Still nursing her bleeding shoulder, she walked over to him, placed a letter in his breast pocket, and looked upon his unconscious face. That letter would seal his fate. After a moment, Richmond loaded him onto the back of the cart.

  Cleft leapt up to the driver’s seat and took the reins. “Let’s go. Time’s arrow is flown, and we must chase it.”

  That was true enough. Lucia pulled herself up to the side of the wagon, and the rest of the crew followed. The first stage of her plan was complete.

  Ahead, just hours away, the second awaited her. An entirely different kind of battle, one that would be waged at the Prime Minister’s High Summer Ball.

  XXXIX

  Lucia entered the High Summer Ball dressed to kill.

  The style of dress she wore was quite different from the fashions adorning the other guests. Her dress was blood red and tightly corseted. Below, flowing down to her ankles, the material clung to her legs more than was strictly fashionable. A tasteful slash deep into the bust showed off not a little cleavage. Her left shoulder was covered, obscuring the wound she had taken at the Butcher’s hands. Beneath the dress, it was tightly bound in bandages—ones that would last the evening, perhaps, before needing to be redressed.

  She earned stares from every passing couple and group in attendance at the ball, but she did not pay them more than a passing thought. She spared just as much on the pain in her shoulder.

  Let them look. Tonight, she walked the field of battle. And she would dress for it her way.

  Half a step behind her, Richmond moved with the subtle grace of a dancer. The man was a wonder, Lucia thought, as at home in the servants quarters as on the high seas—or, truly, amid the most powerful nobility of the Commonwealth.

  Had she a different disposition, and in another life entirely, she realized she might have fallen for him. Here, now, he paled in comparison to Talia in nearly every respect. Richmond was silver to the Duke’s gold, and Lucia would treasure her memories of both.

  “To your right,” Richmond whispered, and Lucia flitted her eyes in that direction. She saw the Marchesa ensconced with a small group of other guests, politely laughing at something or other. A gleam of silver on her finger caught Lucia’s eye.

  Again, the hatred within the demon rose, but she clung to it carefully, keeping her expression serene and her hands still. The Marchesa was here. This was good. Lucia would see her fall personally.

  “Have you spotted our other friend?”

  Talia’s most devoted servant shook his head slightly. “At this moment, my guess is that he has the ear of the Prime Minister himself. Look for our host’s appearance, and Lindell will not be far behind.”

  The sway of the gathered throng was like the currents of the sea: slow, inexorable, and bubbling—though that last was entirely due to the liberal availability of champagne. Lucia availed herself of the opportunity for alcohol at the closest convenience, downing one and then two flutes of the pink variety in quick succession.

  Above, the great glass clock hanging over the archway to the Prime Minister’s gardens proclaimed the final hour before midnight in delicate notes. Lucia regarded the great dial nervously. Timing here was crucial; if the Prime Minister did not show up soon, well … well, he’d better show up soon.

  Lucia deposited her second flute of champagne, turned, and found herself directly opposite the Marchesa. She didn’t bother to completely hide her disdain for the woman; and, for her part, Forteza seemed not to care.

  “Your little stunt was amusing.” The Marchesa curled her lip. “I haven’t seen the Bishop so excited in years, truly.”

  Lucia opened her mouth, closed it, then pondered. What in all the lands west of Calamity could she say to that? Yes, giving up my wife for death was certainly a bold move, I’m glad you noticed? Or was she referring to giving herself up to the man?

  Her thoughts settled as she again rested her eyes upon the gleam of the Marchesa’s ring. My, but this woman was pride incarnate. “I’m glad you liked the show. But I have one final act to perform, so if you would excuse me—”

  The Marchesa’s hand grasped Lucia’s forearm in a flash, and the demon saw a fire kindle in her eyes. Talia had named her for a Lion well.

  “You don’t have a Duke to hide behind, anymore.” The Marchesa’s eyes danced, and Lucia’s stomach lurched. “Remember this. I get what I want.”

  Lucia roughly pulled free, and had the sinking feeling that she succeeded only because the Marchesa wanted her to. She did not dignify the woman’s response with anything but a withering look as she marched away against the current.

  She nervously checked the clock again. Ten past the hour.

  And the crowds parted, a sea of minnows before the great whale. This whale was, indeed, the Prime Minister himself, though the comparison fell short of describing him physically—a tall man, far more imposing than even the Spindle in his best moments, though with an easy smile.

  And beside him was Lindell.

  Lucia felt the anger in her spike at the sight of the Bishop, then remembered how she was to channel it. The timing could not have been better—assuming Cleft had arrived at his place in time. The thought of him failing almost made her hesitate.

  Oh, fuck it.

  She grabbed another flute of champagne, downed it in one go, and then dramatically threw the fragile glass to the floor. Then, before anyone could react, she marched forward and shouted the single word that had lived upon the tip of her tongue since seeing Talia’s death—

  “Murderer!”

  There was a silence as hallowed as the grave.

  Her accusatory finger outstretched towards Lindell, Lucia supposed she looked exactly as hysterical as she felt. But that was part of the point.

  It was the Prime Minister who broke the silence.

  “Why, my Lady, I don’t know what you mean—”

  “I was there, you snake!” Lucia continued to ignore the imposing figure of the Prime Minister, hurling her invective at Lindell. “You killed her in cold blood. My wife, the love of my life. The very Duke of Fallmire!”

  Lindell had the gall to look amused at this, even as the whispers began among the gathered guests. His next question could not have been better if Lucia had scripted it herself.

  “And why would I do such a foolish thing, Lady Fallmire?”

  Lucia laughed, then. A touch dramatic, but such was the time for drama. “Oh, you know very well.” She pushed aside the few hands that were trying to pull her away from this improvised stage. She would not leave. No, not with all of the Commonwealth as audience.

  “You know well enough the depth of your vile plot, Lindell. A plot to topple the very Parliament whose Prime Minister you even now whisper honeyed words to in private! Oh, my Duke knew of your schemes. She was a loyalist to the end.”

  And Lucia buried her head in one hand, for a moment, letting the tears cut off her accusation. They came from a genuine place—she almost lost herself, realizing afresh the full import of Talia’s decision.

  She couldn’t truly be gone, could she?

  That was enough for now. Her feelings were again boxed away, awaiting the time when this business was finished. Through blurry vision, she saw the Prime Minister lean down at a whispered message from one of his advisors. The demon blinked, and her vision sharpened.

  She felt the thrum of fear enter the Prime Minister’s heart. He stepped away from Lindell almost instinctively, and motioned to a corner of the room.

  It was happening. By the dead god, it was happening.

  “You speak nonsense,” Lindell said smoothly, but Lucia wouldn’t let him slither away just yet.

  “She spoke to you just this morning.” Lucia let a quaver enter her voice. “Pleading with you not to do this. The very Bishop of Cavaline, in league with the Lion Prince! But you would have none of it. She was to expose you—”

  “Enough!”

  The vehemence behind Lindell’s shout shocked even Lucia. The man moved forward, then, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat, grabbing her arms roughly and pushing her into a table, throwing her down—

  Strong arms caught her. She looked up into the patient, furious eyes of Richmond, who gently raised her back to her feet.

  Lindell’s anger had not abated. “You slander me, Lady Fallmire. And I will be satisfied!”

  “It’s not slander if it is the truth.”

  Another silence descended, for these words came from the Prime Minister himself.

  Lindell turned, and for the first time since she had laid eyes upon the Snake’s heart, Lucia saw fear stir within it. “My good man—”

  “Tell me.” The Prime Minister was now inexplicably surrounded on all sides by bodyguards. One guard had dragged the Marchesa into the fray. Oh, her look of fury was so sweet to observe.

  “Tell me, Lindell,” the Prime Minister repeated more quietly, “would you have plunged a knife into my heart before or after your friend detonated an entire cartload of black powder on the very steps of Parliament House?”

  Lindell was speechless.

  “Take him away.” The Prime Minister made a violent motion with his hand, and Lindell was so stunned, he did not resist as bodyguards shackled his wrists behind him on the spot.

  The Prime Minister turned to Forteza, and his eyes dipped down toward the gleam Lucia had spotted earlier. He pulled the ring from the Marchesa’s hand as she growled, then held it up to the light.

  “Wearing the seal of the royal house openly, my Lady? Even I would never have known you to be so bold … or so foolish.”

  And with another snarl from the Marchesa, who was beyond words at this point, the Prime Minister made the same violent gesture to take her away.

  Lucia lay in her path, and as the guards manhandled Forteza past her, she couldn’t resist leaning in and whispering, “You don’t get what you want, but what you deserve.”

  XL

  A CONSPIRACY UNMASKED

  PLOT TO DESTROY PARLIAMENT HOUSE UNVEILED

  CAVALINE— A plot against the Parliament of the Commonwealth itself reached its climactic stages yesterday when General Gregor Hawthorne threatened the Parliament House in Cavaline with total destruction. The General, singlehandedly driving a cart fully stocked with black powder ready to detonate at a moment’s notice, was dispatched by the skilled Parliamentary Guard at about eleven o’clock in the evening. He was subsequently taken into custody and is expected to recover from his wound.

  The Black Harbor Times can reveal two additional co-conspirators taken into custody for threatening the safety and security of the Commonwealth: Bishop Inquisitor Henry Lindell, and the Marchesa Gianna of House Forteza, both of whom were apprehended at the Prime Minister’s High Summer Ball within minutes of the altercation at Parliament House.

  All three conspirators were implicated in the plot via intercepted correspondence between the three of them and an individual claiming to be the Lion Prince of Cavaline, believed to be living in exile somewhere on the continent. Parliamentary officials have not confirmed

  Lucia looked up from the newspaper clipping. She sat in her rented room in Cavaline the morning after … after everything. She felt … empty. That wasn’t her usual reaction at the completion of a demonic contract; doubly so for a contract of this magnitude. But this had been no mere contract.

  Talia wasn’t coming back. The unreality of the day before had faded, and the truth had settled upon her heart, binding it with iron unyielding. The Duke had lived, and now she was dead. And there was nothing Lucia could do about it.

  She felt too empty even to cry.

  She turned over the newspaper clipping, which cut off mid-sentence, to read a scrawled note taped to the back in a familiar hand.

  To the Lady of House Fallmire. My condolences, as ever, are with you. Hawthorne was more cooperative than even I hoped. Luckily, I managed to slip away before Parliament tightened its noose. Do you have any more vengeance that needs seeing to? I’ll be at the funeral, best regards,

  S.S.

  Lucia sighed and tossed the clipping away. Soon enough, it would all be over.

  ***

  Lucia insisted on attending the hanging, three days later.

  It was a pale day, much like the day the Duke of Fallmire had been murdered. Here, a modest crowd of lookers-on gathered under the steel-gray cloud cover as various officials moved up and down the gallows scaffold, a few conferring with each other here and there. The overall mood of the crowd was … well, it was always hard to put into words such a complex collective emotion. But if Lucia had to choose, it would be hungry.

  They wanted to see someone die. Preferably someone high born.

  Well, today’s spectacle should not disappoint.

  Three days was all it had taken for Parliament to declare the three co-conspirators guilty of high treason. The gears of justice spun quickly indeed when their very survival was threatened. Lucia had understood that, at least. Calamity, the demon could be dramatic when she wanted to be.

  “Presenting!” came the call from atop the gallows, and the crowd hushed to listen and collectively lean in. Lucia had a decent view on a raised seat at the rear of the enclosure—as an aggrieved party, she apparently had a very legal right of witnessing justice be done. Beside her, a representative of Parliament sat as well, witnessing on behalf of that body. Lucia was surprised the Prime Minister himself hadn’t shown his face. But, well, she rarely understood those kinds of people.

  “Presenting,” the herald repeated as the crowd had managed to still itself satisfactorily. “Three prisoners sentenced to death for various crimes, including the charge of High Treason.” These words the herald thundered down like an ancient god of the old world. “For which they have been found guilty.” Another pause as her voice echoed across the stone.

  “Firstly, the former Commander General Gregor Hawthorne,” and at this the general was led up the scaffold and to the rightmost noose, which was pulled down around his neck. “Secondly, the Marchesa Gianna of House Forteza,” and she was marched to her position beside him. “And lastly, the former Bishop Inquisitor of Cavaline, Henry Lindell,” and the Snake was marched to the leftmost noose.

  “The prisoners may now exercise their rights to speak their final words.” The herald gestured first to the General. He shook his head, his eyes hard as flint.

  The Marchesa shouted out as the herald gestured to her. “History will remember us as heroes …” but Lucia could not hear the rest as the gathered crowd savagely booed her into silence.

  Henry Lindell spoke not a word himself.

  “Very well,” the herald said. She motioned the executioner to hood the three prisoners, and before Lucia could truly process what was happening, the lever was pulled. There were three sickening drops.

  She watched as each and every one of them twitched and struggled for air. Slowly, their motions faded, and as they did, the demon knew her job had been done.

  ***

  The funeral for the Duke of Fallmire was held eleven days later, on the morning of Midsummer. Lucia had delayed the event, feeling it was right to inter the Head of House Fallmire on that day. Perhaps she was delaying her own return to the Abyssal Dream; her return would come sooner or later, and she certainly didn’t wish to depart too soon. She was dreading it, in fact.

  Every rumination she felt here on the world of Melodia would be magnified by that place. Her grief. Her sorrow. Her anger at the injustice of her lot. Nothing would stand between her and the heat of these consuming fires, and they would ravage her for as long as she remained in that place.

  No, she did not want to return. But such actions only delayed her inevitable fate.

  And fate would not let her forget it, for the time before the funeral sped on by, leaving Lucia aghast as that very morning dawned entirely too soon for comfort. She played her part at the service well, as her grief was all too real, and soon enough Talia’s body was returned to the earth, buried on a plot of land not far from the ruins of Fallmire house.

  It was a beautiful day as she stood beneath Melodia’s sky, eyes still rimmed with tears as she read, and read again, the inscription on the headstone marking the final resting place of her heart.

  Here Lies Talia Fallmire

  Head and Founder of this House

  Anno Calamitatis 1107 - 1137

  Your Word was as a Burning Fire in my Bones

  She closed her eyes. Now would be as good a time as any. Her mind reached along the old pathway, her ancient connection to the Abyssal Dream, forged when her soul was new.

  She blinked, then opened her eyes again.

  Nothing happened.

  The sun shone above, and the trees far below swayed in the wind. This had never happened before. Every time, her contract completed, she would draw herself back to the Abyssal Dream. If she left it too long, the connection would force her back in agony.

  But her connection to this place, to this world, had not been severed. And that could only mean one thing.

  Her contract was not yet done.

  But how could that be? Lucia looked around, waiting for any kind of explanation. The trees and the grass and the sun were not forthcoming. She raised a kerchief to her forehead, dabbing at her sweat. She didn’t understand …

  And then, as across a great distance, Talia’s voice echoed in her mind, a ghost of the final night they spent together.

  The greatest vengeance I could ever have upon the bastards who took my father from me … is my love for you.

  A piece of the puzzle; but it still did not explain it fully. If Talia truly had changed the contract with those words … well, then, it would only be in force if that love was still possible. If Lucia and Talia could still be together.

  Hope began to glow within the demon’s heart. But how … ?

  And another piece came to her. The pendant, the final, bizarre gift Talia had given mere moments before her death. Lucia had kept it on her person almost instinctively, and she pulled it from her purse now, turning it over desperately, hoping to see something there to guide her forward.

 

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