take a lot to keep me from making it back to my son.” Quinn frowned at the turn in conversation and glanced down at the new untouched cup the girl had brought for Dominicus. Quinn leaned forward and took a whiff. Lemon, rosemary, and verbena along with something else. She shrugged to herself, and took the delicate handle between three fingers, lifting it to her lips. The hot liquid was remarkably soothing and the taste sweet, but not unpleasantly so.
“You don’t talk about your son much,” Quinn said, letting Lorraine decide how much or how little she wanted to say.
“I don’t know much,” Lorraine replied. “He was a boy when Lazarus granted us asylum, and still a child when I sent him away to school. He’s almost grown now, and I know very little about the man he’s become.”
“You don’t sound bitter about it.” Quinn swished the liquid in the cup as she held it. “But sad. If you didn’t want to send him away, then why did you?” She glanced up to find Lorraine staring at her. Not with anger, or frustration, or even defensiveness. The look on her face was unreadable, even to Quinn. They stared at each other for several long moments, and just when Quinn turned to get up because she thought she wouldn’t answer, Lorraine spoke.
“Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices for the people we love. I was newly employed and without a husband or help when Lazarus offered to pay for my son to get the best education gold could buy.” Lorraine smiled wistfully. “I had two choices, Quinn. I could raise him, knowing he would never amount to more than myself . . .” Lorraine paused, taking a slight, shuddering breath. “Or I could send him away and miss his childhood, but he’d be as educated and capable as any noble—and with Master Lazarus becoming king, one day he might actually be one.”
Quinn’s lips parted as she took that in. “You gave up everything for him.”
“Not quite,” Lorraine said. “Both my boy and I have lived good lives. I missed his youth, but if I had the choice to do it over again—I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve sacrificed much for my son, but I’m truly happy to do the work I do for Master Lazarus. I’m thankful for the life he’s given us and the things I’ve gotten to experience because of him.”
“You feel that way even though you could have died from that arrow?” Quinn asked, not judging or disbelieving, but curious.
“Dear, that’s not the first attempt on my life I’ve faced since I became a vassal of House Fierté—and it won’t be the last.” Lorraine gave her a slight smile that said a lot about the woman Quinn was only just beginning to see. “Lazarus gives much because he asks much. I have no disillusions about my choice of profession.”
“You know, I wasn’t sure that you actually understood the kind of person you were working for—or much about the world at all—when we met. There’s more to you than you let on,” Quinn stated, settling back in her chair. She placed her cup back on the table and relished the slight breeze under the shaded canopy of the garden.
“People aren’t stagnant, Quinn. There’s always more beneath the surface, but you need to earn the right to see it.” Lorraine gave her an amused grin as she gripped the teacup too tight between her thin fingers. The muscles of her hand spasmed, and Lorraine stilled.
“I know you told Dominicus you’re fine, but you don’t have to lie to me—” Quinn’s words broke off as the teacup tilted sideways. Glass met wood and the cup cracked, spilling liquid everywhere. The beautiful scene shattered as the tiny pink blossoms that had fallen on the table floated in the amber liquid as it pooled, spilling over the sides.
Lorraine jerked, her eyes going wide for a moment before sagging. She looked up once more, past Quinn. “The flowers . . .” she breathed, almost like she was taking them in for the last time. Quinn swallowed and glanced to the archway, but no one was there, and the city was drunk or sleeping.
Lorraine’s eyes slid closed as she fell from her chair and into the autumn leaves that had gathered on the stone pathway next to them. Her shoulders shuddered as her muscles spasmed.
Quinn jerked her head back as her eyes widened. A heaviness settled on her chest once more as her heartbeat began to race. Blood pounded in Quinn’s ears as she tried to process what was happening.
“Help!” Quinn shouted, but no one came. “Potes,” she cursed. “She’s dying, we need help!” Impatient and feeling the time slip away, she bolted to her feet and did the only thing she could—she wasn’t even completely sure how she managed it, but her magic drove forward anyway.
A flare of panic rose up, and Quinn sent it out. The sharp wave would cover Tritol, if only for a moment, and in that brief lapse of time where her magic came alive and Lorraine lay dying, Quinn felt a responding answer from the other side of the palace.
Capricious Circumstances
“Sometimes the difference between want and need is a scarcely thin line and copious amounts of willpower.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, heir to Norcasta, mercurial prince
* * *
Lazarus froze, his muscles tensing as a shockwave of anxiety slammed into him. His heart thrummed heavily, beating hard against his chest as though it were trying to break free from the cage of bone. Sweat beaded along his forehead and down the center of his back. Next to him, Draeven stumbled and only a palm to the wall kept Lazarus’ left-hand on his feet.
“What in the bloody dark realm was that?” Draeven demanded, scanning behind him as though the wave had been a physical blow from a man he could fight instead of a mere brush with fear itself.
“Something’s wrong with Quinn,” Lazarus said, attempting to sense where exactly the wave had come from; which direction he was now meant to go. When several gasps of shock echoed from down the corridor, Lazarus turned south and sent a responding rush of his own power out. An answer to her call. He was coming.
“Where are you going?” Draeven asked as Lazarus began to stalk down the corridor. He weaved through masses of hysterical people as they stumbled from their rooms into the passageway, shoving several aside as Draeven rushed to catch up.
There was a savage need to find her, a pull that he couldn’t resist as it faintly guided him to that beacon of dark power in the sea of ordinary.
He turned the corner of a stone archway, readying himself to fight—to kill—but the scene was not what he expected. Quinn stood, silent and weary, as two palace guards and the healer helped to hurry an unconscious Lorraine back to her room.
“What happened?” Lazarus demanded.
Quinn was slow to react, almost sluggish. She shook her head, as if shaking the feeling from her mind, and responded, “I don’t know. She just . . . collapsed.”
Draeven came to a stop beside him, silently taking in the corridor and the garden with a single sweep. “This isn’t going to be good,” his left-hand said. Lazarus stiffened as the words had barely been spoken when another man came into his direct view.
Dominicus rushed down the hallway, his fists clenched, and his steps hurried. Lazarus stepped in front of Quinn just as the weapons master reached them—homing in on her with the same uncanny focus that made him good at his work, and Quinn took notice as she stepped to the side, back around him. Lazarus growled, but she simply shrugged it off with an aloofness that only she could manage.
“I left Lorraine alone with you and this is what I come back to? What did you do?” Dominicus demanded.
“She collapsed,” Quinn repeated, her attention straying toward the garden.
“How?” Dominicus asked.
Her lips pinched together, turning colorless. “I don’t know,” she snapped. “We were talking. She said something about the flowers, and then she fainted.”
Dominicus’ eyes narrowed on her. “What were you talking about?”
Quinn stiffened. “What we talk about is none of your concern.”
Dominicus bristled. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted when Harrietta came back and his attention was diverted. “How is she?” he asked.
The healer blinked at him and then turned to Lazarus. With her stilted, broken Norcastan, she attempted to relay information on Lorraine’s condition. “Fall opened wound,” she stated, motioning to her stomach region to mimic where Lorraine’s injury was. “Too early be out of bed. Will rest for now.”
Lazarus nodded as if that was all he needed to know. Dominicus’ shoulders sagged in relief, but as soon as the healer turned her back on them to leave, his eyes snapped open. Shadows stirred there. Fire and ash. While his weapons master wasn’t the most well-tempered of his vassals, he certainly wasn’t the worst.
Lazarus glanced between the two of them, taking in the rising tensions as Dominicus’ affections for Lorraine coupled with his fear of Quinn’s power. His reactionary response could send Quinn into a rage, and that wouldn’t end well for any of them. He needed to diffuse the situation before he truly provoked her, and they had a very real problem on their hands.
“Go,” Lazarus said with a sigh, gesturing beyond toward the infirmary. “Watch over her.”
Dominicus gave a slow direct nod, his body already turning to start toward Lorraine, though his glare stayed set on Quinn. The expression she wore was an apathetic mask that unsettled Lazarus more than Lorraine’s actual injury or her fall.
“Stay with him,” Lazarus said as he nodded to Draeven. “And if you can find the mountain boy, I want someone to keep track of him as well.”
Draeven nodded and trailed after Dominicus as they headed for Lorraine’s healing chamber, leaving Lazarus and Quinn completely alone.
“Now,” he said, pausing to take in the flash of something wicked that peeked out from behind her impassive mask for only a moment, before she went expressionless again. “Tell me everything exactly as it happened.”
“Lorraine and I were talking,” she started with a sigh, “and she froze for a moment, then said something about the flowers—” Quinn stopped, and her eyes darted toward the garden.
Lazarus’ followed her stare, stepping farther inside the lush greenery and away from the heady scent of her dark power. Despite the urgency of the situation and the concern he had for Lorraine, having Quinn so close still set him on edge—the whispers beneath his flesh squirming to get out, urging him to move closer.
He grit his teeth as he scanned the area—noting the familiar petals and skimming to the shattered teacup and the slight smudge of blood on the stone beneath his feet.
“Did she say anything else?” he inquired, his eyes scanning the nearby area.
Quinn hesitated before shaking her head. “She was in pain, but I didn’t think much of it because it’s expected that she would be.”
Lazarus darted his eyes back to Quinn as she lingered at the entrance to the garden. She appeared quieter than usual. When Dominicus had been so unusually abrupt with her, instead of biting back, she chose to go cold. The emotion didn’t sit well with him. Not where she was concerned.
“What’s wrong?” Lazarus asked.
Quinn lifted her head. “What do you mean what’s wrong?” she asked. “Lorraine reopened her wound.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Lazarus shifted closer to her, knowing how his souls would react and yet unable to help himself. Unable to stop.
“Then I don’t know what you mean.”
Lazarus stepped through the entrance right alongside Quinn’s position and eyed her. She remained stationary, glaring up at him for a brief moment before she turned her gaze away, letting it trail back to the gardens, to the exact place where Lorraine had fallen, he suspected. “Tell me about Lorraine,” Lazarus said, instead of pressing her for more information she wasn’t willing to give. “I want every detail no matter how minor you think it could be.”
“Like I said before”—the tone of Quinn’s voice suggested she didn’t appreciate having to repeat herself so many times—“we weren’t doing anything but sitting there.” Her eyes locked firmly on the ground. “We were just talking.”
“What were you talking about?” Lazarus asked.
Quinn stiffened, and it was then that Lazarus recalled her reaction to Dominicus asking her the same thing. He half expected a similar volatile response, but it never came. Instead, she sucked in a breath and released it as if forcing all of the tension away to focus on his question and the answers he required of her.
“We talked about people,” she admitted. “Dominicus . . . herself . . .”
Lazarus waited patiently. He knew what she would not say. Lorraine was steadfast in her loyalty to him, and Quinn was not yet completely trusting. The older stewardess had likely been singing his praises in the hopes that Quinn might loosen up. Lazarus shook his head, knowing the woman meant well, but nothing would convince Quinn other than his actions. Until he had proved himself to her, she would remain cautious. He often wondered if the N’skari woman would ever find him worthy of her devotion and trust.
“And just before she collapsed?” he pressed.
“She was drinking her tea. She’d only taken a sip . . .” Quinn paused, a frown marring her face and twisting the concern there into thoughtfulness. Lazarus sighed when she didn’t continue. He looked up toward the open roof of the gardens and into the sky above where seagulls circled overhead, shrieking out their cries and darting back toward the bay.
