“Calum,” Nim replied. It was all she offered. It was best not to speak, even when one thought they had something that needed saying. It was never worth it.
Nim kept her gaze on Calum’s chair, though he was not in it just yet. It made the task considerably easier, but her eyes wanted to roam the contracts splayed over his desk. They stank of magic, sulfur, blood, and—somehow—regret. She was aware that somewhere among the untold number of contracts hidden throughout the Trust, her own contract waited. She could not break it, could not remove the seal to even see what was written inside, and no part of her wanted to try even to touch it so that Calum might discover she’d tried and deem her in default of the terms.
“What brings you to my post this evening, Nimona of Inara?” His voice held a purr—evidently, he was in a particular sort of mood. It was not the sort of mood Nimona cared for, though none of them really were.
“Tithe day,” she said.
Calum’s footsteps were silent, but she could feel him moving closer, feel the heat of his magic ebb and flow against icy waves of fear. An instinct in her said run, and Nimona had come to understand exactly how correct it had been. But she was tied to the Trust, and with the contract—so like those spread on the desk before her—she was tied to him, her warden, as well. No matter how preferable leaving might have been, Nim could do nothing but stay.
No one knew where the magic came from. It was older than the foundations of Inara and just as unshakable. The only thing certain was that magic was in the blood. Only those who held it—those of the Trust—passed it to their children. Calum was from the most powerful lineage of all. And Nim was only human.
“Hmm,” he rumbled. “You’ve not much to say tonight.” He slid into her view, his dark eyes smiling and his mouth tipped up at the corner. Nim never had much to say if she could help it, especially not when he was so close. Her fingers twitched, but she had to hold them fast and force her gaze away from his.
Calum bit his lip, the point of his incisor somehow predatory even in that brief glimpse. “Do tell me what you’ve brought, Nimona.” His tone felt teasing, as if it said she was his favorite, as if he looked forward to the nights she was forced to come more than anything else. But his long fingers rested on the carved grip of a cane, and those whispered he wanted to strike her with it and make her blood run over the stones beneath their feet. Perhaps both were true.
Nim pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and held her jaw still. Her chest was rising and falling steadily enough, but only after years of practice. She released her hands from their grip behind her back, slowly reaching into her vest to withdraw a fabric pouch. She much preferred setting her tithes on his desk, but Calum was standing between her and any flat surface, his gaze devouring her every move. He was maybe five and thirty and looked nothing like the monster he truly was. Had she been a normal lady and he a gentleman of court, he might have been just what she enjoyed. As it was, Calum’s grace and well-defined jaw only made her loathe him more. She loosened the string ties and waited for Calum to reach for his due. It was a moment before he finally did, and her chest eased as she upended the pouch over his open palm.
“As you requested.” The pendant had been from a lady whose contract was up, and Nim suspected Calum was only toying with the woman before he sent his men. He had no real need of Nim with a hundred merciless accountants at his beck and call. Nim had seen what they could do. She’d felt the magic tear through its victims, the torment it wrought far worse than pain or death.
Calum rolled the pendant between his fingers then slid it into the pocket of his coat. He tugged his hem, not that it needed straightening, but more, Nim thought, in an attempt to draw her eyes.
It didn’t work. “Next month’s tithe.” The words came out as more of a demand than she intended.
Calum wet his lips. “So eager, my lady. We both know there is no reason to rush.”
Nim’s teeth pressed together hard. What they both knew was that debt was swallowing her, that the interest on her father’s contract and the tasks set upon her would not allow her ever to get free. That didn’t mean she relished being in Calum’s company. The rush was that she wanted nothing more than to escape it. She silently stared at the wall past him.
He let out a small laugh then turned to stroll to the opposite side of the desk. His boots were trim and polished, his uniform impeccable, but Calum’s hair was missing a small chunk near the base of his neck. He turned to settle into his chair, and Nim snapped her gaze forward once more. Looking at him had been a mistake that she hoped he hadn’t caught. Don’t think of her, Nim warned herself. Not Calum’s mother and head of the Trust. She was too near the woman’s lair.
Calum cleared his throat as if he could somehow sense the direction of Nim’s thoughts, and she was once again reminded that soon, the head of the Trust would not be a woman they both feared. The head of the Trust would be Calum.
She was grateful for the tonic she’d swigged in her room.
He slid a strip of parchment across the desk. Nim stepped forward, her gaze only passing over the note, though her hands longed to reach out and touch the fine material.
Then her eyes shot to Calum’s. Her heart struggled for rhythm, but she could not say whether it was owing merely to fear. She’d caught his gaze, and he had been ready for it, and Nim could do nothing about it. She was trapped. Worse were the words on the parchment, the task he’d set. Are you trying to get me hanged? she wanted to scream, and she might have, had her voice not been snared with her heart in her throat.
Calum’s dark eyes seemed to read her mind, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “Yes,” he told her. “I do think you’ll enjoy this task, won’t you, Nim?”
The familiar use of her name snapped her out of his magic’s hold on her, and she forced her eyes back to the paper—to the slanted script that read not just the name of a mark but a mark who was the king’s seneschal, Warrick Spenser.
“It’s impossible,” she whispered. “How”—Nim swallowed. She would have to gain access to the man’s personal rooms, to a suite inside the castle. She could not understand what madness Calum was playing at. The seneschal was second to the king, the very man responsible for the hanging of those who associated with magic, the head of law and order for Inara. “And if I cannot?”
Calum’s soft chuckle nearly brought her gaze to his again, where it might have been snared, but the coldness that swept through her stayed her will. Nim was aware of the terms of the tithes, even if she’d never read the contract that bound her to them. To miss her dues would be the end of what little freedom she knew and the death of hope. Calum’s tone only confirmed it. “Ask me in a month and see.”
Chapter 2
Nim was plagued by nightmares worse than the usual tithe-night sort, woke late the next day rumpled and ill mannered, and could not be consoled by rashers or biscuits. In fact, her mood wasn’t resolved even after Allister attempted to intrigue her with valet tittle-tattle. Honestly, that the man had even spoken the words “tittle-tattle” should have been enough.
“I thank you for your valiant efforts, my good man, but I’m afraid I’ll need a moment to mourn what’s left of my freedom.”