Blood Heir

26

The sky was afire when Ana woke, groggy and dizzy and drained, as though she’d slept for days. Clouds had gathered in the west, and the setting sun lit them in brilliant shades of reds and corals and violets. When she threw open the windows, the air hung heavy with the scent of winter and promised snow.

She cleaned herself in the small wash closet at the end of the hallway, trying not to think of the blood caked on her face and hands as she scrubbed it off. It all still felt like a dream—Yuri, the Redcloaks, Shamaïra’s, the brokers. And May.

No, she wouldn’t think of that. She couldn’t, not yet, not when tonight amounted to everything she had been working for over the past eleven moons.

She would get through the night, find her alchemist, and go from there. So Ana took all the memories from the past day and locked them away. Tonight she needed to be at her strongest and quickest and cleverest.

She rummaged through the few parcels they’d stacked against the wall until she found what she was looking for. The dress she’d purchased days ago slid over her body smoothly. It was made entirely of white chiffon, embedded with tiny beads that glittered white, silver, and blue and fell in a spiral, flowing with the translucent folds and pooling at her feet. When she looked at herself in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall, she inhaled, the dress glimmering like falling snow.

She took the boxes of fresh creams and powders and began to dress her face as she remembered the maids used to back when she was a child. Bronze creams rubbed evenly across her skin, to cover bruises and the roughness. Then a dusting of rose-scented powders to give her a shimmering look. A dark blush just under her cheekbones, and a dab of vermilion rouge on her lips.

When she stood and looked at her reflection, she felt slightly more reassured. She barely recognized the girl frowning back at her in the looking glass. That girl was made up and manicured to look like she belonged. A high dama of Novo Mynsk.

No one would recognize her tonight. She was a ghost.

Still, when Ana slid the mask she had chosen over her face, she felt her entire body relax. The color matched her dress, silver whorls tracing snowflakes around the edges. Traditionally, Fyrva’snezh did not require masks. Yet… the people of Novo Mynsk seemed to have a fondness for masked events.

Are all balls in Novo Mynsk masked? she’d asked Ramson several days ago.

He’d smiled at her from behind a black mask of his own. The people of Novo Mynsk have a lot to hide.

Ana stuffed what she had left of her belongings in a small beaded purse she’d purchased as an accessory for the ball: her sketches of Luka, her parents, her mamika Morganya, and Pyetr Tetsyev. An unused globefire. A map. When she got to the bottom of her rucksack, she paused and pulled out a single copperstone.

It was the last of the three she had given May. Let’s buy ourselves a treat at the next town.

A knot formed in her throat. She blinked, and the phantom of May’s toothy smile vanished into the impending twilight outside.

She had killed the broker who had killed May. But did one life pay for another?

Ana kissed the coin and tucked it into the bottom of her purse before strapping it to her wrist. She found the parchment with the address to the Kerlan Estate that she’d gotten from Ramson several days ago and slipped that, along with her false papers, into her purse.

Then she tossed the rest of her papers and plans into a tin bucket used for collecting bathwater, set it on fire, and watched it burn until there was nothing left but ashes.

Ana pulled on matching silver-white gloves, threw on her fur cloak, and swept one last look around her now-empty room before she left. She was ready. Ramson had secured them spots as mesyr and dama Farrald, a common Bregonian last name that piqued Ana’s curiosity for a moment before she brushed it off. Ramson had his reasons for everything; now was not the time to question them. She would present herself alone as such at the door and make excuses for her husband. The rest of the plan remained the same: find Tetsyev, lure him to the basement that Ramson had made her memorize the path to on a badly drawn map, and escape through the secret passageway. Ramson had hired a carriage to take them far, far away.

Twilight had fallen outside; the last rays of the sun gave way to the violet cloak of night. Storm clouds broiled in the skies. And as the lamplighters ran down the streets, Novo Mynsk came alive with the scintillating shimmer of lights, rowdy laughter, and the distant but ever-present sounds of song and bar music. Whereas the townsfolk of Salskoff would have lit blue-papered lanterns at their windows and sat at home to witness the First Snow with their loved ones, the people of Novo Mynsk took to the streets. Ana passed throngs of revelers singing in Old Cyrilian, dressed in white robes and glimmering blue headdresses that were farcical portrayals of the Deities. They danced and laughed and drank, torchlight lancing off their masks and the coins in their hands.

Ana made quick progression through the streets, her Affinity flared and her nerves set on edge. She’d studied a map of Novo Mynsk; the Kerlan Estate was about a half-hour walk from her inn.

Gradually, the cramped cobblestone streets widened; the dachas grew in size and bloomed into cream-colored mansions; the rotten smells of liquor and sewage shifted to the sweet scent of chamomile, orchids, and roses.

Finally, Ana turned and found herself facing her destination. She drew a sharp breath.

Sprawled beneath a sky of gray snow clouds, the estate was a spread of lush lawns that stretched farther than the eye could see, interspersed with tinkling fountains and marble statues. In the midst of it sat a mansion, a cream-and-gold behemoth that gleamed with torchlight.

Guests were already arriving; carriages rolled through the open gilded gates, past liveried guards standing still as statues. Few guests arrived on foot, yet all were dressed in resplendent gowns, sleek black suits, and fur coats. They filed through the gates, masks catching the light of lanterns spread throughout the gardens that led to the mansion itself.

Ana followed the steady stream of people in through the yawning gates. The Kerlan Estate had some of the most ostentatious displays of wealth she had seen in her life. Cement paths wound through displays of the riches the garden offered: bushes of the most exotic flowers ranging from the Cyrilian iris to Nandjian desert roses, and aviaries with colorful birds of all species and origins. Ana even passed by a small habitat in which several of the rarest animals in the world resided; she thought she recognized a Kemeiran snow leopard, and a pool with what appeared to be a mystical ghostwhale of Bregon.

Unease twinged in her stomach. Alaric Kerlan, it seemed, was a collector.

As she drew steadily closer to the great mansion, she thought she saw a gray tint to its glass windows and felt a slight chill seep through her furs. She wouldn’t be surprised if Kerlan’s entire estate was blackstone-infused and built with the highest security detail in mind. The mansion loomed, menacing now, and Ana couldn’t help but imagine that it was an enormous spider amid its vast web of spies, brokers, and criminals, spinning its secrets and gold.

Light and music spilled from the giant mahogany double doors. Guests clustered up the marble steps, and through it all, Ana caught sight of a line of guards at the front, and a man in a black-and-gold doublet holding a thick stack of parchments.

Her heartbeat fluttered anxiously, and dread slowed her steps. Blood, thrumming in the excited guests all around her, crowded her thoughts. The blackstone-infused walls seemed to hum with menace.

Farrald, she reminded herself. She was dama Farrald. There was no reason for the doorman to turn her away, especially when she already looked the part.

She’d need to act the part, too; she’d con her way in.

She thought of Ramson, of how he could shed one act and step into another within the blink of an eye. So Ana squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and followed the stream of guests up the steps.

The doorman barely spared her a glance. “Name and invitation letter?”

Ana froze, feeling as though a stone had dropped in her stomach. Invitation letter. Why hadn’t Ramson mentioned an invitation letter? Her mind was sifting through the past few days they’d spent planning even as she stammered, “D-dama Farrald.” At no point had Ramson mentioned this crucial detail—and why not? Her heart pounded in her temples.

Had he tricked her, after all this time?

Or had he simply played the con man’s part, giving away just enough information so that she would trust him… but not enough so that she could leave him?

The doorman shuffled through his parchments with white-gloved hands. “Letter, please, dama Farrald.”

“I…” Her palms were sweating in her gloves, and her tongue was dry. She’d never been a good liar. “I’m afraid I’ve lost it.”

The doorman cast her a sympathetic look; several guests behind her whispered. “I’m sorry, meya dama. We can’t accept guests without an invitation. Would you mind stepping aside? I’ll send for Lord Kerlan’s butler.” He must have seen the panic on her face, for he added as though to reassure her: “Not to worry, this is just a necessary precaution. Lord Kerlan’s butler recognizes all acquainted guests.”

Ana gripped her beaded purse tightly to stop herself from shaking. Lord Kerlan’s butler would not recognize her—and she’d be ousted, perhaps even arrested, even before she could step inside and have a hope of spotting Pyetr Tetsyev.

Think, Ana. She could almost hear Ramson’s voice chiding her, his I-told-you-so expression whenever she was about to make a rash decision.

Think. What would Ramson do?

The doorman raised an eyebrow. “Meya dama, I need to ask you to please step aside while we allow other guests in.”

Ana was frozen to the spot, a dozen different options running through her mind yet none viable. She could steal an invitation, come back as a different guest—but the doorman would surely recognize her and call foul play. She could… she could… “Please, mesyr, I—”

“There you are.”

A voice cut through the night. She felt someone’s presence behind her, warm and solid, and a hand pressed against the small of her back. The familiar scent of kologne that had been a part of her days for the past few weeks.

Ana’s legs nearly buckled with relief.

Ramson leaned past her, his black tuxedo cutting him into lean lines and sharp edges. His eyes glinted behind his dark mask as, with a small flourish, he presented two wax-sealed envelopes to the doorman. “Mesyr and dama Farrald,” he declared. “I apologize for the mix-up; I lost my wife in the crowds.”

His hold on her arm was so tight it almost hurt, and the razor-sharp smile he cut her chased away any foolish thoughts that he was actually glad to see her again.

And she felt it, a new stiffness to his gestures and smiles that she’d never sensed before, no matter how frustrated they’d been with each other.

Ramson was angry. Of course he was. She’d tossed him halfway across a room and left him there.

“Please, mesyr and dama Farrald.” The doorman dipped his head. “I apologize for the inconvenience.” His eyes lingered on them as he bowed and gestured for them to enter.

They stepped into a vast banquet hall with a glass ceiling two stories high. Crystal chandeliers dripped warm gold light into the hallway. On either side of the hall, alcoves framed with intricate marble carvings lined the first and second floors. Guests were already lounging in plush velvet chaises or leaning over the balustrade on the second floor, chatting with drinks in hand.

Ramson’s grip was tight on her waist as he steered her around the edges of the ballroom. “Surely you didn’t think I’d let you leave without thanking you for that wonderful parting gift?” he muttered.

His words cut. Ramson had been cold toward her, he’d been calculating, he’d been indifferent—but he’d never been angry. Angry was new. Angry was… personal. “I didn’t want to put you in danger anymore,” she said as he led her up a spiraling set of stairs to the quieter second level that overlooked the banquet hall. “You shouldn’t have come.”

He snorted. “So I should’ve let you be caught like the fool you are?”

Irritation stirred in her. “If you’d just told me about the invitation instead of trying to play me,” she hissed. “You never trusted me. And I shouldn’t have trusted you.”

Ramson’s eyes flashed. “Since when has anyone uttered ‘trust’ in the same breath as my name?”

The second floor was nearly empty, with most of the guests still gathering on the first floor. Ramson cast a furtive look around. “In here,” he said brusquely, parting a set of heavy red curtains to a small alcove. On the far wall of the alcove, a glass door led to a balcony outside; it was dark.

Ana stumbled in. When she turned, Ramson had removed his mask. His face was cold, clean-shaven, and sharp. He was angrier than she’d ever seen him and, from the way he clutched at his ribs, in pain. Shame weighed in her chest, but she found herself growing defensive beneath his fury. “I’m sorry, all right?” she snapped.

“You’re sorry,” Ramson repeated, and took such a menacing step forward that she started backward. She bumped against the glass door. “And what, exactly, are you sorry for? Murdering two of Kerlan’s men the night before his ball? Nearly killing me? Running off without a word and leaving me to puzzle it all out from a message from Yuri?”

Whatever remorse she might have felt burned away with her rising anger, stoked by his heated accusations. “Kerlan’s men killed May and exploited Affinites for a living,” she growled. “I gave them what they deserved.”

Ramson slashed a hand through the air. “Yes, and in doing so, you nearly single-handedly gave us away. That doorman was watching us as we entered; I wouldn’t be surprised if he alerted Kerlan’s security of us. I bargained for a peaceful entry to this ball and you ruined it. You focused on the battle and lost sight of the war.”

They stood so close that she could grab him by the lapels and shake him until his teeth rattled. She thought back to Shamaïra’s dacha, the fire burning low, the smell of smoke and incense and hope hanging between them. She’d thought there was something in him worth redeeming.

Ana pitched her voice low and cast her words to cut. “Do not speak of May as though she were a sacrifice to be made, in these battles and wars you seem to perceive as a game.”

Ramson’s eyes narrowed. “Ana, be quiet—”

“Must be so easy for you to say”—she plunged on, anger and tears threatening to choke her as they did whenever she thought of May—“having never loved anybody or anything besides yourself.”

In one swift step, Ramson closed the gap between them. Instinctively, Ana shrank back, her head bumping against the glass behind her as Ramson leaned over her and braced a hand on the door behind her. He reached out with the other hand, and in that moment she had a wild premonition that he would either hurt her or kiss her—but all he did was press a finger to her lips.

“Please, shut up,” he whispered, and something about the urgency of his tone startled her into silence. He was so close that she could see the cuts and scratches on his chin, the slight bend to his nose, the sweep of his lashes over his hazel eyes, wide as he looked at her right now. He leaned in. His whisper was lighter than a breath by her ear. “We’re being watched.”

She looked past him. Through the blur of her tears, the alcove swam into view, barely wide enough for her to stretch her arms out on either side. She was suddenly aware of the silence beyond the curtains, of the music and hubbub that seemed a world away. Of how their voices must have carried to anyone listening outside.

Ramson’s hand shifted to her shoulder, his gaze locked on her as though she were something wild that could become unhinged at any moment. Ana swallowed. The deluge of her emotions vanished as quickly as it had come, tempered by the chill of fear and the need to act.

Holding his gaze, she reached out with her Affinity. It was like lighting a torch; she saw with her power the blood, hot and bright in Ramson’s body before her, pulsing quickly from the strong beat of his heart. Ana reached beyond that. The second floor of Kerlan’s banquet hall unfurled under the sweep of her Affinity, a darkness devoid of blood, until—

There.

A single figure stood by the staircase mere steps from their alcove, still as a stone.

Fear bloomed cold against her chest.

Ramson watched her expression, as though he already knew exactly what she was doing. “Do you sense someone?” His lips barely moved.

Ana nodded.

“Can you tell me anything else about them? What they’re wearing, or what they look like?”

As though in response to his question and to her Affinity, she sensed something reaching out to her—an icy, iron force that clamped against her Affinity, blotting it out like dousing a torch.

The feeling was all too familiar, and her knees almost buckled as she thought of the last time she’d felt it. “A yaeger,” she whispered.

Ramson nodded almost imperceptibly. “Just don’t move. Couples come up here for… privacy all the time. Let him think that.”

She realized that she was gripping him tightly, one hand clutching at his shoulder and the other wrapped around his back. Ramson had placed a hand on her waist, his other still warm against the skin of her shoulder. He smelled of fresh kologne, clean with just a hint of spice and mystery.

He leaned over her, his head resting against the cool glass door that led outside. “Trust me,” he murmured, his breath grazing her neck. “And tell me if he moves.”

Trust me.

Her heart was threatening to beat out of her chest from terror at being caught, and some other strange thrill that she couldn’t even begin to understand. The fabric of their outfits rustled, and in the dim light that seeped beneath the curtains into their small space, they were a tangle of chiffon and limbs and soft, cautious breaths.

Ramson sighed, the corded muscles in his neck shifting slightly. His head was bowed, his breath warming the crook between her neck and her bare shoulders. Any closer, and…

Something shifted in the landscape of her Affinity. Ana perked up.

The person outside was gone.

She sensed the yaeger making his way down the stairs, his blood growing dim until it blended into the chaos of the banquet hall. “He left,” she murmured.

Ana felt Ramson loose a breath against her, his hand slipping from her shoulder, the calluses scraping against her bare skin as he squeezed her arm and stood back. A lock of hair had become undone and fell in front of his eyes; for some reason, she wanted to reach out and brush it away.

His gaze snapped to her. Ana stared back, shame curdling her stomach at her earlier outburst. The anger seemed to have dissipated from Ramson, too; he only looked at her, puzzled, lips half-parted as though he was simultaneously wanting to say something and waiting for her to say something.

Ana swallowed. Heat crept up her neck; the silence was becoming unbearable. She needed to break it.

“Ramson,” she found herself saying. “Don’t ever tell me to shut up again.”

He blinked, and his lips began to lift at the corners, until he was grinning at her. It wasn’t a sly or slicing smirk; it was a full-on smile, his mouth curving, his eyes crinkling, as though he found something genuinely amusing in her. And it felt like, for the first time, they were sharing something real between them, something tender.

A warm glow stirred in her chest. Ana turned away before she could smile back.

The brass handle of the glass door twisted when she tried it. A cold breeze slipped in, and she breathed in the scent of the winter night. Ana snuck a glance at the red curtains behind them again, and the shadow of that earlier figure lingered in her imagination. She shivered. “Can we talk outside?”

A trace of a smile played around Ramson’s lips. “We certainly can,” he said, and pushed open the door for her. “After you, meya dama.”

The veranda wrapped all the way around the Kerlan mansion. There were only a handful of guests outside, and the few lamps cast a soft glow in the night. Overhead, the skies were completely dark and overcast, and a quiet stillness hung in the air as though the earth itself were holding its breath, waiting for the arrival of the Deity of Winter.

Ana leaned against the marble balustrade, exhaling and watching her breath plume before her. She felt Ramson come up by her side; he stood, barely a hand’s breadth from her. Something about Fyrva’snezh, the way the night stayed silent and the air trembled with the promise of snow, filled her with a strange sense of hope. She’d stayed behind in the Palace while her family left for the annual Parade, but at night, when the servants had gone to bed and all was silent, Mama and Papa and Luka and mamika Morganya had gathered in Papa’s bedroom. They’d watched the snows fall as a family. And even after Mama’s death, after the incident at the Vyntr’makt, after Papa grew ill, Luka and mamika Morganya had always been there with her.

She drew in a breath and wondered if Luka was looking out his window at this very moment. Whether he thought of her. “You know,” she said softly, half to herself. “Fyrva’snezh isn’t meant to be about dancing and drinking. It’s about the quiet worship of the first snowfall, of the first breath of our patron Deity.” She hesitated, but some part of her urged her to go on. “Back at home, we celebrate by lighting prayer candles and standing outside, waiting for the first snows to fall.”

They were silent for several moments, and then Ramson spoke. “Back at home, we don’t worship your Deities. We have three gods: the Sea, the Sky, and the Land.” There was a rawness to his voice that she had never heard before, a quiet honesty that felt intimate.

Three gods. It all came to her then. She recalled hundreds of pages from old tomes she’d studied, of the Bregonians and their gods and values and their Navy. The Bregonian surname he had chosen for their invite letter. The slightest accent to his words, so subtle that she hadn’t been able to place it. Until now.

Ana whirled toward him. “You’re Bregonian.” The realization felt like another puzzle piece falling into place.

Ramson’s mask hung in his hands. He met her gaze, his eyes darting between hers with something like uncertainty. How could she have not guessed? She thought of the calluses on his hands, of the long scars on his back, of the way he wielded a sword better than any guard she’d seen. “You were in the Bregonian Royal Navy, weren’t you?”

“I was training for it,” he said quietly.

It all made sense. Bregonians lived on honor and courage; no matter who he’d become and what his history was, she’d seen glimmers of both in him. Perhaps… perhaps he could still be brave and honorable. Perhaps he could still change.

She stared at him, outlined in sharp-cut edges against the starless night, half-shrouded in shadows. He was a man in a mask, an enigma that she had been trying to decipher since the first day she had met him. There was still so much she didn’t know about him—so much she would never know. “How did a Royal Navy recruit become a Cyrilian crime lord?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” A weight seemed to settle into the lines of his shoulders, and his eyes clouded as he turned to her. “So, you know the plan. The carriage will be waiting outside the passageway for you at the tenth hour. One moment past ten, and it’ll be gone.”

“I know,” Ana said.

Ramson dug something from the pockets of his black suit and slipped it into her hands.

A silver pocket watch. Ana almost smiled at how practical his gift was.

But his next sentence thudded like the strike of a gavel. “There isn’t much time left, Ana. I suppose this is good-bye.”

Ana stared at him, a sudden feeling of apprehension tightening in her stomach. She’d thought this part of the plan had been clear to her: get Tetsyev, return to her brother, sort everything out. And then, once all that was over, she would fulfill her end of the bargain.

She hadn’t expected good-bye this fast.

Her carefully constructed world of possibilities and future scenarios dissolved into haze. “But—our Trade,” she found herself saying, against all odds. “You haven’t asked me for my end of it.”

He huffed, his breath forming a whorl of mist in the air. “I don’t need anything from you anymore. It all ends tonight.”

Something about that phrase didn’t sit right, and she struggled for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. But he was already turning, reaching to put his mask back on.

Her hands shot out. Clasped his wrists.

Ramson’s gaze snapped to her; his lips parted. “What—”

“Come with me,” Ana said before he could speak. “You could be good.” The words tumbled from her mouth, jumbled and rushed, and she could think of nothing else to say after.

Something shifted in Ramson’s expression, and it was like the fog had cleared and she was looking straight at him for the first time. There was an earnestness to his bright hazel eyes that she had never seen before when he spoke again. “When I was small, my father told me that there was no pure good or pure evil in the world. He said that humans only exist in different shades of gray.” He shifted, and his fingers slid around her wrists, his touch raising gooseflesh on her arms even through her gloves. “I believed that, until I met you, Ana. So… thank you.”

Shades of gray. Why did that ring another bell within her? Humans only existed in different shades of gray—

What defines you is how you choose to wield it. A gentle wind kissed her cheeks and brought her brother’s voice back to her.

“You’re right,” she said quietly, holding Ramson’s gaze. “The world doesn’t exist in black and white. But I would like to believe that it is our choices that define us.” His hands were warm and steady on hers. “Make the right choice, Ramson.”

Something wet fell on her cheek, and Ramson’s expression shifted to wonder. Ana felt another touch of coldness and wetness, and another, and another. And as the first snowflakes gently landed on Ramson’s hair, she realized that it was snowing.

They angled their faces to the sky, at the silver flecks that twirled silently in the air and came to rest on their shoulders, on their clothes, on their faces and lips and necks. If there was a single moment she wanted to imprint in a sketch, this was it; this was a scene she wanted to remember.

Ramson let go of her hands. Through the softly falling flakes that caught in his hair and on his lashes and cheeks, he looked younger and more vulnerable than she had ever seen, hunching into his suit to ward out the cold. Something flickered in his expression, and then his eyes shuttered. “Good-bye, Ana.”

Wait, she wanted to say. Tell me your real name. Tell me who you are. Something, anything, to get him to stay.

But she could only breathe, “Good-bye, Ramson,” as she watched his retreating back disappear into a night of silently falling snow.

She turned to the balustrade, composing herself for a moment, trying to tease out the tangled, gnarled strands of her emotions. The snow was coming thickly now, whirling in a blur.

Below, on the veranda leading out to the gardens, a figure stepped into the dark, clad in robes of white. And as Ana’s gaze fell to him, her heart pounded and her blood roared in her ears.

The man tilted his face to the sky, and it was like looking at a ghost.

Tetsyev was here.