Blood Heir

“Almost.” Seeing May always cleared her mind and calmed her nerves, and the word nearly felt real. “Were you all right by yourself?”

May nodded, and a copperstone appeared in her hands. “I have three cop’stones left. Do you want them back?” The copperstone caught the shine of the firelight, a small leaf engraved in the center of the coin.

Ana hesitated. She knew what these coins meant to May, who had spent her life accumulating meager sums of money to pay off the impossible amount of the contract she’d been made to sign. In the past, Ana might have spent dozens of cop’stones on a piece of ptychy’moloko milk cake, coins flowing through her fingers like water without a care as to their value.

Meeting May had changed that.

Ana gently curled a hand around May’s, tucking the coin back into the girl’s fist. “We earned this together. Keep it, and let’s buy ourselves a treat at the next town.”

May slipped the coin carefully back into her tunic. “Do you think we’ll find Ma-ma at the next town?” she asked.

Ana paused, studying May’s face carefully, but the child’s hopeful gaze didn’t waver. It haunted Ana that this girl loved so easily after what she’d been through. Over time, Ana had pieced together the child’s story: a long journey from the Chi’gon Kingdom, her home in the Aseatic region, with her mother in search of a brighter future, only to find those dreams shattered and her mother sent away by a separate contract.

And May had been exploited for her earth Affinity and stuck with a debt that kept growing.

With every day, the realization had grown louder and louder in Ana’s head: That could have been me.

“We will,” Ana replied. “We’ll find your ma-ma even if I have to knock on every single door of this empire.”

May’s smile stretched, and she threw her arms around Ana, burying her face against Ana’s shirt. “You won’t leave again, right?” Her voice came out muffled, and when Ana looked down, she caught a pair of bright ocean eyes peering up at her shyly. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

A knot formed in Ana’s throat. She knew the ache of having lost a mother at such a young age. The feeling that you had done something wrong, that you could be abandoned by those you loved all over again, never went away.

So Ana squeezed May tight in her arms and whispered, “I’m always here.”

The sound of splashing water drew both of their attention to the wash closet.

May’s eyes narrowed. “That strange man brought you home, and because he sort of saved your life, I told him he could have a warm bath before leaving,” she said.

Ana felt her lips curling despite herself. “Smart girl,” she said conspiratorially.

“He was smelly. And dirty.”

“I know,” Ana said. “He’s disgusting and stupid and ugly.” It was immature, but it felt good to say anyway.

The wash closet door flew open.

In a flash, Ana heaved herself from the bed and shoved May behind her. Her injured arm throbbed at the sudden motion, but all of her attention was focused on Ramson Quicktongue.

He had shaved and cleaned the grime from his face. Now she could see that he was much younger than she had guessed—perhaps only a few years older than she. His tousled sandy hair curled on his forehead, droplets of water carving a path down his chiseled cheeks. The contrast from his filthy, unkempt state earlier made him appear startlingly handsome—the type of roguish good-looking face more befitting a Bregonian marine or Cyrilian Imperial Patrol than a shady underground crook.

Quicktongue shot a smile at May. Ana imagined it had fangs. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Don’t talk to her,” Ana snarled. She turned and said quickly, “May, please go and take a bath.”

The child grabbed the pail of snow and slipped into the wash closet. She turned and, glaring at Ramson, drew a finger across her neck before slamming the door shut. A satisfying click sounded as the door closed, and Ana’s heart settled.

She rounded on Quicktongue.

He was bruising; on his wrists where the sleeves of his tunic ended, angry red patches bloomed from where she had broken blood vessels. Guilt churned in her stomach, but she pushed it down. He hadn’t hesitated to use and betray her. Guilt was an emotion wasted on this kind of a man.

Quicktongue’s mouth quirked into a smile that was both devious and charming at once. “Well, Ana, love,” he said, and her insides turned cold. “Here we are. You asked for my aid, and I asked for a way out of Ghost Falls. If only wishes came true every day.”

Ana bit back a sharp retort. This wasn’t some argument she was having with Luka or Yuri. This was a calculated stance against an enemy. There was no telling what he was planning and what he was hiding from her—even his accent, she noticed, had shifted slightly from last night. She had to tread very carefully.

“I’ve delivered my end of the bargain,” she said instead. “Now it’s your turn.” She clamped down on the urge to remind him of her Affinity, just to prove that she could hurt him if she wanted to. That she still held some shred of power over him. That her plan hadn’t all gone to … nothing. “I don’t care if you don’t have a clue who he is or where he is. You’re going to help me find the alchemist, and you’re going to do it in two weeks. I’ve heard enough of your reputation, and I know you’re capable of it.”

He had to be. All other searches, paid bounty hunters or trackers, had led to dead ends. Ramson Quicktongue was her last chance.

Ana didn’t say that.

Quicktongue raised his brows. “You’ve heard enough of my reputation,” he repeated, as though savoring the words on his tongue. He almost looked pleased, but then his eyes narrowed. “And what makes you think I’ll help you, now that I’m free as a bird?”

Conniving, backstabbing con man. If he wanted to play dirty, so be it.

She could threaten him. The thought had been lingering in her mind for a while: an ugly, twisted thing she hadn’t wanted to bring into the light.

Show him what you can do, my little monster.

“You remember what I did in the prison?” The memory of crimson pooling across white marble halls flashed across her mind. It sickened her to bring it up, but she pressed on. “I could do the same to you.” She took a step closer, exhilaration pushing her forward, the thrill of danger drawing her toward him. “Can you imagine how it would feel to die with blood leaking from you, drop by drop?”

“I’ll admit, that hurt.” He wet his lips. “But there are worse things to fear in life. Whatever torture you’re thinking of, I’ve probably been through it. I suppose that makes it extremely difficult to threaten me, doesn’t it?”

Ana drew a tight breath. He was bluffing—he had to be. And he was challenging her to call his bluff. His eyes crinkled as he watched her, waiting for her response. Those eyes were cunning eyes, quick and intelligent … but they weren’t coward’s eyes. They held no fear.

He would learn to fear her. Just like everybody else did.

Ana shot him her most feral grin. Her Affinity stirred. Against the remnants of the Deys’voshk, it was still weak, but growing stronger. “So many others sang the same tune at first. I had them groveling at my feet within minutes.”

“You sound like you have experience.”

“You know nothing of what I’ve been through. I’m going to ask you one more time, and I hope for your sake you’ll give the right answer. Will you help me find my alchemist?”

“I will.”

Ana blinked. The sinister thoughts, the twisted memories, and the pull of her Affinity dissolved. All that was left was the crackling of fire in the hearth, the splashing sounds from the wash closet, and a child’s muffled humming.

“You look startled.” Ramson Quicktongue raised his eyebrows.

If she had gotten her way, why did it feel like he’d won? Ana crossed her arms, her brain whirring even as she spoke. What had she missed? “I don’t believe you.” What are you playing at?

“A wise decision. I’m a businessman, after all.” His gaze sharpened. “I never give anything without asking for something in return.”

Anger rose in her, sharp and hot. “In return? I broke you out of that prison. I saved you from rotting in that cell. You owe me.”

“I didn’t ask you to free me. I suggested an exchange, but we agreed to nothing.” Quicktongue spoke conversationally, as though they were bartering over the price of beets at a marketplace.

Ana was bargaining for her life.

“So, I don’t owe you anything, Witch,” he continued, picking at a fingernail. “But I’d be willing to speak the language of deals.”

Her voice came out in a snarl. “You think you’re in a position to ask for something?”

“Oh, I do. You’ve been threatening me with torture for the past few minutes. If you actually wanted to do it, you would’ve done it already. Clearly, you need me. So let’s stop dancing around the topic and get to the bargain, shall we?”

He had called her bluff. Ana’s heart hammered as she stared back at the con man, refusing to break eye contact first. Papa had always taught her that strong eye contact was a show of confidence. But even as she scrambled for a response, she found her confidence waning.

Brat. She heard her brother’s voice in her head, saw the glint of intelligence in his eyes as he leaned over their game of chess. Think.

Luka had told her that a negotiation was like a game of chess. To succeed, one had to consider the endgame above all else. It had seemed like such an obvious lesson at the time, but Ana found herself clutching it tightly to her now. Her goal—her endgame—was to get him to find the alchemist, the true murderer. And now the con man wanted something more from her in return.

Why not? After all, what more did she have to lose?

Perhaps not every move needed to be a triumphant one, as long as she was moving toward her endgame.

“What is it that you want?” she asked, lifting her chin. This way, it was easy to pretend that she was a princess granting a favor, not a nobody begging for help.

“Revenge,” said the con man.

“And you think I can help you achieve that?”

“Perhaps. You are, after all, threatening me with your power over my mortal being.”

Of course—of course he wanted to use her for her Affinity. Ana narrowed her eyes. Luka’s voice whispered to her, gently pushing her on. Be specific. Flesh out the details. “Tell me what your revenge scheme entails. And be specific.”

Quicktongue’s smile widened as though he found something delightful in her response. “All right, I’ll be specific. I plan to destroy my enemies one by one and take back my position and what was rightfully mine. For that, I’ll need an ally. Someone powerful. And by the Deities”—he gave her a look that was somehow both caressing and calculating at the same time—“you must be the most powerful flesh Affinite I’ve ever seen.”

Flesh Affinite. Ana almost let out a breath in relief. Flesh, not blood. She’d kept her secret well, and it was imperative that Ramson Quicktongue continue to think she was a flesh Affinite. Because while there were hundreds of flesh Affinites, working as butchers or soldiers or guards, there was only one Blood Witch of Salskoff.

Ramson Quicktongue was not as smart as he thought he was.

“I won’t kill anyone for you, if that’s what you want.”

“Kill? I never said ‘kill.’ I said ‘destroy.’ There are many ways to destroy a man besides taking his life.”

The bartenders and bounty hunters had described Ramson Quicktongue as cunning and ruthless. She hadn’t understood them until now.

Ana steeled her nerves. She dictated the terms, not him. And she would never choose to harm innocent people.

Really, now? Sadov whispered in her head. Little monster, do you think yourself so righteous? Do you really think you’re above this con man, when you have so much blood on your hands—

“No torture,” Ana said loudly. “No killing. I am to decide how to use my Affinity in our alliance. I’ll ensure that no harm comes to you, and that you can dispatch your enemies as you wish. If you agree to those terms, I’ll pledge my alliance to you for two weeks. After you’ve found my alchemist.”

He narrowed his eyes, tapping a finger on his chin thoughtfully. “Three weeks,” he said. “And in return, I want three weeks to find your alchemist as well.”

“We agreed on two.”

“I never agreed; I considered.”

“Don’t get caught up in the technicalities.”

“Don’t be stubborn. We both know that you need me, and I need you. That’s why we’re still here, talking to each other in a civil fashion. Three weeks, Witch—that’s only fair. Look, I’ll make a Trade with you, to show you my goodwill.”

He sounded sincere, which made her even warier. “A what?”

“A Trade. A con man’s promise.”

“You realize you just contradicted yourself, don’t you?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Believe it or not, there is a code of honor among the thieves of the underworld. The Trade. It’s a contract of a mutually beneficial exchange. Think of it more as a … a type of currency, for us. Once you invoke the Trade, there’s no reneging—otherwise, you face dire consequences.”

“Why does that matter? You’ll face dire consequences if you renege on your offer, Trade or no Trade.”

The con man sighed. “Look. I’ll find your alchemist,” he said, and Ana felt hope rustle its wings inside her. “I’ll do it in three weeks. I could track jetsam back to its ship if I wished. And in return, you’ll pledge your allegiance to me for three weeks.”

It sounded straightforward enough. “All right,” Ana said. Her mind was working fast, searching the agreement for holes, buttoning up the last of the terms. “So you agree to my terms?”

Ramson Quicktongue looked at her in that calculating, inscrutable way of his—yet Ana sensed something else in his gaze. Something like … curiosity.

“Very well,” he said at last, and pushed himself off the wall, tossing his washcloth on the floor. “I agree to your terms. Six weeks together, during which I keep my nose out of your business and you keep your nose out of mine. You’ll have your revenge, I’ll have mine, and we’ll part ways with nothing but fond memories of each other.” He spread his arms. “What do you say, Witch? Trade up?”

Her head was light with elation and disbelief. It felt as though a huge weight had lifted from her chest.

She had survived a jailbreak from one of the most secure prisons in the Empire and had gotten one of the most infamous crooks in the Cyrilian Empire to agree to a bargain on her terms. And, most important, within three weeks’ time, she would have the true murderer of that unforgettable night.

It had taken her nearly an entire year to get here. Several moons to crawl out of the black hole that Papa’s death had left in her heart; several more wasted on bounty hunters and trackers that went nowhere; a few more to find Quicktongue and form a plan to enter Ghost Falls.

She was close. So close.

Almost a year ago, Papa had been murdered, and everything in her life had fallen apart. And, in three weeks, she would be on her way back to Salskoff to clear her name.

That was her endgame.

Ana stared at Quicktongue’s hand. At the crooked grin on his face. At the gleam of intent in his eyes.

“Trade up,” she echoed, and grasped his palm.

6

Ramson woke long before the first light of dawn broke, its cold blue rays filtering through the tattered curtains and rimming the thin window. He leaned against the wooden walls of the shack, running his fingers over the inside of his left wrist.

A tattoo the size of his thumb occupied that spot: a simple yet elegant design of a single stalk of lily of the valley, with three small, bell-shaped flowers and a razor-sharp stem. The ink was black as night, carved so deep into his skin that it had become a part of his living flesh, just as the Order of the Lily had consumed his life. And then destroyed it.

The sight of the tattoo brought back memories as vivid as they were painful. It was as though no time and all the time in the world had passed since he had stumbled up the gleaming marble steps to Alaric Esson Kerlan’s home. Kerlan was the founder of the largest business enterprise in Cyrilia. The sprawling Goldwater Trading Group held monopolies over most of the prominent industries in the Empire—timber, nonferrous metals, weaponry, and the prized blackstone mined in the far north at Krazyast Triangle—as well as private ownership of Cyrilia’s busiest trading port, Goldwater Port.

The trading port that Ramson had run, up until several moons ago.

But few associated the Goldwater Trading Group with the most notorious criminal organization in Cyrilia: the Order of the Lily, which ran underground businesses with traffickers and illegal Affinite trades. Indentured labor was the backbone of the Goldwater Trading Group, and the cheap employment contracts it purchased from its owner’s criminal organization helped keep its prices the lowest in Cyrilian markets.

Amid all this was Alaric Kerlan: successful businessman who had built his commercial empire as a foreigner to Cyrilia with merely a cop’stone to his name, and ruthless Lord of the Lilies in the dark underbelly of Cyrilia.

On the day of Ramson’s initiation, Kerlan had strapped him to a hard iron table in his basement and crushed a white-hot tong into the flesh of his chest. You feel this, boy? he’d gritted out to a screaming, half-delirious Ramson. You’ll only feel pain like this twice in your life. The first time, when you’ve earned my trust and passed the gates of hell into the Order of the Lily. The second time, when you’ve broken that trust and I throw you back into hell. So remember this moment, and remember it well. And ask yourself if you ever want to feel this kind of pain again.

Kerlan had flung the iron tongs onto the floor and asked the stencilmaster to tattoo Ramson.

Ramson closed his hand over his wrist, blocking out the sight of the tattoo and the memory of the searing pain from the brand. In the silver-blue sheen of an impending wintry dawn, he could just make out the outlines of the two sleeping girls, huddled beneath a ragged fur blanket, their chests rising and falling with each breath.

Which meant it was time for him to move.

He stole across the dacha, carefully planting his feet near the walls where the old wooden floorboards had the least flex. He had noticed the small worktable by the door as soon as he’d stepped inside last night. Its worn surface was strewn with papers and scrolls and pens.

Life had taught Ramson that he would never allow himself to get the short end of the stick. Even as the conditions for his end of the Trade had rolled off his tongue, smooth as marbles, another plan had quickly taken form in his mind.

This girl was by far the most powerful Affinite he had seen in this empire throughout all his years of working for Kerlan’s organization. He’d studied enough about Affinites to surmise that hers was likely an Affinity to flesh. He could draw up an unending list of people who would kill for her talents. Which was why she was the key to his regaining his standing in the Order of the Lily.

Alaric Kerlan was a harsh, brutal person—the type of cold-eyed, stone-cut demon of a man one needed to be to succeed in his vast criminal empire—yet he was also a logical one. He’d seen Ramson’s uncanny talent for business and negotiation from the start, and trained him from running small errands to gradually managing parts of his enterprise. By age eighteen, Ramson had become a Deputy of the Order with the precious Goldwater Port under his purview. Controlling Cyrilia’s largest port meant he held a hand and a generous cut in Cyrilia’s lifeblood of foreign trade, from anything as harmless as Bregonian fish and Nandjian cocoa to powerful Kemeiran weaponry.

It also meant he had the power to start distancing himself from the Order of the Lily. For most of his employment under Kerlan, Ramson had been a grunt running menial tasks and conducting side schemes to raise the margins of the criminal organization. He’d heard of the blood trades they conducted, yet with the little freedom he’d had to choose his projects, he’d kept to conning rich men and swindling businessmen: taking down competitors of the Goldwater Trading Group to allow it to maintain its monopoly in the Empire.

The darkest deeds of the Order—assassinations and trafficking—had been beyond what Ramson could stomach, and he’d gone out of his way to avoid being assigned to any such tasks.

Until a year ago, when Kerlan had chosen him for a suicide mission that had resulted in him being arrested, stripped of his ranking, and thrown into Ghost Falls.

He’d failed Kerlan in many ways: botched the most important job of his life, left the Order without a Deputy, and left his betrayer to roam free for the duration of his imprisonment.

He’d fix all that; with the witch’s help, he’d root out the mole in Kerlan’s ranks and claw his way back as rightful Deputy of the Order, Portmaster of Goldwater Port. And when all that was done … he would hand her over to Kerlan. To have an Affinite as powerful as her under the Order’s control would be the cherry on top of his cake.

He’d take it back—he’d take it all back. His title. His fortune. His power.

But Ramson hadn’t become the former Deputy of the most notorious crime network in the Empire just by luck. He was thorough and calculating in every aspect of his job, and he made an effort to understand everything down to the colors of his associates’ window curtains and bedsheets. There was nothing not worth knowing.

And if there was any due diligence to be done in this ramshackle little dacha, it had to be on the worktable.

The table was strewn with objects—a wealth of information. He palmed a few dusty globefires that had burned out, reduced to empty glass orbs filled with ashes, and carefully pushed aside some blank parchments and charcoal pencils.

The first thing he discovered was a book, its cover worn to the point that he could barely make out the title: Aseatic Children’s Stories. Somebody had written several lines of a poem on the cover page inside; the elegant penmanship resembled that of a professional scribe.

My child, we are but dust and stars.

Ramson set the book aside.

He picked through a dozen or so blank scrolls before he hit treasure in the form of a map.

With practiced fingers, he wiggled it loose. The map unfurled with a sigh.

Like the children’s book, it showed signs of wear: someone had penciled in notes all across the outline of the Empire in the same beautiful penmanship. Some of the notes were smudged with age, while others were as new as a freshly minted contract.

The notes were brief but to the point, written in formal Cyrilian. Buzhny, one read, directly on top of where the small town of Buzhny might have been on the map. Inquiry; no sign of alchemist.

Pyedbogorozhk, said another; Inquiry for bounty hunter. Received name from trader.

The map was gold. The witch—if this was, indeed, her map and handwriting—had written the history of her mysterious mission all over this map like a set of footprints. Ramson set it aside carefully to scan the rest of the items on the table before he returned to it.

His eyes caught on something at the corner of a page: the outline of half a face, peering out from the pile.

Ramson reached for it too eagerly. His tunic sleeves caught on a scroll. The papers slid, cascading into a graceful pool on the worktable. As though they wanted to be seen.

They were sketches. Dozens of them, fanning out over each other on the coarse surface of the table. He caught glimpses of a shaggy-haired dog, curled up by a fire; portions of a domed castle in what looked like a wintry landscape; a beautiful, doe-eyed woman with long locks …