There was no fighting when they didn’t need soldiers to do their killing. No, this was a permanent slum, bonded to hopeless servitude for crimes their ancestors committed in some cases. In others, they were prisoners of war. Like Slay and maybe the new woman who’d slowly turned to face him while he was lost in thought.
“Thank you,” she said, low.
His eyes widened with poorly concealed surprise. She had a husky voice, deeper than he expected from her slight frame, a glass of old whiskey and a crackling fire, or someone who’d just tumbled from bed. All three, possibly.
“For what?”
“Catching me.”
“You’re welcome.” It had been pure instinct, not a conscious decision to help, not that the woman seemed to be listening anymore.
Instead, she peered into their collective bedroom. The stone alcove where they slept had been cut into the rock and there were pallets laid side by side, forcing ten people to squeeze in where five should fit. Slay had woken up more than once with strangers reclining on him, arms and legs everywhere. Sometimes he went cat because the Gols were less likely to encroach on his space that way, and it was easier to keep himself clean in that form too. Guards didn’t like it when they showed up and had to wrangle a jaguar, though. The first time it happened, he got extra time in the box—what prisoners called solitary confinement. It wasn’t so bad in the beginning, but after a while, he started hearing voices.
Pru, sometimes. Why didn’t you love me more? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
His dead mother, quite often. It burns. I can’t breathe. Help me, please. Please…
With a deliberate shake of his head, he wondered if the woman they’d dumped practically on top of him had news of the outside world. Despite evidence of a recent beating, she’d clearly eaten better than everyone else and when he drew closer, her skin glimmered in the rushlight, showing signs that she’d been in the sun recently. He tried not to come across as deranged or desperate; in truth, he was both.
“Sounds like you’ve been to the undercity before,” he said then.
“I was born here.”
And she escaped? There must be a way.
Slay tamped down the frantic wave of hope. “How did you get out? Can you find the route again?”
A flicker of a smile curved her mouth. “If only I could. Prince Alastor paid the blood debt for a whole platoon of us. I served with him and now I’m a prisoner of war. The tyrant will torment me until he gets bored and then execute me as a traitor.”
Slay stilled, unable to process the matter-of-fact way she made that declaration. Not with dramatic flair or hyperbole, just a quiet assessment of her situation and its inevitable outcome. For some reason, it did something to him, knowing that she—like him—stood in a shadow so deep that she couldn’t imagine the light ever getting back in again.
He had no explanation for his next words. “Not if I can help it.”
2.
Rowena laughed.
It was rude, certainly, and out of place in the undercity. Levity and joy seldom found purchase here, so she drew a few stares from their fellow prisoners. Quickly their eyes slid away. None of them strayed close, giving her current companion a wide berth. This man must be a troublemaker, judging by the number of fresh scars marring his arms and shoulders. The others likely preferred not to associate with him, lest they attract attention from the authorities. Such concerns mattered to her not at all since a target had been marked on her back since birth.
The Vega legacy was beyond twisted, and the tyrant’s father had brought him to the undercity as a boy, instructing Tycho to pick a plaything. It was unbelievable that he hadn’t killed her with his fascination over the years, though he’d skirted dangerously close to the edge. Oddly, his interest never waned, though there were respites when he was busy. The tyrant always returned to plague her. Always. There had been times when Rowena wished her life would end. Now, however, she refused to die before she brought the tyrant low.
The only question was how.
But this man had been observing in incredulous silence; it was rude of her not to reply. “What can you do to stop it?” she asked, as her amusement subsided, swirling away like dirty water down a drain.
“Hell if I know. But it seems like you’re no more resigned to your fate than I am. Maybe we should team up.”
Intrigued, she took a closer look. This one hadn’t been born in the undercity. Too much muscle, too defiant and strong, even bearing the marks of punishment. He’d been here less than a year, she reckoned, not long enough to accept his fate. Perhaps he’d been banished for some petty crime, a shame if that were true, as he’d—suddenly, she narrowed her eyes. His features seemed familiar somehow, as if she’d seen him somewhere before.
In a moment, recollection sparked in her brain. She’d glimpsed him in passing before the conclave. This was the Ash Valley lieutenant who’d gone missing after one of the battles. Gossips had argued whether he was a prisoner of war or a traitor incited by some petty personal grievance. It seemed she had the answer, not that it did her any good.
“You’re Animari,” she whispered.
He cut her a sharp look and moved closer, his voice deep and low. “How do you know that? Your people don’t have enhanced senses.”
Rowena raised a brow. “My people?”
“You smell like an Eldritch.”
The Animari couldn’t know what a comfort that was—to learn that she smelled more like her mother than the Golgoth who’d viciously ravished the woman who bore her. But there was no denying that half of her nature either. She had no Eldritch gift, and her sire’s brutality lived and breathed in her; she was subject to the same blood rage after every battle. Since the Animari was a stranger, she didn’t confide her thoughts.
Instead, she said, “Then neither of us belongs here.”
“Right there with you. I’ve memorized the patrol routes and times. The guards really aren’t the problem, though.”
“No, it’s the fact that we’d have to make our way up through all the tiers, and none of the citizens would lift a finger to help us. We need to be invisible or we need to foment a rebellion. There’s no middle ground.”
“I’ve been called a sneaky bastard in my time, but I suspect we’d get caught at some point. Does that mean you’re up to rouse some rabble?”
“Beats certain death,” Rowena said.
She didn’t touch people casually. The tyrant had taken too much from her, too often, and without consent for her to offer such contact readily, but for some reason, she extended a hand to the Animari who’d proposed the partnership. “I’m Rowena.”
“Slay,” he said, shaking her hand firmly.
That’s right.
In Ash Valley, she had heard the name and promptly forgot it, as she cared only about serving Prince Alastor’s interests. Sometimes he’d asked her to repeat the local gossip, so she kept her ears open. There had been a minor scandal, something about this man’s lover marrying someone else and suddenly becoming one of the pride leaders. A power move, it sounded like, more than a love match.
She made a snap decision, regarding Slay steadily. “Under the circumstances, I won’t say it’s nice to meet you, but it is convenient. I could use an ally. Tell me a little about yourself so I can assess your strengths.”