Two weeks later, Abbee crept through thick underbrush, mentally begging the sticks beneath her feet to hold. She put one hand on a damp tree trunk and peered around it. Twenty paces past the tree, a deer stood in profile. A big doe. Abbee forced herself to stay still. She’d been chasing this animal for hours. It always stayed over a hill or behind a thicket, and she’d never had a clear shot at it. Abbee couldn’t believe she’d managed to get this close. Hunger gnawed at her.
She leaned around the other side of the tree. Got her arm with the repeating bolt thrower pointed in the right direction. The doe raised its head. Took a step to the left. Abbee raised her arm, and the doe flinched.
Clack-clack-clack.
Bolts thudded into the deer, and it went down with a startled thump. Abbee stepped out from behind the tree and was about to let out an excited whoop when the bushes to her right shifted. A dark shape rose up. A flicker in the air.
Something smacked into Abbee’s belly. Hard. She looked down and saw an arrow sticking out of her. Abbee’s whoop turned into a startled curse, and she went down to one knee.
Footsteps crashed through the underbrush. “That was an accident!” a man shouted, getting closer. “Sorry, sorry! Please don’t be dead!”
Abbee climbed to her feet, leaning back against the nearby tree. A man rushed toward her, holding a hunter’s bow. He wore dark trousers and a leather vest with lots of pockets.
Abbee raised her hand. “Stop. Stay back.”
The man slid to a halt. He looked around. “I heard a bunch of shots all at once. Were those crossbows? Who else is out here?”
“Just me and my deer and a dumb hunter,” Abbee growled. Mote wisped from her wrists as her gift started its work. She felt the arrow shift inside her. She grabbed the shaft and winced at the pain. “This thing have a bladed or hooked tip?”
“Iron point,” the man said. “Bladed tips are expensive.”
“Good.” Abbee yanked out the arrow. She grunted and bent over, grabbing her knees as her gift, free of the arrow, completed knitting her flesh back together. It would eventually have pushed out the arrow, but that hurt. A lot. Abbee straightened and dropped the bloody shaft. She put a finger on the hole in her jerkin. “Great. Another one.”
“Are you okay?” the man asked. “Wait, that’s my deer.”
“Mine,” Abbee countered. She walked through the bushes toward the fallen animal. “I’ve been tracking it for hours. I’ve not seen you out here tracking it for hours. It ran into you. Where did you come from, anyway?”
“Streamdale,” the man said, gesturing east. “Two kilometers that way.”
“Really?” Abbee asked. “That’s … hmph. Would’ve thought I’d covered more ground than that.”
She bent over the deer. One of her bolts had found its heart, and the animal lay still. Abbee pulled a crude stone knife from her belt and started dressing the deer. The hunter was behind her, and she didn’t like it, but she was hungry and angry at the whole situation. She should’ve seen the hunter. She couldn’t believe that she had let herself get shot with a stupid arrow.
“Hey,” the man said, walking closer. “We should take that to town first.”
“I’m not going to town, and if you take another step, you’ll not be going to town either.”
The man stopped. “Where did you come from?”
“None of your business.”
“How long have you been out here?”
“Long enough to lose my city fat.”
“Your … what?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Abbee said.
“What kind of deal?”
“I can’t carry all of this. I’ll give you whatever meat I don’t take, plus the skin.”
“There are wolves around here,” the man said. “They’ll smell the kill on you. It’s not safe.”
“A meal that stalks you is one you don’t have to carry.” It came out before Abbee could stop herself. That was something Ipsu used to say. She swore under her breath and kept working. “Look, in return for this generous offer, you say to whoever asks that you came across the deer like this. You didn’t see me.”
The man shifted. “I shot you, and you pulled out the arrow like it was nothing. How did you do that?” His voice turned suspicious. “Are you … are you a wizard?”
Abbee snorted. “No. If I were a wizard, do you think I’d be dressing a deer like this in the middle of nowhere? I’d be sitting in splendor, freshly bathed, conjuring my favorite foods from thin air. I certainly wouldn’t be out here, making a deal with the same fool who shot me.”
The man shifted behind her. Abbee heard bow arms creak.
“You’ve got to be kidding—”
The hunter shot her in the back.
Abbee shouted in pain as the arrow pierced all the way through her. The bloody arrow point stuck out of her chest. She half twisted, half fell back onto the gutted deer. Brought her bolt thrower up and thought about shooting the hunter.
Clack-clack-clack. He went down with a startled shout.
Abbee pushed herself to her feet with an arrow impaling her. She bumped it and cursed at the fresh stab of pain. She stalked over to the hunter. His feet writhed on the ground. Three bolts stood in a line from his belt to his chest, blood leaking out around the wounds. He saw her coming and struggled to nock another arrow. Hot pain flashed through Abbee’s frame as her gift squeezed the arrow within her. Getting it out was going to be agony. Furious, Abbee walked right up to him. The hunter spotted the rectangular metal box on her arm, and he frowned.
Clack-clack-clack.
***
Abbee didn’t stop in Streamdale, but she did stop in the next train town ten days later. She knew she could walk all the way to Kiva, but she didn’t have to. It was as if seeing Ipsu one last time had made her want to prove to herself that she’d retained everything he’d taught her. Do more, even. Prove to his memory that she still “had it.” Foolishness. Needless risks. Like crossing paths with that idiot hunter, for instance. Now she had two extra holes in her jerkin. The hunter hadn’t been carrying a sewing kit. She’d left him next to the deer, knowing that forest scavengers would deal with his body along with the animal carcass. Abbee took the spent arrows and bolts with her and scattered them in streams and ponds. She didn’t need anyone finding the bolts or the arrows with her blood all over them. No sense in making a sniffer’s job any easier.
She was done.
Nearly a month in the wilderness, and an encounter with a stupid hunter was proof enough that she had the skills to make it out here. Hunting took a long time and left few hours every day to move further on her journey. She had occasionally brought down a deer that had given her meat for a few days, but carrying a kill drew larger and larger predators. Several days east of Streamdale, Abbee had discovered her bolt thrower didn’t work well against bears, unless she let them chase her up a tree and shot them in the face.
She got some strange looks when she walked into town. She’d passed many ponds on her way out of the wilderness. Maybe she could’ve washed, but the idea of real soap had propelled her past the stagnant water. She wanted to bathe in a real tub, not in a muddy pond with a bunch of croaking frogs and mosquitoes.
The town was built a lot like other train towns. Up on a hill, behind a fortified wall facing the road. The hill had gouges in it, one of them recent. Trains lost wheels all the time out here. The stopover yard on the far side of the hill, away from the road, was empty. The sun was high, and any continental would’ve left by now.
Abbee walked up to the first inn and opened the front door. A man in a pressed shirt and trousers stood at the front desk. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of her. “Don’t you dare step inside this establishment!” he shouted. Lowering his voice, he said, “Sorry. I just mopped in here.”
Abbee paused on the threshold. The floor did indeed look wet. “Where am I? What town?”
“Ellerton,” the man said, “and you’re about to defile the Red Lion, the finest inn on the Kiva Road. Did somebody build a pig pen around here? You look like you rolled in it.”
Abbee sighed. A month, and she’d only made it as far as the second stop on a continental route to Kiva. Second out of five. She reminded herself that she wasn’t a giant train hurtling across the northern plains on stone roads, but still.
The innkeeper gestured. “Go around back. I’ll meet you by the bathhouse. I’m assuming that’s what you’re looking for, yes?”
“That’s right,” Abbee said.
“Figured. Go around back.”
The innkeeper met Abbee outside the bathhouse. Like Gerro’s inn in Lencoe, the bathhouse was a separate building and almost as big as the inn itself. “Take your pick,” the innkeeper said. “You’re my only customer at the moment.”
“I’ll take two,” Abbee said. “One for me and one for my gear.”
“We’ve got a separate laundry service,” the innkeeper said.
“I’ll do it. And I’ll need sewing supplies. With needles strong enough for leather.”
“You can see the leatherworker here in town for that. You got any money for all this?”
Abbee fished out a silver and tossed it to him. The innkeeper caught the coin. “This is more than one night. I’ll get you some change.”
“Keep it,” Abbee said. “I’m staying for a bit.” She examined her grimy hands. “I’ll need extra soap.”
The innkeeper sniffed. “Dunno if we have enough.”
***
Abbee stayed in Ellerton for several days, soaking up bathwater, clean sheets, cooked food, and rumors in equal amounts. She spent her evenings floating through the gathering places, listening for news. It didn’t sound like anybody was looking for her. Abbee kept an eye out for wizard hunters, House soldiers, and network agents—she was sure the man with the red blades had been a network agent. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but that didn’t mean they weren’t here.
One upside of a roadside town was semi-competent leatherworkers. Drovers wore heavy leathers to protect themselves from road debris and bird strikes. Their gear often needed repair or replacement. Abbee found Ellerton’s leatherworker the day after she walked into town. She entered the shop and found a wiry fellow using some sort of machine in the back. It involved steam, shrill whistles, and lots of swearing.
Abbee was the only customer in the shop. She walked up to the counter. “Hello?”
The man didn’t hear her.
She stood at the counter and watched him wrestle with his contraption. After a few moments, she realized it was driving a needle and thread through several pieces of leather at once. “What is that?” she shouted during a lull in the noise.
The man jumped. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.” He kicked the machine and walked to the counter. “It’s a mistake is what it is. A big fat mistake. What can I do for you?”
“What is that thing?” Abbee asked.
The man sighed. “It’s supposed to be a sewing machine, but the man who sold it to me shipped me something that bends needles instead.”
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“How does it work? Is it magic?”
“The only magic is coming from me,” the leatherworker said. A small flame appeared on his fingertips. “I’m a torch. I heat some water and generate some steam. The steam turns a wheel and … well, that part I don’t quite understand, but that wheel drives the needle. A couple of dials control the needle force and speed, and the pedal turns it on. It—”
“How does steam turn a wheel?”
“Do you know how pressure works?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, if you get enough steam pressure, you can push some pretty big things around. The man who sold this to me works for the University of Akken. He said this will drive the continentals someday.” He frowned. “They’ve got a lot of kinks to work out first.”
Abbee couldn’t imagine something as insubstantial as steam driving a continental train. “What’s wrong with it?”
“This thing needs two people. I need both hands to guide the leather. I keep running out of steam, and the machine bends the needles. Or rips the leather. Or both.”
“Can’t you hire an assistant?”
“You offering?” the leatherworker asked, looking hopeful.
“No.”
“Yeah, well, Ellerton isn’t a cultural hotspot. Doesn’t have a big draw for assistants. Every time I get a good one, they realize they can go make twice the coin in Kiva or Akken. I’d rather gouge both my eyes out than suffer through a bad assistant.”
“Why aren’t you in a city, making twice the coin?”
“Too many people,” the leatherworker said. “I like the peace and quiet here.”
Abbee thought that strange, given the amount of noise his sewing machine generated, but didn’t mention it. She opened her coat enough to expose her damaged jerkin. “I need—”
“What happened to you?” the leatherworker asked. “You look like you lost a fight with a bear.”
“I won that fight, actually.”
“What?”
“I need repairs for this.”
The leatherworker snorted. “By ‘repairs,’ you mean ‘replacement,’ right?”
“No,” Abbee said. “I had this made custom. It fits me just right.”
“If you leave it here, I’ll make you a new one exactly like it.”
Abbee must have looked skeptical, because he chuckled.
“Don’t worry. I used to work in the costume department at the Akken Opera House. I’ve made plenty of custom pieces.”
“How come you don’t work there anymore?”
The man’s face clouded. “City isn’t the same.”
Abbee had seen the man’s expression before. Seen it too many times. He’d lost someone during Towerfall. Several people, maybe. Abbee wasn’t an opera person, but she’d seen the memorial plaque hanging on the building near the ticket booth. The entire company had been rehearsing the night of Towerfall, and a golem had wiped them all out. Akken had a lot of memorial plaques.
“I’m sorry,” Abbee said.
“Yes, well, it was a long time ago. Two silvers, and you get a brand-new jerkin. Minus the holes, of course.”
Abbee frowned. The jerkin had cost her twice as much in Akken. “Why so cheap?”
“You want to pay more? Three silvers, then.”
“Two is fine.”
“No, no, you’re the kind who pays extra thinking you’re gonna get extra quality. Three silvers for a new jerkin, exactly the same size as the old one. It’ll take about five days.”
“Five days seems long.”
“I get a lot of rush work, on account of all my customers arriving in the afternoon and leaving the next day. I have to squeeze you in around that.” The man smiled. “I can get it done faster for six silvers.”
Abbee laughed. “Three it is.” She dug around in her money pouch. She didn’t have enough silver. She pulled out a gold coin. “I’ll need change.”
The man arched a brow. “Should’ve charged you more.” He took the coin and rummaged around in a box under his counter. Came up with the change and handed it over. “Just need the jerkin.”
Abbee hesitated. She couldn’t take off her coat without exposing her bolt thrower. Or her jobs case.
The leatherworker pointed to a narrow door in the far wall. “I got a dressing room in there.”
Abbee went into the dressing room and closed the door. It had a bench seat on one side and a mirror on the other. A hook on the back of the door. Abbee regarded herself in the mirror. She’d not had one in her own apartment and had often gone days without looking at her own reflection. She hoped her face might fill back in after her time in the wilderness. She looked a little hollowed out. Abbee noted her hair had grown long enough to brush her ears. Maybe she could let it grow out. She thought about Ipsu grabbing her hair for leverage and shuddered. She’d cut it tonight.
Abbee pulled off the coat and hung it on the hook. Next came her pouches and the jerkin. She held it up. So many holes. Her shirt was in the same condition. Worse. It was covered in leather, sweat, and bloodstains. It had originally been pale yellow, and now it was black in places. She should burn it. She put it back on, along with her pouch belt and coat. She closed the latter to avoid the leatherworker seeing her shirt and asking questions.
He had plenty when she exited the dressing room. “You know what these look like, right?” he asked, holding up the jerkin to the light.
“Holes,” Abbee said.
“Very funny.” He eyed her. “You a mess of scars and bandages under that coat?”
“I’m barely keeping it together.”
“Sure you are. You move like there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Two days, you said?”
The leatherworker poked his fingers through the slits where Abbee had been stabbed in the chest by red blades. He looked at her again. Blinked in recognition. Abbee saw him see her. “You’re—”
“Passing through,” Abbee said.
The man nodded. “Got it.”
“How did you know?”
He smiled. “I got family in Akken still, and sometimes I have to go back. I’ve seen you fight in the bouts. Watched you get up after someone snapped your ankle. Then you kicked them in the head with the same foot. Craziest thing I ever saw.”
Abbee remembered that fight. Happened about four months ago. Back when Bory was paying in coin and not bills. “Five days?”
“Are the stories true?” the leatherworker asked. Abbee tensed, wondering which stories he meant. “You got a healer in the crowd?”
“Maybe,” Abbee said, relaxing. She’d rather talk about that story than anything to do with Graywall. “Maybe I thought it best to get out of town for a while. Maybe the House soldiers were getting a little nosy. Five days, you said?”
“Five days. I might be done early, if I figure out the sewing machine. Where are you staying? I can drop it off.”
“The Red Lion.”
“Good choice. Varn runs a tight ship. If your shirt looks anything like this jerkin, ask to rummage around in the lost pile.”
“The what pile?”
“The lost pile. People leave stuff behind all the time. Varn calls it the ‘lost and found’ pile, but hardly anybody ever comes back to claim random articles of clothing. So I call it the lost pile.” His expression grew sly. “Be sure to ask why he keeps so many ladies’ underthings.”
Abbee chuckled. “Thanks for replacing the jerkin. What’s your name?”
“Call me Beyan,” the leatherworker said. “And I’ve not seen you, should anyone come looking.”
“I appreciate that,” Abbee replied, knowing if that blond telepath showed up in Ellerton, it wouldn’t matter what Beyan said.
***
The jerkin was done three days later. Beyan dropped it off himself, hand delivering it to Abbee in the inn’s common room. Abbee liked spending time there during the day, since no one was in it during the morning lulls. As far as inns in train towns went, the Red Lion was on the smaller side, with only a half-dozen rooms, and the building was the longest walk from the stopover yard. Rowdy drovers seemed to pick the closer, larger inns. This suited Abbee just fine, and Varn didn’t seem to mind her presence. She was sitting at a table in the empty common room, mending a hole in one of her socks, when Beyan walked in.
“That was fast,” Abbee said.
Beyan shrugged. “Habit. When you’re working for an opera house director, you have to underpromise and overdeliver.” He smiled. “Plus, I got the sewing machine to work.”
“Is steam still going to drive the continentals someday?”
Beyan nodded. “Definitely.” He handed over the jerkin. “Come back and see me if that doesn’t fit for some reason. I see you found a new shirt. Found something that fits in Varn’s lost pile, eh?”
“I did.”
“No socks, though?”
Abbee shrugged. “Good wool socks are hard to get on the road. People don’t leave those behind.”
The innkeeper, Varn, leaned out of the kitchen door. “Thanks for offering up my own things for free, Beyan. And I could’ve done without the underclothes comment, thank you. I know she only mentioned it because you told her to.”
Beyan snickered. “Lots of things in your lost pile are decidedly frilly, Varn.”
“They’re expensive, and you never know who’s going to come back for them.” He gestured at Abbee. “Would you want her thinking you’d stolen something of hers?”
Abbee pointed to herself. “Me?”
Varn rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows—”
“Okay,” Beyan announced in a loud voice. “So let me know if everything fits—”
“Everyone knows what?” Abbee asked.
Varn exchanged a furtive glance with Beyan.
Abbee frowned. “Beyan. What was all that about not having seen me should anyone come looking?”
Beyan grimaced. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I only told Varn here.”
“And the rest of the poker group,” Varn said.
“Poker group?” Abbee asked.
“We play wizard poker,” Varn said, “at the White Stag, down the street. Backroom game with some local shop owners. It’s less card playing and more complaining about customers.” Varn squinted at Beyan. “My friend here name-dropped you when he had a bad hand, hoping to throw us off our game.”
Abbee fixed Beyan with a steady glare. He looked increasingly uncomfortable the longer it went on. “How big is this group of yours?” she asked.
“Five of us,” Varn said. “Me, Varn, Leesa—she owns the Stag. Homs runs a general store, and Jorad is Ellerton’s best metalworker. He plays about half the time.”
“I’m sorry,” Beyan said. “I know I said I wouldn’t … but you’re the Abbee Danner. The Butcher of Graywall. We never get anyone like you around here.”
“Like me?”
“Please don’t hurt us,” Varn said. “We won’t say anything.”
“Hmm,” Abbee said. She wasn’t about to make five innocent shop owners disappear. Besides, it would draw too much attention to Ellerton. Even so, she knew the network would eventually find out she had come through here. They found out everything eventually. She thought about the blond telepath. If Abbee couldn’t stop him from discovering her visit, she might as well have some fun with him. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m interested in your game, though.”
Varn blinked. “You are?”
Abbee smirked at Beyan. “Are you any good at poker?”
***
None of them were any good. Beyan couldn’t bluff to save his life. Varn called when he should’ve folded. The prim owner of the White Stag, Leesa, considered herself a card shark but had obvious tells for every card position. The other two, Homs and Jorad, got some good hands in but spent most of their time egging Beyan and Varn into bad positions. Abbee cleaned them out. In the space of two hours, she’d won back the cost of her new jerkin and her stay at the Red Lion.
The six of them sat in the back room of the White Stag, an upscale inn on the opposite side of the street from the Red Lion. Leesa and Varn competed for the title of “finest inn on the Kiva Road.” If Abbee had to judge from first impressions, she’d picked the second-best experience. Abbee suspected Leesa would’ve turned her away when she’d first walked into town. Dirt was offensive at the Stag.
Homs sat next to Leesa, a thin rail of a man. His nervous demeanor rendered him incapable of bluffing. He spent most of the night trying to look at Leesa’s cards and snatching sweets off the silver tray that Leesa’s staff delivered on a regular basis. Abbee tried one of them, a warm, buttery shortbread with a thick strawberry sauce. She found herself in a race with Homs to acquire them whenever a new plate arrived.
On the other side of Leesa was Jorad, the metalworker. Jorad’s cards looked small in his massive hands. He was the quietest of the group and played conservatively. Abbee suspected he was only here for the companionship and quite possibly as protection. Toward the end of the afternoon, Abbee pulled Jorad into an unannounced drinking contest. He met her shot for shot until Leesa put a stop to it.
“Jorad,” Leesa said, “I don’t have enough whiskey in the building to keep giving you free drinks.”
“She started it,” Jorad rumbled, gesturing to Abbee.
“From the pile of our money in front of her,” Leesa said, “she has enough to pay if she wants to keep going.”
Abbee grinned and drank her last shot in one go. Jorad tried to hide his deep breath before following suit. Abbee pushed a silver coin around on the table, pretending to consider it. She leaned back. “Nah. I’m done.”
“You sure?” Jorad asked even as relief touched his eyes.
“Please be sure,” Varn commented. “It’ll take all of us and a giant wheelbarrow to carry you home, Jorad.”
“Me?” Jorad asked. “You’re assuming I’d lose?”
Beyan dealt out the next round of cards. “I’ve heard she can drink everyone under the table.”
“What?” Jorad asked, his hands freezing on his cards. He shot Abbee a suspicious glare. “That true?”
Abbee scooped up her cards and inspected them. “What else have you heard?”
“Do you work for the Murder Guild?” Homs asked.
“No.”
“You were in Graywall,” Homs said. “You’ve killed people.”
“They deserved it.”
“For money?”
“No. I don’t do that.”
“For pleasure, then,” Jorad accused her.
“Self-defense,” Abbee corrected. “I guess I’ve got a hittable face.”
“I bet your parents are real proud of you.”
“Dunno,” Abbee said. “They’re both dead.”
Homs shot Jorad a worried look. “How about we not irritate her?”
“I’ve heard you’ve never lost a fight,” Beyan said.
Abbee thought of flashing red blades. “I lose plenty. Like this hand, for instance. I fold.”
“How are we supposed to win back our money if you keep folding?” Varn asked. “When are you going to commit to a hand again?”
“As soon as Beyan here starts dealing me cards off the top of the deck.”
“What?” Beyan spluttered. “I don’t—”
“I’m kidding.” Abbee touched her new jerkin. “You did amazing work on this, by the way.”
Beyan smiled. “Thanks. I do want to hear about the holes in the front of your old one, though.”
“The front?” Homs asked.
Beyan tapped his heart. “Right here.”
“Some lunatic man with a wispy blond beard stabbed me,” Abbee said.
“Stabbed you?” Jorad asked. “How did he get close enough to do that?”
“I was overwhelmed by his stench,” Abbee said, glad for the opportunity to talk about it. “He smelled of hot garbage and urine. Made my eyes water.”
Leesa shuddered. “That’s disgusting.”
“I’ll say. He had his face covered, and I’m assuming it’s because of all the boils and pus. His hands were covered with them.”
“Please stop,” Leesa said. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”
“He was muttering the entire time about his mother,” Abbee added, “about how she’d touch him. I don’t think he meant touching in the normal mother-son way either.”
“That’s revolting,” Homs said.
From the expressions around the table, everyone else thought the same thing. Abbee leaned back in her chair, her mission complete. If the blond telepath tracked her here, she hoped he enjoyed the imagery.
“You were stabbed in the heart?” Homs asked, skeptical.
Leesa sniffed. “I think it’s more likely she made the holes herself, to make it look that way. Nobody survives such wounds. Not even wizards did that.”
Abbee gave her a small smile. “You caught me.”
“And healers can’t heal themselves,” Jorad said. “You’re a charlatan and a killer.”
“Jorad,” Beyan said. He gave Abbee an apologetic look. “You have to forgive him. He lost—”
“Shut up, Beyan,” Jorad snapped. To Abbee, “I came here tonight to see you. See if you lived up to the stories. You do. You’re cold-hearted and selfish. You talk about hurting people like you’re breaking sticks in the woods. People mean nothing to you. People who go into Graywall shouldn’t ever come out. You take from the world, take from everyone you meet, and never give anything back.”
“Must be nice to be so sure about everything,” Abbee said in a quiet tone.
Jorad snorted.
Abbee stood a coin on its edge in front of her and twirled it around. “I don’t owe anyone anything. The world took everything from me. And it wasn’t the world, not really. It was people. People took from me. I wasn’t willing to give it, and they took it anyway. They strapped me to a table and took it.” She pushed the coin down flat and rose from her chair. Fixed Jorad with a scornful glare. “You know what it’s like in Graywall? Really like? I had to fight for my life. I wasn’t raped in there, because I see people for what they are. I didn’t have any illusions.” She gestured at the others sitting around the table. “Society is a veneer. A costume. Peel all this away, and you see people for what they are. Monsters.” Abbee scooped up her coins and poured them into her money pouch.
“You think you’re better than us?” Jorad asked. “Better than us monsters?”
“No,” Abbee said. A familiar itch twitched between her shoulder blades. Memories of a dank, filthy pit flashed through her head. Memories of the blood caking her hands, stuck under her fingernails. The iron taste of blood on her tongue. Memories of the broken bodies around her. Abbee ignored the itch and gave Jorad a thin smile. “Did you know that grown men have this special kind of expression when they see a bunch of people torn to pieces? When they see someone’s manhood lying on the ground?”
Homs gagged.
“I wasn’t stuck in prison with a bunch of monsters,” Abbee told Jorad. “I’m the monster. They were stuck in there with me.” Abbee nodded at Leesa. “Thanks for the game. Oh, and those little strawberry shortbread things were incredible.”