Page 41 of A Steeping of Blood (Blood and Tea #2)

FLICK

Flick was in a chair. Her wrists ached more than she would have liked, but that was fine.

Eyes ate more than mouths ever did, and the feast before her was delightful.

The chair was quite comfortable, the round table before her laden with some of her favorite things: a slender vase full of happy sunflowers, a spread of sandwiches with cucumbers and cream—a rarity, for cucumbers were expensive and hard to come by.

She could smell the tea brewing in a dainty cup.

Royal Rouge. Her favorite Spindrift blend, with rose petals and caramel. If the papers ever came to interview her at the Linden Estate and asked her to describe herself, she would say Royal Rouge. It was Flick in a teacup.

And she wasn’t alone, for Flick loved companionship more than anything else.

“You look lovely today, Mother,” she said.

Where Lady Linden’s gown brought out her remarkable blue eyes, Flick’s dress didn’t really complement her skin or hair or the color of her eyes, but she didn’t find herself concerned, because they matched.

It meant her mother liked her enough to dress alike.

“Thank you, dear. Have you tried the tea?” Lady Linden asked. “I know it’s your favorite.”

Flick’s smile slipped before she mentally pinched herself and tacked it back on. How did her mother know her favorite tea? She’d been far too occupied with everything else to even take Flick to Spindrift, let alone learn what she liked there.

Still, Flick was always a gracious, obedient daughter.

She widened her smile and reached for her cup.

But her arm kept… going . She stretched and stretched, and when her fingers finally closed around the handle of the teacup, she was dreadfully tired.

When she pulled the cup closer, the smell of it began to change.

The sweet caramel turned sharper, spicier, and when she brought it to her lips, she saw that it wasn’t tea that was brewing.

It was a steeping of blood. Her hand shook, causing it to splash and scald her chest.

Flick gasped, and the teacup faded away, as did the spread of food and her gown and her mother.

She felt herself awaken—she felt herself lurching back into her body, her senses rousing from darkness, every excruciating inch of her screaming with pain.

It thumped through her veins, sending echoing waves of weakness washing through her with every other breath.

The Ram was before her, cloaked in shadows, and Flick was still hanging from the ceiling, her wrists bound. In that moment, she wished she was horribly, terribly alone.

Because this was worse.

The Ram assessed Flick through her mask that was as ugly as her soul. Beside her was a tiny stool with a wicked blade resting in wait. It was long with sharp, serrated teeth. Terror shot through Flick’s veins, warring with the pain.

She was supposed to find out more about the Ram’s plans for the tribute.

She was supposed to forge invitations and figure out what those pill-shaped sketches represented.

Was she really at the location of the coordinates and had somehow gotten them wrong?

Or was her mother mocking her as she tended to do?

“Enjoying yourself?” she rasped. A familiar scent tickled her nose: that spritz of lavender perfume her mother sprayed every morning. She was methodical with it, so that it never mixed poorly with her evening fragrances.

A day had passed. Or was it two? Flick had been hanging for a day. She ought to be proud of herself, but she could barely think from the pain leaching through her.

“I don’t like your tone,” the Ram said.

Flick laughed. It was more of a wheeze, but the Ram had lived with her long enough to know what it was meant to be. “I don’t like your methods, so I suppose we’re equal, Mother .”

Flick decided then and there that she enjoyed sarcasm. Not only did it sound exquisite to her ears, but when she visualized the word, it was a lovely italicized stream of disdain that was quite joyful.

The Old Roaring Tower tolled, marking the hour, and Flick wished her head wasn’t throbbing.

Three bells clanged across the city. Why did it sound so far above her?

Was it three at night or in the afternoon?

There wasn’t a window in here to tell. Years might have passed for all she knew.

She couldn’t remember not being in pain.

“Don’t you have a tribute to plan?” Flick asked in another rasp. She could barely get the words out. She wriggled her fingers. They were numbed to the bone. She stifled a sob.

The Ram noticed. She strode forward and kicked the crate beneath Flick.

Flick only needed to lift her feet onto it, and she would feel relief. Her mother would feel satisfaction. Don’t do it, don’t.

Flick lifted her feet.

It was a struggle, but she did it, one after the other, touching them to the surface of the crate.

Her feet felt as though they would snap as she straightened them.

She couldn’t hold back her sob this time.

It racked through her, and the pain was almost worse as feeling slowly eked back into her limbs.

“There, isn’t that better? Can you blame me for being deterred by the sudden change in my daughter’s behavior?” the Ram asked. “You won’t tell me where the ledger is, or where your friends are, or even where the Casimir girl’s pistol might be.”

Flick gave her an emotionless look. There is good, there is bad, and then there is obedience and the lack thereof , Flick reminded herself.

“Did you know that she’s a vampire?” the Ram asked.

First the pistol, now Arthie’s being undead. Where was the Ram getting this information?

The Ram tried something else. “Is it not disheartening that the family you chose over me still hasn’t come to your rescue?”

Flick kept her blank gaze steady in reply.

The Ram sighed. “Felicity, you and I are lonely souls.”

She didn’t know why the Ram’s words drew tears through the steel Flick had layered over herself. Perhaps it was because she was aching and weak, thirsty and exhausted.

And again the Ram noticed. She brought her water.

Fed it to her. Flick wanted to spit it back at her and drench that detestable mask.

She was too thirsty to hold her ground. She gulped down every sip, and when her mother brought bread to her lips, she ate that too, trying not to choke.

She was so starved that she couldn’t care for the disgraceful way in which she devoured it.

The Ram said nothing. She waited until Flick finished chewing, until her eyes flickered shut and relief washed through her.

“Do you think they like you?” the Ram asked quietly.

Flick opened her eyes. It was time to pay for her mother’s kindness.

But Flick wasn’t trying to be liked. She didn’t want to be liked. She wanted to be loved, ardently, passionately. She wanted to be cared for and to care for someone in turn. And she knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that she had that.

“Dearest, the Casimirs already have others they rely upon. They will discard you the moment you are of no value to them.”

Flick couldn’t stand the Ram talking badly about Jin and Arthie anymore.

“They haven’t come for me only because they’re not—” Flick stopped herself when the Ram held herself very, very still. As if Flick were a bird she was afraid of spooking, as if Flick were a mark she was afraid would realize she was being fooled.

“They’re not what? Smart enough to find where we are?” she scoffed.

“They’re not here,” Flick snapped.

And in that moment, Flick felt undeniably small and useless, until she saw the way the Ram reacted.

“No,” she breathed. She stumbled back, her blue eyes aghast. “They’re not here. They’re in Ceylan.”

How did she— had the Ram heard of the missing EJC ship?

No, it was too soon, but her mother was smart.

She knew they had the ledger in their possession and that they were aware of the weaponized vampires.

It wasn’t hard to put everything together.

She met Flick’s eyes, and Flick realized that no matter what the Ram might try to do now to stop Arthie and the others, to ramp up security in her fort, to protect her operation—it was too late.

She couldn’t get there soon enough if the others were already there.

“You deciphered my ledger, you wretched child.”

Flick didn’t know what it was about that phrase that made a laugh bubble up in her throat. The Ram, monarch to the most powerful empire in the world, was being bested by a wretched child.

There was a glint in the Ram’s eyes now. It was bright and wild—understandably. Ceylan was the heart of the Ram’s operation, and the Ram knew Arthie was calculating and angry, content with hurting both the EJC and the crown.

Her reign was crumbling.

“It wasn’t that hard, really,” Flick said, unable to resist the urge to gloat.

The Ram started turning for the door, and dread sank through Flick, heavy and laden, and it had nothing to do with her aching, numbing limbs. The crate beneath her feet offered little relief. She didn’t want the Ram to leave. Letting her leave meant allowing her to plan her next course of action.

“Why do you hate vampires?” she asked.

The Ram froze.

“This is because you loathe vampires, isn’t it?” Flick continued. “The fearmongering when you rose to power, the kidnappings, the weaponization of them for your own needs. You raised me to hate them. You’re training a whole empire to hate them still.”

The Ram’s eyes were cruel when she turned to face Flick fully. She stormed closer, but Flick wasn’t afraid, even if she was chained and unable to defend herself. She held the Ram’s gaze and screwed her jaw tight, challenging her.

“You’re one of them,” Flick said.

“What did you say?” the Ram asked, her voice deathly low.