CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Luscia

Luscia fidgeted with the scarf, careful not to disturb the fine layer of cacao paste darkening her hairline and thick brows. She wrapped her hair tightly in the silky material, as Unitarian women of the lower classes often did with their own. Tucking the loose blonde strands underneath, she arranged the tail of the scarf so that it cascaded over the scar tissue carved into the left side of her neck.

“Depths, aren’t you finished yet?” her escort demanded for the second time.

“Disguising me as a cross-caste scullery maid was your idea, Lord Darakai,” Luscia spewed at him around the wall of brickwork and picked up the dress she’d borrowed from Mila, eyeing it apprehensively. She swore under breath. “As you frequently remind me, I’m to follow your lead without complaint.”

To avoid suspicion, they’d waited three nights since finding the corpse. She tried not to dwell on that evening, though the waiting provided ample opportunity to do so. The more Luscia pondered the series of bizarre events, the more unsettled she became. It wasn’t the first occasion she’d felt eyes on her back during a hunt through Bastiion, but it was the first night she’d heard the whispers, and the only since. The trail of voices had hummed indecipherable secrets and teased her into that alley, departing once she entered it.

Luscia’s mother had heard voices, too. They’d made Eoine laugh, and cry.

Still, the whispers weren’t the most troubling incident that night. It was for Boreal’s haidrens to choose when to use their gift of Sight. But the Sight, of its own accord, had summoned Luscia to seek behind the veil and into the Other. While in its captivity, that otherness had revealed a cloud of fractured lumin about the corpse. Those threads had shuddered away from the defiled flesh and pooled around Luscia instead, like they were fleeing something dark indeed.

Fiddling with the stitching of the borrowed garment, Luscia suppressed an itch of alarm creeping down her spine. The benefit of Kasim’s delay was that it had allowed Luscia time to procure the items needed for her transformation, although neither she nor Mila had accounted for their variance in size. Imitating the majority of women at court, Mila had the appetite of a sparrow, the evidence of which was painfully obvious as Luscia stepped into the slim clothing. The attendant’s taut, linen dress cinched tightly at her waist, causing Luscia’s breasts to practically spill out over top.

“Shtàka, this is why we don’t starve ourselves like the yancy women, Mila,” Luscia grumbled, shoving her biceps through the narrow sleeves.

“What are you going on about?”

Squatting, Luscia stashed her far more practical gear under a stray wooden pallet and stepped around the corner in the vacant alley, praying the likes of Zaethan Kasim would not notice how her bodice quite literally busted at the seams.

By the way his bright eyes flicked up and lingered where they didn’t belong, he most certainly did.

“Finally.” He coughed, clearing his throat, and stomped away.

Wrapping her arms around her torso, Luscia gingerly followed.

In awkward silence, Luscia trailed him through the dancing streetlights of Marketown’s busy district. Even approaching midnight, it was teeming with traffic. Eventually Kasim stopped in front of an embellished red door fixed between shabby brickwork and heavily curtained windows, which did little to trap the revelry within.

Seizing the handle, he hesitated and muttered, “Do try to pretend you like me, otherwise we might as well turn around right now.”

Luscia’s eyes rolled skeptically. “And why is that?”

“Because there’s only one reason an al’haidren would bring his maid to a place like this,” he said in a dark tone.

Luscia stiffened at the sudden pressure of his fingertips on the small of her back. Leading her into a haze of smoke and laughter, he didn’t remove his hand. Though the rowdy banter of drunken men occupied the tavern, exotic rhythms blurred their thunder. As Kasim steered her through cracked archways to a lengthy, crowded bar, feminine giggles lilted above the noise. Lingering by each gambling table were women dressed akin to the dead cross-caste. Angling their bodies and encircling players, they fawned over the men as they wagered coin in desperate games of pride and chance—yancy, sentry, and lower classes alike.

If Boreal’s Clann Darragh could see the hovel his daughter had just entered…

Luscia swallowed hard.

Beyond the farthest table, a woman emerged from behind a split tapestry with a sentry in tow. Her tawny Unitarian skin was pinked with a flush that spread across her exposed neck and shoulders. The night-caller batted her tinted lashes as she languidly skimmed a fallen sleeve higher and bid the sentry goodnight.

Luscia knew of such transactions, naturally, but had never witnessed one unfold. Suddenly, she felt altogether too exposed. An unnamed anger hardened her jaw as she stiffly took a seat on the stool beside the other al’haidren.

“Try harder, Lady Boreal.” Kasim’s hot breath brushed her ear as he instructed her through his teeth. “Your pious notions are starting to show.”

“I am trying.” Luscia forced a rigid grin.

“Tell that to your face.” He spun away and addressed the solemn barkeep. “The Crown Special.”

The Unitarian paused in his task, shared an edgy look with Kasim, and left his post.

“You seem familiar with the service menu,” Luscia commented quietly, attempting to appear at ease while she scanned the large room for its exits. Two public, two concealed. “I’m curious—how often does a Darakaian alpha buy his women?”

“As often as he likes. Darakaians don’t hide their dealings. We don’t slink in the shadows like cockroaches and infect a city we’re not wanted in, like y’siti—”

“Shamàli, shamàli.” An intoxicated sentry bumped into Kasim, nearly displacing him off his stool. “Di yaya,” he slurred. Licking his bottom lip, he jutted his chin in Luscia’s direction. “Ni yeye ràtomdai na wewe?”

“Uni zà,” the al’haidren barked, startling Luscia when he reached over and gripped her thigh possessively.

“Eh, eh…uni, Alpha Zà.” The Darakaian sentry threw his hands up and stumbled as he eased back into the crowd.

“Remove your hand,” Luscia hissed.

“Just playing the part.” Kasim sneered and withdrew his palm, wiping it discreetly against his pantleg.

Luscia watched the drunkard trip over a chair as he approached another grouping. “What did he ask you?”

“If I claimed rights to you—a courtesy, of sorts.” He shrugged, hopping off his stool when the barkeep reappeared and mutely pointed to a staircase along the opposite wall.

“A courtesy!” she sputtered, darting after Kasim as he cut between the betting tables. Luscia swatted prying fingers as she passed through the crowd of intoxicated men.

“Uni, a courtesy.” He climbed the steps, glancing over his shoulder. “You should be pleased I said yes. Some men like to share.”

Luscia’s fists tightened around Phalen’s radials. She calmed herself with the knowledge that they were sharp enough to take out Zaethan Kasim, should his next comment justify doing so.

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At the top the landing, he swept a drape aside and halted at the sight of a wall of muscle.

“Ràoko. Delightful.” He glanced up to the massive cross-caste. The wordless guard stood a head taller than Kasim, who himself surpassed six feet. “With your excellent conversational skills, who could stay away?”

For a moment, Luscia thought Kasim was about to be struck in the mouth, and found herself disappointed when he wasn’t.

Ràoko retreated to a makeshift office at the end of a musky hallway. Not large, it housed a snug sitting area and a single desk, where a woman sat hunched over stacks of paper and clusters of coin. Her flock of wild, lustrous curls shone in the lantern-light when she peered up at them.

“Back so soon, Jaha?” the woman inquired breathily, despite the constrictive corset around her middle. “To what do I owe this rare pleasure?”

Rising from the desk, her shapely hips swayed as she moved to greet Kasim. The woman gently pulled him toward her by the neck and placed a fleeting kiss along his upper jaw. Up close, delicate fissures around her eyes indicated that she was older than her figure suggested. More interesting was the distinct contrast between her Unitarian complexion and pronounced Southern features. The Veiled Lady was operated by a cross-caste.

Cross-castes seldom owned much of anything, much less an enterprise of this magnitude. It was unheard of, particularly for a cross- caste who would gather and market individuals like herself for profit.

“Ah, what have you brought me? A gift?” Luscia shifted uncomfortably when the woman walked a semi-circle to appraise his guest, chuckling in her assessment. “Had I known your preference was so…unusual, I could’ve offered one more seasoned from my own house, Jaha. You don’t need to raid your palace kitchens for it, yeah?”

“Not necessary, Salma,” Kasim interjected at Luscia’s scowl, motioning to the divan and pair of satin armchairs. “But in a way, that is why we’ve come.”

“And who, exactly,” the woman took a seat, leaning over the small table, “is we?”

Out the corner of her eye, Luscia waited for his go-ahead, honoring their agreement. At his nod, she unraveled the scarf imprisoning her distinctively Northern hair.

“I didn’t bring you a kitchen maid,” he explained. “We need to ask you about the girl, Salma. The cross-caste they found, yeah? And unfortunately, this is a conversation the al’haidren to Boreal insisted she be present for.”

The brothel matron blinked repeatedly as her full lips separated.

After a moment, her playful smirk returned.

“Cacao paste…uni. Rather sly, Lady al’Haidren.” One black brow lifted at the residue on Luscia’s scarf. “And wise. You were right to disguise her, Jaha. She would not be well received by my guests.”

“Agreed. Now—the girl, Salma. She was one of yours, uni?” Kasim sat forward, cupping one fist in the other. “I need to know who she was, her friends, who visited her. There’ve been no leads in our investigation thus far. Your tavern may provide us with the first clues.”

The sultry madam reclined in her armchair, crossing her legs slowly, and glanced between them. Luscia heard her breathing grow shallow as her eyes narrowed at some internal debate.

“Bolaeva.” Luscia’s voice cracked. “Please, help us find who is behind these atrocities. For all of Boreal, I beg you, please help us.”

Several minutes passed before Salma answered. “Her name is—was—Wren. The girl only came to us last year. No family.”

“Little songbird,” Luscia murmured the meaning behind the Northern name. “But how did she end up here, in a…” She trailed off, too embarrassed to continue.

“…a whorehouse, Lady al’Haidren?” the madam pointedly finished. She laughed without humor. “In my experience, it is never the high and mighty who protect the cross-caste or the breakaway. Ano, it is the underworld. Even our Unitarian king refused to grant us a voice in the Ethnicam.” Salma swept a mass of curls to the side and tilted her head. “I know what you are thinking—looking down on us, our family, yeah? What you do not realize, my lady, is I can only provide my family with food, shelter, protection, whatever they need because I am willing to feed Bastiion’s wolves”—Two fingers pointed to the tavern underfoot—“what they hunger.”

“Meh fyreon, I do apologize. I meant no disrespect to your… household.” Luscia grimaced, unsure how to navigate the path between etiquette and conviction.

Kasim glared at her. “Just stop talking.” Inching closer to the short table, either to angle toward Salma or distance himself from Luscia, he asked, “How old was Wren? What was her role here at The Veiled Lady?”

“Sixteen, perhaps? She never said, I never asked.” Salma shrugged, and Luscia’s stomach knotted at the confirmation of her youth. “Wren went straight into night-business—dark hour papyon. She wanted the money. And she gained popularity, fast. Eh, novelty always does.”

“Who called on her, habitually employed her services?” Kasim pushed.

“You know yancies prefer cross-castes, something normally off-limits. Members of the Peerage made up the majority of her clientele. Oh,” she added, tapping her lip, “and the other alpha—the harsh one, with the scar.” The madam pouted at him. “Your friend takes advantage of our amenities, even if you won’t. The girls don’t like him as much as they’d like you, Jaha.”

Luscia’s forehead wrinkled as she glanced toward Kasim, confused at his lack of patronage. He’d suggested quite the opposite.

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm Wren, or ever tried?” the Southern al’haidren rushed on, nostrils flaring, clearly irritated by Salma’s mention of the other alpha.

“Ano zà. My house indulges these men to protect our family from who they are in the outside world. My clients know such behaviors are never tolerated inside.” Salma rubbed her slender wrist in her lap. “The desires we pacify are just shadows, Jaha. Desire is erratic, tied to so many things. Outside, men allow desire to turn ugly, violent.” Her eyes flashed to Luscia. “At least, in the world of a lowly cross-caste.”

Luscia met her gaze levelly. “I am well aware of the things you speak.”

Salma’s eyes dropped to Luscia’s bare neck and the ugly tale etched into her skin. “Uni, I see you are.”

A chasm reopened in her chest as she maintained eye contact with the matron of The Veiled Lady. Loss, pain, and anger were equalizers; emotions that crossed class or territorial boundaries on a map. Behind an unspoken yet recognizable sadness, there was strength in the other woman’s eyes. It rimmed her earthy irises in a green aura of defiance.

What an odd sensation it was, for Luscia to suddenly find herself coveting something in Salma, the owner of a brothel.

“Did you see anything else, hear anything else that night?” Kasim interrupted.

“Ano, Jaha. As you know, I was with you.”

“Uni.” He stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “Then we should go, before questions are raised about my maid. We’ll leave the way we came. Business as usual. Shàla’maiamo, Salma.”

“Tadöm, truly. Boreal thanks you for your candor,” Luscia said as she covered her hair, resembling Mila once again, and followed Kasim out the office.

“Zaethan,” Salma called his given name when they reached the end of the hall. “Remember Owàa’s fate.”

Luscia didn’t understand her farewell, but Kasim seemed unconcerned by the madam’s ominous message.

As they descended the rickety steps into the ruckus of the tavern, Kasim went rigid. She watched his shoulders roll back to embody his full height. After a breath, he marched to a corner gaming table shrouded by a throng of dancing women.

“I can see why your pryde disappoints, Wekesa.” Kasim glowered at a Darakaian alpha lounging at the table, dice in one hand and empty glassware beside the other. “Get up.”

Roughly his al’haidren’s age, the alpha’s arrogance was palpable in his delay to fulfill Kasim’s order. Plucking unseen lint off his navy tunic, he rose from the chair and strutted to stand in front of Kasim. Bone beads swung in his braids, though they only hung from one side of his scalp. The damaged flesh of the opposite was gruesomely uneven.

“Is this why you’re so obsessed with my investigation, Alpha Zà?” He sucked his teeth and scanned Luscia’s assets, on full display in Mila’s poorly sized dress. “Ni yeye ràtomdai na wewe?”

The alpha posed the Andwele question to his superior, but fixed his overconfident smile on Luscia.

“Ano,” Kasim answered in an amused voice. He then repeated himself, emphasizing the final syllable. “Ano. Zà.”

Astounded, Luscia careened toward Kasim. Her furious stare glided like darts into his cinnamon skin. Kasim stepped aside and gestured obligingly in her direction. Before she could object, Luscia felt a sweaty heaviness land on her hip, urging her forward.

“Yeah, you want some real papyon—ahh!” The other alpha screamed when Luscia crushed his knuckles in her hand. Thrusting her thumb into a pressure point, she twisted his wrist mercilessly. “Y’siti bitch!”

“The y’siti bitch belongs to herself!” She bent his wrist further and threw his hand back. “And she does not want your papyon!”

He cradled the injured hand to his chest and swung his good fist toward her face, but its impact was thwarted by Kasim’s grip on the alpha’s dark, corded forearm.

“The yaya doesn’t want you, Wekesa.” He clutched Luscia’s shoulder, spinning her toward the door. “Now stand down. That’s an order, Alpha.”

The tavern hadn’t quieted much during their scene, but the nearest parties watched intently as she and Kasim exited. Returning to the streets, he released her. Luscia assumed he was too distracted to remember to wipe his hand this time.

They hugged the exterior buildings to pass behind a row of bustling market stalls. She glanced over, perturbed by his unusual silence, and saw that Zaethan Kasim was grinning from ear to ear.

“Did that display please you somehow?” she asked scathingly.

“Incredibly.” He beamed, strutting contently. “My cross-caste scullery maid did what I am not permitted to do at present.”

“Injure his dominant hand?”

“Publicly humiliate him.”

Luscia chewed on his statement as they returned to the abandoned alleyway. Rounding the corner alone, she located her things and began to undress. Pausing, she toyed with the unraveled lacing from the lining of Mila’s garment as curiosity nipped her thoughts.

“Why didn’t you correct me earlier?” she wondered aloud. “When I accused you of frequenting Salma’s tavern for…you know.”

“You’re Boreali. I’m Darakaian. Would the truth have mattered if I had?” Kasim asked from the other side of the brick.

Half undressed, Luscia slumped against the wall and struggled to formulate a response. For some puzzling reason, against all understanding, it did.

The truth mattered.

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