Jaded (24 page)

She studied him for a moment with hard, glittering dark eyes. “I accept your money and I’m beholden to the government, then? Bound to provide my magick whenever they ask it of me? A slave?”

He gave his head a sharp shake. “Never a slave. You would not be compelled to use your magick at any time, but we would hope you would take joy in helping your fellow citizens by using your gift. We could put all of that in writing, if you choose.”

“Take joy?” she sputtered. “My fellow citizens?” She pointed a bony finger toward the window. “Those are the people who stripped me of my old life and set me on the street to rot. I froze. I starved. I was
beaten
by men in an alleyway once. Why should I feel any inclination toward helping these people? If I take this money from you I will be a prisoner of my enemies.”

“Excuse me, Miss Hansdaughter,” Lilya broke in, “but how is that any different than being J’Edaeii?”

Byron’s face went from passively accepting of Aralynda’s rant to alarm. Lilya calmly sipped her tea and waited for Aralynda’s inevitable eruption.

Aralynda turned her icy gaze to her. “Before someone
cut it out
of me on the street, I had a jewel nestled at the base of my spine.” She lifted her chin. “A diamond. It was there for over thirty-five years. I was widow to an Edaeii for most of those years.”

“Did you love him?”

She scowled. “What an impertinent question! That’s none of your business, young lady.”

“It’s a very simple question, Aralynda. Did you marry him because you
wanted
to marry him? Because you loved him? Or did you marry him because you were
forced
to marry him in an effort to infuse the Edaeii bloodline with your magickal talent? If the answer is the latter, you were a prisoner, no matter how many diamonds were embedded in your flesh or how many gorgeous gowns draped your body.”

Aralynda’s lower lip trembled and Lilya thought for a moment she’d made a horrible mistake. Then her face softened and she looked away. “He was horrid. Twice my age. Our wedding night was—” She shuddered. “I never bore a child because I couldn’t stand his hands on me. Still, they threatened . . .” She trailed off.

Of course. She’d only been a broodmare.

After a several moments of silence, Lilya rose, set her teacup on the mantel and walked over to sit near Aralynda. “The J’Edaeii were wronged in the revolution. They were lumped together with the oppressors when they were really the oppressed. You were taken from your family at a young age, raised to think it was your birthright to become jeweled and marry an Edaeii. Then the revolution occurred and you were wronged again, this time by the people who should have sheltered you. The people didn’t understand. They viewed you as a traitor and they did some horrible things.” She paused as Aralynda turned her head to look at her. “Rylisk is a different place now.”

“Is it? I don’t believe that.” Her voice came out cold and bitter.

“You’ve never had a chance to live as you see fit, Aralynda. Every moment of your life has been dictated by someone else. This is your chance to finally live as a free woman. You can do as you will with your power. The government hopes you will use it in service to others, as do I. Ultimately, however, the
choice
will be yours.”

“And Malbask? I have people waiting there for me. My plans are made. The costs for travel paid.” She waved a hand at the half-packed boxes scattering the floor.

“I’ll cover your expenses personally,” Byron cut in, “and give you an extra bonus for your trouble.”

Aralynda gazed out the window, clearly deep in thought.

“You said you never loved your husband,” Lilya said quietly. “But it’s not too late to find real love. You have the rest of your life ahead of you to live as you choose.”

“Find love?” She gave a sharp laugh. “I’m too old.”

“No one is ever too old for that.”

“Don’t give me that clichéd dribble.” Yet her voice lacked bite.

Lilya took a chance, reached out and covered the older woman’s hand with hers. “It might be a cliché, but it’s also true.”

They left a short time later with Aralynda telling Byron she would take the afternoon and evening to think about it and would send word to the university when she’d made her decision . . . on Byron’s coin, of course. Byron gracefully agreed and took his leave, his tea sitting untouched.

H
e pulled Lilya against his side as they walked down the hallway. “You said the right things, Lilya. I think you convinced her to stay.”

She smiled up at him. “Aren’t you happy you brought me with you now?”

“I’m always happy to have you at my side, love.”

Those words made her heart skip a beat. She cursed herself.

They met Alek for lunch at an outdoor café not far from where her house was located and told him about their meeting with Aralynda.

Alek set his fork down on the table beside his plate of pasta. “I can’t believe you convinced her to stay. She’s a sour old biddy.”

“You’ve met her?” Lilya asked.

Byron sat back in his chair and surveyed the busy street. “I think I’ve sent almost everyone out to see her, trying to talk her into working with us.”

“Well, that job isn’t done yet. We still don’t know if she’s staying.” She pushed her fork around her plate, not very hungry. “And if she does stay, there’s no guarantee she’ll help Rylisk with her magick. She might just take the money, sit back, and do nothing.”

“One step at a time.” Byron looked at Alek meaningfully while Alek’s head was down, munching his pasta.

She glanced at Alek too. She found it strange that Alek had agreed to go talk to Aralynda when he was such a reluctant magick user himself. Of course, maybe that’s why Byron had sent him. Maybe it had been more for Alek’s benefit than Aralynda’s.

“Lilya was wonderful.” Byron’s voice held warm regard and she looked over to find his expression held it as well. Pleasure suffused her, making her cheeks warm.

“I’m sure she was magnificent, as always,” said Alek in the same tone, looking up from his plate.

She smiled and caught a glimpse of a woman watching them from another table. The look on the woman’s face reminded her of what she must have looked like watching the family at the teahouse while she’d been waiting for Evangeline to arrive. Envy. Longing. Hope. That woman saw in Lilya what she’d seen in that family—something she wanted.

Lilya looked between Byron and Alek and her own heart filled with the longing that it might be true, but she knew it was just an illusion.

 

 

Ivan waded through the drifts of snow at the back of Byron’s home, the moon shining high in the sky above his head. He knew that as long as there were no strong winds or extra snow his boots would leave tracks that someone might find in the morning. That was fine. Preferable, really. Let them wonder and worry what stranger had come calling in the night. Let them wonder what the stranger had done and if he would be back. He
would
be back. This wouldn’t be Ivan’s last visit.

The back door was a heavy, expensive wooden frame filled with equally heavy, expensive colored glass. He supposed he could just break it, but he couldn’t be sure that all the good little boys and girls would be sleeping at this hour and he wanted to remain unnoticed for the time being. Instead he extracted a set of lock-picking tools. They weren’t the best set of tools in the world, not the finest that he owned by far, but they had sentimental value. He’d stolen them off his fuck of a father after he’d slit the man’s throat. Ivan had been thirteen. These tools had given him his start.

He jiggled the lock and had it opened in less than five seconds. Apparently Byron wasn’t all that concerned about his possessions . . . or his safety.

The open door let into the kitchen. Ivan nodded in approval. It was a nice place. A little palatial for his tastes, but this was the Andropov family’s residence, after all. Nothing but the best for that family. It was amazing the peasants hadn’t torched the house during the revolution, but he was aware that Byron’s family had done a lot for the community here in Ulstrat. Apparently that had earned them a free ride during the upheaval. Byron was a lucky son of a bitch. Of course, a man who lived on luck had better hope he had a lot of it. By Ivan’s measure, Byron was almost out.

The house was quiet and cold, though fires were kept burning low in the hearths of all the rooms to keep the home heated. They gave off a warm, merry light. Most likely everyone was in bed. He knew the bedrooms were upstairs, so he made his way out of the kitchen, through the foyer, and up the winding staircase.

The first bedroom he entered was Alek Chaikoveii’s.

The man slept fitfully, blankets and sheets twisted around his legs despite the chill in the room. His pillows were a mess. Ivan moved closer to the bed and looked down at him. He was a handsome bastard. This man’s father had never taken a knife to his face while his drunken mother looked on, laughing. No, this man had been born wealthy to parents that had cherished him, given him everything.

Well, he couldn’t have Lilya.

Ivan had done his research on this man who was currently fucking the woman he owned. He didn’t feel the same bonegnawing hatred when he gazed down at him as he did when he looked at Byron, but Alek was going to have to die too.

But not quite yet.

He checked a few other rooms and eventually hit pay dirt—Byron.

His sleep wasn’t troubled like his friend’s. This bastard slept well in his huge four-poster bed, where Lilya had undoubtedly been spending a lot of time. It was lucky she wasn’t there now; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control his temper and he wasn’t ready to draw blood yet.

The fire sputtered in the hearth, casting shadows over his face. Ivan fisted his hands at his sides, glancing at the iron fireplace tools he could so easily use to bludgeon him to death in his sleep. He wouldn’t even wake up. One solid hit to the head and Byron would
never
wake up.

Of course, what fun would that be? He liked to see the fear in his victim’s eyes before they died.

Even so, he wanted to do it. He wanted to see Andropov’s blood staining that white pillow. Imagining Lilya as she woke to find her lovers dead in their beds—both of them—would be very satisfying. But would she run back to Milzyr and take up her old life the way he wanted her to? Ivan wasn’t certain. He needed to see her with these men in order to know how to proceed. How deep had her emotions been invested in them? He had to know that before he dealt with her. It was possible that he would have to break her again in order to put her back in her place.

His body eased. Byron was safe. At least for tonight. He regretted he couldn’t take Andropov’s life tonight, but the anticipation of that event in the future was sweet.

Leaving Andropov’s room, he continued to explore the house.

At last he found Lilya.

He hadn’t seen her up close in many years. She was older, though Lilya had never had that sweet, fresh bloom of youth that so many other young girls possessed. Her life had put wisdom in her eyes early on and Ivan had always thought her more beautiful because of it. She had fit him in so many ways. She had been able to match the sorrow he held as a result of his abusive upbringing. She was the only woman he’d ever loved.

Too bad she was a faithless slut.

Rage overcame him as he remembered what he’d seen in the hallway so many years ago, Lilya clinging to that man the way he’d remembered his mother drunkenly clinging to men that weren’t her husband. That familiar anger rose up in him. He’d come too close to killing Lilya that day. She owed her life to him.

She should be grateful he hadn’t simply slit her throat.

Now she lay serenely under the soft sheets and blankets, her thick, dark hair spread over her pillow. Yes, she was still beautiful, more so now that age had settled on her and good nutrition had filled her out. He reached down and fingered a lock of her hair. She made a soft sound in her sleep and turned over, pulling the silky tendril through his loosely grasping fingers.

He pulled a knife and let it glint in the reflected firelight for a moment. The urge to kill her passed quickly. He didn’t want her dead, not if he had a choice. Hurt, maybe, but not dead. He just wanted her back where she’d been, where he could watch her.

She seemed far too happy here and that was not acceptable. This woman did not deserve happiness, not after the way she’d broken his heart. He’d thought he’d marry her. Gods, he’d wanted to have
children
with her. Then she’d defiled herself, made herself untouchable.

He stood for a moment over her sleeping body, hating the slight smile she wore on her pretty mouth. He wasn’t even sure he could bring himself to scar her, though that was in his plans. If he scarred that beautiful face, every man would turn her away. Byron and Alek would turn her away. She’d be forced to stay at the Temple of Dreams taking whatever men threw her scraps.