Filed to story: When the Moon Hatched Book
Smaller digits.
I frown.
Guess Sereme decided to charge me for the mission I begged the Elding for support on, and only because there was no possible way I could save all those younglings by myself.
Lovely.
A stark reminder that the hand that gives can just as greedily take away.
Ruse clears her throat, sliding her pink spectacles further down her nose, glancing up at me from beneath a fan of orange lashes. “Busy slumber?”
“Not the sort of busy they like, apparently.”
She gives me a rueful smile, then recomposes herself back into the vision of stoic storekeeper.
“Well, besides your purchases from the list, would you like to spend any more of your six hundred and ten buckets of dragon bloodstone?”
I chuff.
“Actually …” I look at my gown, brushing my hands over the thick ruddy panels. “I had to toss a layer of this to the trogg. Am I able to replace it?”
“Won’t be a problem.” Her gaze flits over my ensemble, then back to her book as she lifts a curly blue quill, dips it in a pot of ink, and scratches something on my page. “Anything else?”
My mind tunnels back to the moments following Tarik’s disposal. To the quiet allure I experienced toward a heavily accented male I probably should’ve slaughtered. But I didn’t. Because he smelled good.
“Got any sawtooth blades?”
She pauses, looking at me from beneath an arched brow. “Planning to hack somebody up?”
Hope not.
I shrug.
Humming again, she spins in her chair and pushes to a stand, snatching at the stone wall behind her. What’s actually a runed drape ripples as she rips it wide, revealing the full, gloomy expanse of the store that goes so deep it’s hard to see the end, the real walls lined with vaults of bloodstone, weapons, armor, and various infantry.
She unlocks one of the many grated repositories, retrieving a small saw she carries my way, tugging the curtain shut before she passes me the weapon.
I weigh it in my hand, tossing it to the other. “Good shape, but a little less weight in the handle would be better.”
She nods, scratching something else on my page. “Hiding place?”
“Thigh.”
“Sheath?”
“Colk leather. Preferably dyed fadestone brown, the buckles made of anything other than an iron compound.”
We say the last two words in unison, and the faintest smile tips her mouth as she bobs her head, still scratching. “I’ll have one forged to your size requirements and send a parchment lark when it’s ready to be inspected. Perhaps by the next aurora rise if you’re wanting a rush job and willing to pay extra?”
“Sounds good.”
I’d like it soon. Just in case said cloaked male decides to prove me wrong about the box I placed him in.
“Any withdrawals this dae?”
“No, but I’ll return once I’ve rested to draw down and do another bloodstone scatter. Folk are starving to death in the Undercity, and nobody’s doing anything about it.”
“As you wish.”
Ruse jots something on a notepad while I recall my first round of wages.
Bloody payment for a bloody deed. That’s all I could see it as.
Nothing’s changed.
I only keep what I need to survive, to do my job, and to support Essi. My periodic donations to the poor, sick, and hungry are my quiet fuck you to those who think they can placate me by plying me with payments and approving my passion missions.
It makes me feel like I’m winning, even though I’m not.
“I’ll ensure we have enough for the withdrawal,” Ruse says, curly quill wriggling as she scratches away. “If the King put as much effort into feeding the poor as you do, The Fade would be a much better place to live.”
Like that’s ever going to happen.
I doubt he’s gone hungry before. Not really. If he knew the weight of a hollow ache, perhaps he wouldn’t be so incompetent—though maybe not. You can reshape a turd an infinite number of times, but it’s still a turd.
It still stinks.
Ruse closes the ledger. “I’ll be in contact about the gown. Given your …
special requirements, it might take a while for the merchant who imported the material from The Burn to source more of the same color.”
“No rush,” I say, gathering my bag full of Essi’s things. “Any other material makes me cook up. I’d rather have it made with the right stuff.”
She tilts her head in acknowledgment, and I turn to leave.
“Not so fast, Raeve.”
Pausing, I look over my shoulder, brows pulling together as Ruse waves a recently unfolded parchment lark at me.
“Apologies. I know you’re tired, but Sereme wants to meet with you.”
All that tension I’d worked so hard to extinguish while lying on the skybridge comes crashing back, making it feel like my heartstrings are being strung out across a rack.
“Tell her I’ll be back once I’ve slept.”
If she can’t be bothered coming down the stairs to request my presence herself, she’s in no mood I want to deal with. Certainly not while hungry, sleep-deprived, and boasting a dwindling well of patience.
I’m three steps closer to the exit when Ruse’s voice chases me like the flick of a whip snapping around my ankles. “It was an order, Raeve. Not a request.”
Shackle tugged.
I sigh, cast my stare to the ceiling, and count to ten before I nod, then make for the bare-faced door in the corner of the store and yank it open. “How you can stand to exist in the same vicinity as that manipulative serpent is well beyond me,” I mutter loud enough for Ruse to hear.
Maybe Sereme, too.
Ruse’s laughter chases me all the way up the stairway and into the serpent’s den.
“I heard that,” Sereme snips out, her voice a whetted blade.
I unwind my veil, stepping into her long office, casting my gaze about the tidy space that boasts an extravagant amount of purple.
Rugs, cushioned seaters, walls, bookshelves …
Can’t escape it. I think I’d actually like the color had I not been treated like a scratching post almost every time I’ve stepped foot in this room.
“What?” I ask, finding Sereme by the large purple glass window that looks out upon the Ditch below. “I’m genuinely baffled. Ruse deserves a raise for putting up with your shit on a constant basis.”
Sereme spins, impaling me with her cool silver stare, her angular face perfectly painted—as always. Never a hair out of place or a blemish to be seen, white Runi bead hanging from her lobe. She’s donning a thick purple coat that melds with her body, snowy tufts of fur spilling between each seam that match the color of her coiffed hair.
My eyes narrow on the chain around her neck, threaded with a silver vial that’s etched in luminous runes, every cell in my body screaming for me to lunge forward and rip it free.
Tip its contents down a drain.
Instead, I move toward the huge desk that dominates the space, everything on it perfectly squared. Setting my bag on the floor, I drop into the boxy chair reserved for visitors and kick my legs up over the armrest. “I bite my tongue everywhere else; I refuse to bite it here. Feel free to cut me loose if it bothers you so,” I say, batting my lashes. “Promise I won’t complain. Quite the opposite. I might even do the odd side assassination for the cause in between hunting folk I choose to hunt.”