Altered

FIFTEEN

SOMEONE LAYS A THICK FUR COAT OVER my shoulders after Kincaid announces that the punishment will transpire in the garden. I turn, expecting to see Jost behind me, but it’s Jax. I haven’t seen him since our first day here. He doesn’t speak now, but he gives me a resolved nod as he slips to the back of the security team that’s amassing for Kincaid’s verdict. With the lighting system dimmed, the chill outdoors is reminiscent of the Icebox, without the lurking, shifting shadows. There’s no need for me to watch the corners and hidden spaces around the plants and fountain; the monster is in plain sight now, no longer able to hide.

Deniel is dragged across the uneven masonry of the brick path, his knees scraping against the rough surface, but he doesn’t speak or cry out. He keeps his head low, his ink-black hair falling over his eyes. When the guards bring him to Kincaid’s feet, they drop him there and one nudges Deniel’s head up with his knee. I gasp at the sight of the man’s bloodied mouth and crooked nose. It looks like the guards have already put him through some significant punishment before they brought him to Kincaid.

“Who do you work for?” Kincaid asks in a singsongy voice. The amusement in it isn’t lost on me.

Kincaid is enjoying this.

Deniel doesn’t respond to the question. Instead he lolls forward again, his head drooping to his chest. Kincaid snaps his fingers and one of the guards bends forward, taking Deniel’s chin forcefully into his hand and jerking it up.

“I’m waiting.”

“No one.” Deniel’s answer oozes slowly from him, and I notice how swollen his cheekbone is. It balloons out, swallowing the space around his eye and forcing it shut.

“Let’s try that again,” Kincaid says.

I barely make out the guard’s fingers tightening, but Deniel strains against the force, clawing at the hand that holds him.

“You could have had a fine life here, son,” Kincaid tells him. “The Guild forced you to run because of your ability, but while the Guild abuses Tailors, I value them. I would have valued you.”

Apparently the time for secrecy has passed. Dante isn’t the only Tailor on the estate. It seems Kincaid collects them.

Deniel tries to splutter something against the guard’s hand, but Kincaid continues. “The time for excuses has passed. You have betrayed my trust.”

“What’s going on?” Valery says, her voice elevated a decibel sharper than normal. She flies into the courtyard, her silk dressing robe rippling behind her. It’s loosely bound by a sash at her waist, and it does little to hide her flawless lithe figure, which does a lot to distract Kincaid.

“Darling, go back to bed. I’ll join you soon,” Kincaid assures her.

“I can’t sleep,” she says, crossing her arms against her chest. “What are you doing to Deniel?”

“Deniel attacked Adelice.”

I can’t help wondering why Valery even cares, but she swoops down to Deniel and stares him in the eye. How does she know him? If he’s new here, as Kincaid said earlier, I can’t imagine their paths crossing. I’ve rarely seen Valery out of her chambers except for dinners. Now she lingers before Deniel as if she’s trying to tell him something, but then her words come freely, in front of us.

“This is how you repay my kindness.” Accusation drips like poison from her words.

Deniel hesitates, still staring Valery in the eye. “We have our parts to play.”

Valery doesn’t respond. She rises up and turns to Kincaid. “I assure you I had no idea he was a traitor when I brought him here.”

“You know him?” The question sputters from my lips before I can stop it.

Valery winces, but taking a deep breath, she turns to me. “He was a refugee. We met fleeing Arras, and I helped secure his place here. I made a mistake.”

Mistake hardly seems to cover it. If Deniel fled Arras at the same time as Valery, he was sent here for some purpose and I have the scratches on my shoulder to prove it. She led him straight to his prize without hesitation. Without thought. But my ire softens when I meet her eyes. Valery helped him because that’s who she is—even if her graciousness no longer extends to me.

“You were trying to help him, darling,” Kincaid says, placing an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “It was a lapse in judgment. Now go to bed.”

He kisses her full on the lips, and I see it: whereas Valery melts and simpers into Kincaid’s arms during dining times, she’s stiff during this act. Unyielding. She doesn’t want his attention. Not now.

And still she goes to his bed, with the slightest glance at Deniel as she passes.

“Hold on,” Kincaid says. He gestures for Dante to come over, which he does reluctantly. “Will you do the honors?”

Dante’s eyes flicker to mine, and I know that whatever punishment Kincaid has in mind, I don’t want to see it. Is it too late to excuse myself? Beside me Jost takes my arm and pulls me close to him. Dante’s attention turns back to his boss and he shakes his head.

“I’m not playing your games, Kincaid.”

“Games?” Kincaid echoes with a guffaw. “My interest in your daughter should please you.”

Dante’s shoulders stay set, his lips a firm line of refusal.

“No?” Kincaid asks, but he sounds indifferent. He wags a finger at a burly guard, who steps forward. “Show Adelice that we will protect her. Show her what I do to those who would betray her.”

The guard nods, and Deniel is lifted to his feet. The guard’s eyes stay on Deniel’s chest, but Deniel remains passive and remote. Then he gives a loud groan as the guard’s fingers reach toward him.

My pulse leaps, pounding against my veins, and as the guard reaches forward, Deniel’s strands glimmer to life again.

I can see them so clearly now, more so than I did when he attacked me. His strands are thin, well worn, patched with newer strands. Some grafted in seamlessly and others barely attached. Whoever Deniel is, he’s endured a fair amount of alteration. Who did this to him?

Through the center of his jumbled weave runs a slender golden strand. The last pure thread remaining within the man. Another set of strands moves within Deniel, pushing apart the threads and patches, making straight for the man’s core. With a great wrench, the guard rends apart Deniel’s threads, below the tear that I gave him. For a moment my concentration is broken and I can only see the crimson that drips thin across the guard’s hands, but then the golden strand pulls slowly from Deniel and he starts to melt away. I am fastened to the sight, unable to turn my head.

First, Deniel’s skin shrivels. The blood stops flowing from his chest until only a seeping puddle remains on his shirt. His eyes sink into his skull and his head lolls back, and I know he’s dead, but it isn’t over. The golden strand pulls cleanly from him, and the shriveled skin cracks and falls away. Deniel’s bones follow, until the only thing that remains is a pile of dust at the feet of the guards.

Kincaid steps forward, surveying the guard’s work. His face is grim, but there’s a gleam in his eyes he can’t quite hide. And then, without a smile, he says quietly, “Dust to dust.”