“It was while passing through Rinthos from the eastern coast that my daughter disappeared. I’d heard of these vanishings. Even out in the wild, there are ripples. I thought, surely, that won’t happen to us. Haven’t we endured enough? But these girl-snatchers, they have no hearts, no pity. No souls. I’ve heard rumors of what is done to them, these missing girls, and I hope my daughter is safely dead.”
—Collection of stories written by refugees in occupied Ventera
Curated by Hob Cavaserra
Later that night, Eliana waited until she heard the slight knock from Camille on the door to her room, then slipped out from underneath Remy’s arm, snatched her daggers from the floor, and stepped into the hallway.
Camille waited, her face drawn and tense. “Are you ready?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Lead the way.”
They moved silently toward the front entrance. Eliana slid Arabeth into the holster at her hip, slipped Whistler into the one under her left sleeve and Nox into her left boot, then tucked Tuora and Tempest into the inner pockets of her jacket.
At the door that led back out into Sanctuary, Camille stopped her. “I can’t afford to lose any more of my people. You get in trouble out there tonight, you’re on your own.”
Eliana nodded once. “And if I don’t come back?”
Camille’s expression softened slightly. “I’ll give your brother your message. Don’t worry, Dread.”
“I never worry if I can help it,” Eliana replied smoothly, then slipped out the door and listened to Camille close and lock it behind her.
She crept down the carpeted corridor and onto Sanctuary’s broad third-floor mezzanine. Immediately, the stench of the world outside Camille’s apartments overwhelmed Eliana—the hot reek of dirty bodies, spilled ale, plates of food left out to sour. At half past nine, Sanctuary crawled with hundreds of souls seeking distraction from the world above, and the night had only just begun.
Two women brawled in one of the fighting cages. A raucous game of cards had taken over half the second floor, onlookers shouting out their wagers as the players rolled dice in clouds of smoke. Between two pillars in a dark corner, two half-naked figures writhed against the wall.
Eliana made a pass through the entire third level, which housed dozens of other apartments besides Camille’s. On the fourth level, red-curtained doors lined with beaded fringe led the way to a brothel, out of which floated the sounds of shrill music and unrestrained laughter. Eliana’s bile rose at the coy gazes of the children with collars around their necks, the keening distant cries that bordered the line between pleasure and pain.
She hurried through the fifth level, then back down to the second and first. There, the noise of the fighting pits—punches, cheers, shouted obscenities—drowned out all quieter conversation. Eliana could not move without brushing up against a stranger. Hot drops of sweat from the cages and from the yelling spectators above scattered across her arms.
If Fidelia wants to snatch girls unseen, Eliana thought, this is the place to do it.
She made straight for the bar and slapped three coppers onto the slimy bar top. “The best ale you’ve got.”
The barkeep curled his lip. “We don’t have any good ale.”
Eliana smiled, flicking her jacket aside to show him Tuora’s gleaming blade. “Find me some. Quickly.”
The barkeep sighed and rolled his eyes. But he did as she asked, sliding a dirty tin mug of ale down the countertop with a disdainful flick of his wrist. She caught the mug, tossed him another copper because she was feeling generous, and moved away.
Eliana brought the mug to her lips as she walked. After the first sip, her mouth puckered in disgust. The barkeep hadn’t lied; the drink tasted like piss.
She slid into a narrow wooden booth against the far wall, the backs of the benches high and private.
Already an hour had passed since she’d left Camille’s apartments, and for all the woman’s talk about fear of Fidelia running rampant in Rinthos, Eliana had seen nothing noteworthy. The shadowed booth was as fine a place as any to sit and observe, unremarkable and unnoticed, until she had become as much a part of the room as the ancient, grimy furniture.
Sometimes, she thought, the hunter must not prowl, but rather wait. And watch.
She slid low in her seat, propped her boots up on the table. It felt good to be working again, to settle in and watch the dirty cogs of Sanctuary turn around her. Since her bombardier attack, she had felt unlike herself, shaken loose and off-balance. But this…this was familiar.
It was a good spot: she could still see the bar, the fighting pits, and at least one of the entrances to Sanctuary, though not the one they’d come through two days before. She imagined there must be all manner of rat holes leading in and out of such a vile nest. Twenty feet away, a brown-skinned woman brooded over her cup. Two tables away and to the left, a group of men and one pale woman with a head of wild black braids howled with laughter.
To Eliana’s right: an ebony-skinned man and a freckled woman, finishing off bowls of stew. One of the fights had ended. A singing crowd raised the bloody winner to their shoulders and began an impromptu parade.
Eliana took another sip from her drink, eyes roving about the crowded dark room over the rim of her mug—then froze.
She blinked a few times as if trying to clear her vision of a speck. A sudden, heavy pressure pinned her to the bench, making her head spin. A feeling of wrongness filled the air, a faint sour scent, like someone had lashed a whip of ill intent through the room.
Hard chills surged through her body.
She remembered that feeling, that scent, from Orline—from the night she had tried to save the abducted child, and from the night her mother had disappeared. It was more violent now, the feeling. Closer. Urgent. She gripped the table’s edge, fighting the desire to lay her head on the table. The world teetered, knocked askew.
Beneath the table, Eliana found Arabeth and felt a little better as her fingers wrapped around the dagger’s hilt.
The chill across her shoulders became a sharp pang of warning.
She forced up her gaze.
The woman who’d been sitting alone, frowning over her drink, was gone. Her ale lay spilled on the tabletop, dripping onto the ground. Her mug rolled to a stop under the chair in which she had been sitting.
But she could have simply left the table.
Mouth dry, heart pounding, Eliana quickly ran back over the path of people she had been observing only a few seconds earlier, before the world had changed.
The woman with the black braids was gone. The man who had been sitting next to her slapped her empty chair, wiping tears from his eyes as one of the drinkers vomited.
And the man and woman who had been finishing off their stew—the man now sat alone, his head in his bowl as he slurped up the last drops of his meal. The woman’s bowl hit the ground and shattered; the man looked up, frowning in bewilderment, then craned his neck to peer through the crowd.
Three women, all gone in a matter of seconds.
Three women, gone like her mother.
Eliana licked her lips, her blood hot and humming. She unsheathed Arabeth and rose to her feet.
They were here. Fidelia.
They come in the night. They come every seven days.
Eliana rose, slipped through the crowd as quickly as possible without drawing attention, scanned the room. She let her eyes unfocus.
There.
To her right, a dark, hooded figure moved swiftly across the room. Eliana thought she saw another person at its side. The woman who had been drinking alone? But as soon as Eliana tried to focus on that particular shape, her vision tilted.
She leaned hard against a nearby pillar—sticky and caked with filth—as a wave of nausea ripped through her. She gritted her teeth, pushing through it. The figure had been moving toward the eastern wall. If she didn’t move quickly, she’d lose the trail.
A hand caught her wrist. “Going somewhere?”
Eliana turned to glare at Simon. “Let me go, or I’ll lose them.”
“Who?” Beside Simon, Navi peered out from under her hood. “What’s happening?”
“One moment these women were there, right there in front of me, and the next—” Eliana staggered against Simon as the sick feeling returned. He caught her around the waist, kept her from falling. “God, that’s annoying,” she bit out, tears smarting in her eyes. “I can’t think for two seconds without feeling sick. What are these people doing to me?”
Simon peered closely at her face. “Who? Someone’s hurting you?”
“Fidelia.” She leaned against the solid length of his torso, suddenly glad he was there. If he hadn’t come, she would have been a pile on the floor. “Camille said they take women, and girls, just like the people in Orline. At least, I think they’re all the same. Angel-worshippers, Camille said. Every seven days. I was going to help her find this girl who worked for her. Then…they came. They’re here. They took three women in a matter of seconds. I don’t understand it.”
Simon’s piercing blue gaze was intent on her face. “You said they’re doing something to you. Explain.”
She struggled weakly to break free of him. “Too much to explain, have to find them.”
“Wrong. We’re going back to Camille’s, and after I dismember her for sending you out here, I’m locking you in the safest room I can find, possibly forever.”
“Touch her,” she mumbled, “and I’ll dismember you.” It was becoming increasingly difficult to organize her thoughts. “What are you two doing here together, even?” She took unsteady step after unsteady step, frowning at the floor.
“Navi and I met outside your room,” Simon said. “We discovered you gone, and she insisted on coming with me to find you.”
“Why were you both there?” Eliana brought a hand to her throbbing temple. “That’s rather odd, isn’t it?”
“Well, I wanted to look in on you, make sure you’d managed to sleep,” Navi said, her voice light. “Simon?” She looked guilelessly up at him. “Why were you at Eliana’s door in the middle of the night?”
Simon’s mouth thinned. “This is not the time for—”
“Not a chance in the Deep that I’m leaving here without finding Fidelia,” Eliana muttered, “and slitting throat after throat until they tell me where my mother is.”
“A charming image. Now, walk.”
Eliana dug deep for strength and pulled free of Simon’s grip. Without him holding her up, the world turned upside down. She collapsed at once, but Simon caught her before she could hit the ground.
“What’s wrong with her?” came Navi’s worried voice.
“Eliana?” Simon’s hand cupped her cheek. “What does it feel like, what’s happening to you? If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”
She took three long, shallow breaths to quell the sick feeling rising in her throat, then glared up at him with watery eyes. “This is the first real lead I’ve had since leaving Orline,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to give it up. Don’t make me hurt you, Simon. I’m not keen to.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”
“God, do you ever shut up?” She tried to shove past him, but Navi was the one to stop her that time.
“Eliana, stop this,” she said quietly. “Let’s go back. It isn’t safe out here.”
“But I can find my mother,” Eliana insisted, “and all the others who have been taken.” She glanced at Simon. “Including people from Red Crown.”
“Unimportant,” Simon said. “Our priority is getting Navi to Astavar. Once that’s done, I’ll help you find your mother. As we agreed.”
“Or I could go find her right now. By the time we get to Astavar, it could be too late.”
“A risk you knew when you accepted my offer.”
“Why do you care about me staying with you, anyway? If it’s a fighter you want, Camille has dozens of sellswords to pick from.”
The words said, Eliana’s mind began to clear, cutting through her muddled senses. Why does he care indeed? When she looked back at Simon, his carefully implacable face told her the truth: she’d hit upon a nerve.
“What is it about me,” she said quietly, taking one step toward him, then another, “that makes you want to keep me close?”
Navi looked curiously back and forth between them. Simon opened his mouth, hesitated.
Then a voice rattled from the shadows underneath the nearby staircase: “Because you’re special, Eliana Ferracora. And he wants you for his own. Just as I do.”
Eliana’s mouth went dry at the sound of that voice. She knew it, though now it rasped rather than purred.
A slim figure came into the light, wearing a tattered black uniform and frayed crimson cloak made nearly unrecognizable by the caked mud and bloodstains marring the once-fine fabric.
“Rahzavel,” Eliana whispered in horror. Even Simon seemed dumbstruck. “You’re alive.”
The assassin grinned, his pale face marked with a long, swollen scar that ran down from his temple, bissected his face, and disappeared into his collar. His white hair hung in matted clumps.
“Alive,” he agreed, “and so very excited to kill you.”
Then he ripped his sword from the sheath at his waist, raised it with a horrible hungry cry, and swung hard for Eliana’s neck.
