Fortune Favors the Cruel Page 3

  “He’d have to find me for that to happen,” Quinn said softly.

  He tilted his head to the side. “I found you easily enough,” he pointed out.

  Scowling, Quinn dropped her hand away from her hair. “A coincidence,” she replied through gritted teeth. Quinn didn’t believe in coincidences, but she didn’t want the man to know just how disturbed she was by the fact that he had found her—quickly too.

  His full lips twitched. “Possibly.” He said it in such a way that it was clear he was merely humoring her.

  “He won’t find me,” Quinn snapped.

  “What makes you think I wouldn’t tell him,” the stranger asked, not quite threatening … but testing. Learning. It would seem that he was cataloguing her responses and trying to piece together the enigma before him.

  “If you wanted me arrested then there would be guards here now. You’ve had ample time to call them if that was the route you wished to take.” Quinn paused. “Which brings us back to my original question. Who are you?” Quinn did better and asked another almost immediately. “Why are you here?”

  The stranger nodded as if hearing her words, but he didn’t jump to reply. She huffed, glaring at him. Against the peeling paint and sparse furnishings of her dressing room, he looked so very out of place. The rich fabric of his tunic, a vibrant red just a shade lighter than blood, was adorned with golden thread that gleamed in the low light, drawing Quinn’s attention as she waited for his reply.

  “I’m here,” he started, “because a very dear friend of mine died not long ago and left me a letter. Unfortunately, I was out of the country at the time of his death and I didn’t get it until it was too late. It was about a woman—a very special woman.”

  The stranger stopped perusing her belongings and leveled her with a powerful look. With a push away from her vanity that left the mirror shuddering against the wall, he stalked forward.

  “I’m here,” he continued, “at the twilight hour in this dingy, disgusting amphitheater because I’m fairly certain you’re that woman.” Quinn’s heart began to beat faster, but her hands didn’t tremble. Instead, they went still. Her whole being froze. Where most people experienced shock and tended to unravel, Quinn stiffened with resolve.

  “I think you need to leave,” she said, reaching for the door.

  His fingers wrapped around her forearm.

  So warm, she thought. So very … warm wasn’t the right word.

  He wasn’t warm.

  He was burning hot.

  “Olivier Illvain told me—”

  “Olivier Illvain is dead,” Quinn said flatly, ripping her arm from his grasp while sending a tendril of fear his way. Surprisingly, though, he didn’t react the way she had come to expect.

  There was no panic in his gaze. No worry. No fear.

  He stood still, his hand still outstretched and nostrils flared as his eyelids slid closed. Almost like he might have known what she’d done, but that wasn’t possible.

  “You…” His jaw tightened and his neck craned, cracking, as he opened his eyes and dark glittering pools looked down on her, “shouldn’t have done that.”

  What little color she possessed drained from her face, and she truly looked like a ghost in that moment. Colorless. Ethereal. A mere reflection in the mirror.

  She gripped the knob of the door tightly, thrusting it open. She stepped to the side and pointed.

  “It’s time for you to leave,” she said, brokering no room for argument.

  The stranger took a single step towards her, and two men appeared in her doorway. The fire-breathing twins—Nix and Nox. Out of all Hastings’ performers, they’d taken a liking to her, but chose to respect Quinn’s boundaries better than most others living in the amphitheater.

  “Problem here, Q?” one of them asked, likely Nix.

  “No problem,” Quinn replied curtly. “My guest was just leaving, weren’t you?” All three sets of eyes fell on the man that Quinn still couldn’t figure out. Something was off about him. It wasn’t just the way that he held himself or the noble clothes he wore. There was a sense of otherness to him that all other men she had met, noble or not, didn’t have. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  He took two steps towards her, towering like a god, larger than life. Quinn didn’t flinch as his lips came only a hairsbreadth from hers and he whispered, “This isn’t over. Until next time, Quinn.”

  She didn’t let it show how much it unsettled her that he knew her name. His presence was all consuming, seeming to steal the very air from her chest until he stepped away. The twins parted to let him through, and he started down the narrow hallway. The stranger paused and turned back, the look in his eyes seeming to scream of something dark and dangerous and violent.

  Quinn waited for him to disappear through the musty curtain before inhaling deeply.

  The twins looked at her with concern and she simply shooed them away, closing the door firmly. Her fingers moved to click the lock shut, not because she was afraid he might come back … but because she was afraid she might go after him.

  One thing was certain. It was time to get out of Dumas.

  Even if the soldiers didn’t find her, Quinn had no doubts in her mind that he would be back.

  And she wanted to be long gone when he returned.

  Cruel Opportunities

  “Everyone has a weakness. It’s always the same thing. Power.”

  — Lazarus Fierté, nobleman and master manipulator

  Lazarus stood on the edge of the street, the door to the decrepit amphitheater swinging shut behind him. The building should have been torn down years ago. The roof leaked. The floors were stained and wobbled under him. It had the smell of poverty sunken so deep into the walls, the only way to get rid of it was to rip it all apart. He knew because Gulliver had given him a report on the establishment that the girl called home not three hours before.

  The dim light of a coach rounding the corner of the street swayed back and forth as it came to a stop in front of him. Gulliver stepped out, holding the door for his master.

  “You’re late,” he said as he used the bottom rung to step inside and then turned, sitting and resting his back against the seat cushions.

  “I apologize, my lord,” Gulliver said. “We were waylaid by…” The man’s eyes darted to the driver.

  “Get inside,” Lazarus said with a heavy sigh.

  Gulliver nodded. As soon as he had closed the coach door behind him, the driver snapped his short whip at the horses and they jerked the carriage forward.

  “What happened?”

  “There was a notice for you at the inn, my lord.” Gulliver’s dusty gray eyes met his with trepidation.

  “Go on,” Lazarus pressed the young man. “Who sent the note?”

  “That’s the thing, sir,” Gulliver said. “I don’t know. The innkeeper refused to give it to me. I’ve been arguing with the man for the better part of an hour. He says that he was told to hand it specifically to you. I assume he was paid handsomely for his promise to make sure it was delivered appropriately.”

  “It’s fine,” Lazarus said, holding up a hand as the man leaned forward, preparing to launch into an apology. Gulliver settled back, casting a concerned look his way, but thankfully he didn’t say more. “Did you do what I asked? The boy?”

  Gulliver nodded. “I did, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Lazarus turned his gaze away, letting the carriage fall into silence as he watched the city’s passing scenery. Dumas was older; the buildings tall but worn, the streets cobbled and sinking. The people were old-fashioned as well, both in their clothes and their culture. But the girl … the girl was new. New to this city, he assumed, but perhaps not new to this country. Her voice had the briefest lilt to something foreign. If her features were anything to go by, he’d say she was a native N’skaran. How she’d ended up with Olivier and now in the Dark Masquerade … it puzzled him.

  The coach lurched around a corner and came to a slow st
op in front of the Iron Queen Inn and Tavern. Gulliver exited first, holding the door for him. Lazarus’ boot splashed into a small puddle as he stepped out of the carriage and towards the dwelling.

  Inside the boisterous tavern almost all conversation stopped. He had a way of silencing a room without a word. With a harsh squeak of the innkeeper’s wide frame against the smooth wood of the bar, the short, rotund man made his way over to Lazarus.

  “My lord,” the innkeeper began.

  Lazarus didn’t let him continue. “You have a message for me,” he stated.

  The innkeeper nodded profusely, reaching into his stained and frayed apron to produce a letter. Lazarus took it, and without a glance back at the innkeeper, walked off towards the stairs leaving Gulliver to hurry after him.

  The Iron Queen Inn’s rooms left much to be desired. The windows were thin. The bed hardly long enough to fit a man of his size—not that he would be sleeping much in this place—and the noise below was a constant dull roar in the back of his mind.

  After dismissing Gulliver for the night, Lazarus sat down and began to remove his boots. He leaned back in the wing-backed chair, reaching for the decanter of spirits he’d had delivered. Pouring himself a hefty serving, Lazarus lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, letting the burn of the alcohol slip down the back of his throat and he considered his options.

  There was no doubt in his mind that the girl—Quinn—was the same girl that Olivier had wrote to him about. She had skin paler than the moon and eyes the color of ice crystals. He saw more brands adorning her body this evening than had been clear in the market earlier in the day. The marks of many masters, and yet none had tamed her. Something about that amused Lazarus, as if any human master could bring her to heel. No. It would take someone with a finer touch and a might of their own. Someone that she couldn’t strike down in a rage when her magic would get the better of her.

  Quinn was something more than just a pretty face, though she tried to hide it. There was a darkness that didn’t simply cling to her, it came from her and she embraced it … to a certain extent.

  Lazarus thought about the black opal around her neck. A cheap trinket crafted by those without magic of their own in an attempt to control the torrent that wreaked havoc inside her. It wouldn’t last her long if she lost control again.

  He sipped his drink as thoughts of the woman in white held him.

  A soft knock brought Lazarus to his feet. He closed the distance between his chair and the door in several long strides. One click of the latch and a twist of the handle and the wooden panel swung open.

  “You called for m-me, sir?”

  Lazarus stared down at the thin man that had been following the stage master all night, waiting in the wings. Lazarus nodded and stepped to the side, allowing the other man entrance. Caine’s gaze darted around the room before he hesitantly moved inside, his left leg dragging a bit behind him.

  “Take a seat,” Lazarus said, gesturing towards the chair he had just vacated next to the fireplace.

  Trembling as though he were a newborn calf, the man did so. His eyes continued to dart around, one of them not quite as fast as the other, giving him a rather dull look.

  “Would you like a drink?” Lazarus didn’t wait for a response as he poured another glass and handed it over. Without much of a choice, Caine took the amber liquid and stared at it with wary trepidation, then sipped until he gagged.

  Lazarus hid a smirk behind the rim of his glass as he took a long swig. “I called you here, Caine, because I know you’re a smart man.”

  “Sir?”

  “Were you aware that you had a criminal living at the amphitheater?” Lazarus asked. Caine’s eyes stopped bouncing, and Lazarus nodded. “Yes, just today I saw a girl that nearly beat a man to death in the marketplace.”

  Caine’s trembles lessened the more he sipped his drink. “Oh?” he said, less shaky this time.

  “I was quite surprised to see that same woman in your show tonight,” Lazarus stressed the word ‘your,’ watching for the other man’s reaction. “They’re offering quite a sum for the person who gives them any information regarding her whereabouts.”

  “It’s not m—” Caine stopped himself, pausing as he thought something over. “They are?” he asked instead.

  Lazarus nodded. “I assumed you didn’t know,” he said slowly. “That you hadn’t heard.” Lazarus knew he had. Everyone had heard about Quinn’s little episode.

  “No, I had no clue,” Caine lied. “Who did you say this was, again?”

  Lazarus couldn’t stop the cruel smile that graced his lips for a brief moment. But he needn’t have worried. Caine was too busy thinking of the monetary opportunity Lazarus knew he would take full advantage of.

  “I believe she was introduced as Mirior.” He laid the groundwork to see that the right chain of events happened. To do what he saw as best for all parties involved.

  Caine nodded, draining the last of his spirits and teetering on his feet as his stood up too quickly. “Thank you, sir, for the information. I will make sure to pass this on.”

  Lazarus stood as well and led the man to the door. “I’m sure you will,” he said as he turned the knob and showed the man out. “I’m sure you will.”

  The door clicked shut and Lazarus’ eyes glanced towards the envelope sitting on his bedside table. It carried the seal of one of the only men he still respected in this world. But Lazarus didn’t have time to respond to Claudius at the moment. He knew what that letter contained and if he opened it, solidifying his suspicions, he would have to leave before he could procure what he came to Dumas for.

  And Lazarus wasn’t willing to leave without the girl.

  Cimmerian Skies

  “Never leave anything to chance. Few Gods are as fickle as Lady Luck.”

  — Quinn Darkova, former slave, wanted fugitive

  Quinn woke with a startle. Morning light poured through the small window that hovered over the loft. She blinked twice and stretched her tired limbs. Sleep hadn’t come easy after her encounter with the strange man from the market. Dreams of black tendrils and dark desires mixed together in a hazy recollection that she was rapidly forgetting the longer she laid there.

  Wasting no time, she slipped out of the lumpy bed and half slid, half climbed down the ladder to the main area of her dressing room. She pulled on her worn leather pants, bending at the knees to work them all the way up. A quick glance in the mirror told her that her mass of silver-white hair needed to be tamed. Left wild and unruly, she’d attract too much attention. Braiding the strands back as quickly as possible, Quinn searched for her discarded boots and began to ready herself for the coming journey.

  Three books, a black opal, the papers that proved she was a free woman—despite her remaining brands—and ten pieces of silver were all the worldly possessions she held. If it wouldn’t draw so much attention, Quinn may have considered taking the stage clothes she performed in and selling them off in the market. But as it was, she was running late, and the amphitheater would be too packed to sneak out something so large. She’d have to make do.

  With her items stowed away in her handmade satchel, Quinn walked out of her dressing room and didn’t look back. All she could do was go forward.

  “She has silver hair and blue eyes—you can’t miss her,” Caine was saying to someone. Approaching the curtain that opened up to the greater amphitheater, she paused.

  “She’s in the door at the end of the hall, you say?” another voice asked, one she didn’t recognize.

  “Yes, just through that—” He made a sound of protest. “Where’s my payment?”

  Dread settled in Quinn’s stomach like a lead weight.

  She was right to leave, but she’d acted too late. Myori’s wrath! Caine had already run his mouth to the city guards.

  The amulet between her breasts pulsed as a sliver of power snaked up her arms. Fear. Black and potent. She didn’t feel afraid, though, oh no. She felt powerful. Strong. It was a heady thing
, this emotion that motivated so many. To Quinn, it was the ultimate drug. The very thing that brought her clarity … and also stole it away.

  The barrier tried to contain it, tried and failed as the darkness slithered along her arms.

  She took two steps back and bolted for the other exit. Her body was just disappearing around the corner when the curtain at her back swished aside.

  Shouts rang out as footsteps trampled in her wake.

  She flung herself at the back door, using her momentum to open it. The wood splintered apart at the lock and the door swung wide, banging against the side of the old amphitheater. The sound ricocheted through the southern market of Dumas as Quinn took to the streets, guards hot on her tail. She sprinted down the narrow alleyway and veered left, running away from the slums and into the thickening mass of people.

  Bells rang out, coming from the square and the crowd grew frenzied. Confused looks followed her as Quinn raced down the sandy streets as fast as her legs would carry her.

  She was quicker than the guards. She was more motivated than them.

  But they had one thing that Quinn did not.

  Strength in numbers.

  The end of the street was blocked off with more soldiers dressed in the Norcastan uniform of white and gold. Not just city enforcers then, but the army as well. If she got out of this, it would be by the skin of her teeth and the goddess Fortuna’s blessing.

  “Stop!” Their shouts echoed all around. On either side tents and city walls surrounded her. There would be no running.

  With every exhale of her breath, black wisps drifted from her mouth like smoke from a dragon’s lungs.

  She reached inside her shirt and pulled the stone from her chest. The veins within it pulsed unnaturally bright. She knew her body’s own response to fear was blowing through what was left of the barrier meant to help contain her powers.