Yes. This. More.
Slay wanted to be vital to somebody, as a friend or a protector. Didn’t matter a damn how she saw him. His hand trembled when he raised it to touch her hair, far too light for her to feel it. Since she’d agreed to share body heat, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. The strands slipped through his fingers like moonlight, the softest thing he’d ever felt. Carefully, he wrapped a length loosely around his fist, and only then did he manage to get to sleep.
He woke to a boot in the ribs, Timms wading among the prisoners, kicking at random. On instinct, he shielded Rowena who was still cuddled against him. Even under these circumstances, he battled a baffling pleasure that she’d stayed close all night long.
“Get up, you lazy fucks! You’re late!”
Since the sixth bell was ringing this moment, that was utter bullshit, but he knew better than to pick a fight with Timms, who acted pissed off already. Another guard joined Timms, and the duo herded their prisoners to the mess, where they got a pitiful ration of gruel and bitter beer. Those provisions wouldn’t keep Slay alive long term. He’d already lost critical muscle mass, and soon he wouldn’t have the energy to shift. There was a terrible logic in this deprivation. Otherwise the Golgoth in the undercity might muster the energy for defiance, change to their demon forms, and run amok.
We need better food. And more of it.
Maybe it was possible to work through smugglers and make that happen, but it would take contacts and resources he didn’t possess. That was why he’d allied with Rowena; he had to believe that he’d met her for a reason.
Keeping his eyes down, he ate what they gave him and drank the beer. Rowena startled him by tipping a portion of her food into his bowl. His eyes cut to hers, and out here with all the lanterns lit, signifying daytime, though it was still fearfully dim, he could see that she had deep gray eyes with swirls of silver. Her hair was platinum and gilt in equal measure, long enough that the ends brushed her hips. A little shock went through him, powerful and inexplicable. With some primitive part of himself, he grasped the tyrant’s obsession. She possessed a haunting beauty, the sort that snared the senses. Slay could well imagine her luring sailors to their doom or driving people mad with desire.
Quickly he looked away, not wanting to reveal those thoughts. They were deeply unwelcome and not at all like him.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“No talking! Finish up and get your asses to the workshop,” Timms shouted.
The guards didn’t always do this, only when they had a new arrival like Rowena. Normally prisoners moved about the undercity with the illusion of freedom, though the consequences for deviating from routine were swift and painful.
En masse, the group ate quickly, were given a few moments to use the stinking holes designated as waste receptacles, and then they presented themselves for another day of work. Until his capture, Slay had never used a sewing machine in his life. Now, he was close to a fucking expert and his production rates stayed high. Dresses, shirts, trousers, he could stitch together anything. And they expected folks to keep at it, no matter what. Once, a little girl had gotten her hand caught in her machine, endless blood and screaming, and the guards hauled her away while shouting at the others, “Get back to work!”
In Ash Valley, he’d assumed that Golgerra was hell and his internment hadn’t changed his mind. The upper tiers hid the poverty of the undercity with layers of luxury and excess, but the whole place needed to be purged, like Rowena said. Some divides were too big to cross with words alone. To end this nightmare and free the prisoners, blood had to be spilled and the ruling class cast down.
The hours crawled by as they always did. At twelve bells, they were allowed a short break to dine on coarse bread and more bitter beer.
I had no fucking idea that anyone lives like this.
In painting all the Golgoth as monsters, Slay realized his fellow Animari had let the rest down. Nobody deserves this. Hell, we treat murderers better in our holds. Not that it was easy to kill an Animari; that shit took careful planning and execution, special poisons and treated weapons too.
As he settled with his meagre meal, Rowena joined him. Once again, she broke off a portion of her food and offered it. Slay raised a brow.
“Why are you doing that?” he asked.
“It’s part of the pretense.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You said that to be convincing, you need to be territorial. This is a cultural difference. In the undercity, you show your regard for someone by sharing your rations. It means you care for them more than your own life.”
Though Slay knew damn well she was faking, his foolish heart still skipped a beat.
4.
Why is he looking at me like that?
Rowena almost asked, but in the end, she chose to admire the sudden glitter in Slay’s golden gaze instead. His eyes were remarkable, fringed in sooty lashes and so thick that she wondered whether the tangle made it difficult for him to see. Likewise, his brows were heavy and thick, stern if his face held a somber cast. And his jaw constantly prickled with scruff, deepening toward a beard.
The Animari didn’t wear ranking braids, she knew, but nobody in the undercity used them either. That required status, something denied all denizens of the lowest tier. Belatedly she realized she had been staring at him for a while, watching him methodically chew through the gritty brown bread she’d shared with him.
The gesture hadn’t gone unnoticed among their fellows. A few were whispering, though most lacked the energy for gossip. Then a lean young man said, “It was wise of you to pair up with the strongest person you could find. A pretty one like you won’t last down here otherwise.”
If only you knew, she thought.
But some part of her was glad that her origins didn’t show. It spoke of how far she’d come that someone from the undercity had no idea she’d been born and raised here while resisting a demon they could scarcely imagine. Most probably had never even glimpsed Tycho Vega, as he’d only visited once—when he selected Rowena at his sire’s bidding. The rest of the time, the guards delivered her to him like a parcel, only after attendants washed and groomed her, the complete and degrading pet experience.
“Fuck off,” Slay said.
Rowena blinked. Clearly she’d missed something but judging by the expression on the face of the man who’d spoken initially, he was confused too.
“I…what?” He seemed to be torn between asking for clarification and apologizing, as he probably didn’t wish to fight Slay.
“You implied that she’s weak. And I’m telling you to fuck off. Clear enough?”
“Oh. I see. Yes, sorry.” He ducked his head and continued eating, not daring to glance in their direction again.
“So much for making friends,” she said.
“I doubt he’s a valuable contact. Besides, it pisses me off that he made assumptions. He doesn’t know shit about you. Not that I’m an expert, but you told me enough that I’m sure you deserve a hell of a lot more respect than that.”
It was startling how good it felt to hear those words—‘you deserve a hell of a lot more respect than that’. Not because she was pretty or unique among both Eldritch and Golgoth, a collectible to set upon a high shelf. That was how many people made her feel.