Page 73 of A Steeping of Blood (Blood and Tea #2)

ARTHIE

The bodies of the three captives were seared in Arthie’s mind. It was one thing to know what the Ram was capable of, to see the effects of her monstrosity in the very bones of society, but it was another to witness it confined in so small a space, diluted to the essence of what the Ram was: evil.

Those three shots rang out in her ears over and over again, even as Matteo snuck her to an empty storeroom and locked the door shut. It was a narrow, musty space, lit only by the lantern he had grabbed on their way in and set on a barrel of what seemed to be gunpowder.

Arthie wanted to tell him they didn’t have to worry about the Ram now. She was out there, readying to meet her handpicked audience, masking her identity, masking her cruelty, masking away the heinous person that she truly was.

In the dark, Arthie saw the pleading in the captives’ eyes. She heard the girl’s warning, cut short by a gunshot. Calibore’s bullet, the pistol gripped tight in the Ram’s hand.

Arthie might as well have done it. Shot and killed three innocents in cold blood. And unlike the first time she’d slain three, she was lucid and sober, not inebriated by half vampirism.

“Arthie,” Matteo said softly. She lifted her eyes to his. “It wasn’t you. Those dead bodies inside that cage? It wasn’t you.”

“It may as well have been,” Arthie whispered. “Why do you think the Ram put me in there? She was waiting for me to succumb.”

The Ram didn’t know what Arthie had done as a child fleeing Ceylan, but she had seen the way Arthie’s body reacted to that spray of blood before she’d made that decision. She had assumed in a strange way that vampires were perpetually hungry—she had asked Arthie as much in the carriage.

Matteo pursed his lips. “Then she sorely underestimated you, but then again, she always has, no?”

It was true, Arthie wasn’t new to being underestimated. She was, however, new to being so thoroughly understood. She wrenched her gaze away from his. The room seemed to shrink, the distance between her and him taut, suddenly abuzz.

“Remember when I said I held your heart?” Matteo asked. “It’s how I know your strength. She can’t break you.”

He was waiting for a response, so she managed a nod, a trill shooting through her at his pleased smile.

He licked his thumb and wiped a smudge of blood from her chin, the lantern drawing him in sharp relief.

His hair was knotted at the base of his skull.

She liked when he wore it that way. She liked when he wore his specs too, which she’d learned he actually needed for reading but didn’t always wear because he clearly thought them ugly.

He was still dressed like a rogue, despite being in a palace, and he still couldn’t find his buttons.

How he’d managed to keep the white of his elegant shirt spotless would remain a mystery.

“You’re right,” she said with a sigh.

“I usually am, darling,” he drawled.

She rose and winced at the squelch of blood. “I’m not exactly presentable for a tribute, though.” She spotted a rag on the barrel beside the lantern, and wiped the last of the blood from her hands. “It’ll have to do. I’m sure the Ram will understand.”

“You must know by now that I’m a man who takes care of his woman,” Matteo said grandly.

Arthie lifted an eyebrow. “Am I your woman now?”

He said nothing as he handed her a bag, narrow and dark. It was wrinkled from being tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Arthie took it and waited for an explanation, but when he remained quiet, she glanced inside to see something in purple—no, gray. She tilted it to the storeroom light.

It was mauve, the color of her hair, in a fabric she recognized.

“A sari,” Arthie whispered.

“You’ve never once skimped on appearances. The woman at Hira House had your measurements from the last time you ordered and assured me this was the latest style.”

Arthie couldn’t contain her shock. “You went to Hira House.”

“Of course. We’re exposing the Ram, and I know you like your statements.”

Arthie gave him a look, because he was the one who cared about making a statement. It was stunning, the fabric lustrous and silky.

“ Plus it’s your color, and it has pockets.”

“Pockets?” Arthie asked, unsure how such a thing could exist on a sari.

Matteo nodded, utterly pleased. It was almost endearing.

“Thank you.”

The words were foreign in her mouth, like she was attempting to talk through a mouthful of stones. She meant them though. It was her color. She had chosen red for her sari for the Athereum meeting to match the one her mother had worn to her death, and it had become Arthie’s death shroud in turn.

But this—Arthie opened the bag and pulled it out. This was hers and hers alone.

She had almost decided to never wear a sari again, but that was wrong of her. She was Ceylani. She would be Ceylani forever—as Ceylani as she was Ettenian, which was a strange thought when she’d lived her years thinking she could be only one or the other.

And a sari was exactly what this Ettenian vicennial and tribute required.

Matteo turned away to give her privacy, and Arthie bit her cheek, wondering what would happen if she asked him to turn back around. If she were to ask him to help her undress. She couldn’t fathom saying anything of the sort, but it was quite the thought to have when one was cold.

Arthie made quick work of donning the sari, emptying what little she had in her pockets and transferring it to the far smaller ones.

It felt even more luxurious on her body, the fabric a decadent weight as she gathered it around herself, adjusting it several times to align the pockets just right, the mauve turning iridescent in the light.

It felt like petals brushing her skin, like kisses whispering against every inch of her.

Matteo inhaled sharply, and the sound shot straight to her core.

“You look—”

“Don’t say pretty,” Arthie said.

“Don’t insult my creative prowess,” Matteo said with a sniff. But she didn’t need to hear his words to know what he thought of her. It was written clearly in his green eyes. “I have not wished to paint for a long while now, but I would love nothing more in this moment.”

She smiled and couldn’t think of what to say, shocking herself with her own shyness.

“No response?” he asked. “Have I thwarted the great Arthie Casimir again?”

“What am I supposed to say? I would pull off a heist for you if it meant you were the prize?”

He laughed. A full-bodied laugh that Arthie had never once heard from him before. He threw back his head, fangs in full display, throat like that of a sculpted statue. And the sound—goodness, the sound of his laugh was enough for a vampire to subsist upon for a century.

Arthie didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want reality to rush back into their lives, and it was a harrowing realization: She wanted to live.

If only for a day, if only for a moment.

She had spent so many years tied up in her need for vengeance, in her need to keep Spindrift running, in her need to keep her head held high in a country that wanted to squash her.

She hadn’t known how truly tired she had become.

Matteo stepped close to her, glancing from his outfit to hers. “We make a good pair, you and I.”

“Oh, do we?” she asked.

“Dashing and deadly,” Matteo said with a nod, the motion rubbing his arm against her bare skin. He noticed. “Oh, my apologies.” He pulled away. “Here, this would be better.”

And he lowered his lips to the hollow of her shoulder without warning.

Arthie drew in an unsteady breath. Matteo’s mouth curved against her skin, and she felt the tip of his tongue, just barely, as if he wanted to taste her but wasn’t sure he’d like it.

But he did. He straightened with a lazy grin and hooded eyes. She knew he did.

Arthie locked her hands at the nape of his neck and tugged him toward her. He offered no resistance, his nose brushing hers, the soft strands of his hair teasing her brow, his lips soft and insistent on hers.

He pulled back. “Not yet. I see the light at the end of the tunnel, darling.”

“And then?” she asked, her lips abuzz.

“And then it’ll be an eternity of you and me,” he said, and pursed his lips. “Jin and Flick too, I suppose. We’ll open a new Spindrift, half bloodhouse, half tearoom, both at once. Because you really ought to give your employees the nights off.”

Arthie laughed at that.

Matteo handed her a mask and the folded cloak tucked in its recess.

“Flick did it,” Arthie said. “And very well at that.”

Matteo shook his head, the light disappearing from his eyes. “The Ram ruined her hands. She can’t forge.”

Flick couldn’t forge. The Ram had gone out of her way to hurt each of them in any way she could. Arthie’s anger spiked in her blood once again.

“Indeed,” Matteo said, noticing. “Jin attempted to sweet talk his way into the Council members’ hearts, but he wasn’t in the greatest of spirits himself, and they weren’t very receptive. One of them was fond of his parents, however. That’s his mask.”

Arthie flipped the mask over in her hands.

“Am I right to assume Flick didn’t forge the invites, then? I never had the chance to ask.”

“She did not.”

Arthie would have been irritated once, annoyed at a failed task, but she couldn’t summon those emotions now. Those emotions felt wrong now. She nodded. They would manage. They had to. The Ram had ruined far too much for them not to win.

She pulled the cloak over her shoulders and tossed her hat with the pile of her ragged clothes before twisting her hair into a bun. If she had Calibore, she would turn it into her bladed hairpin and hold the errant swoops in place.

“I still can’t believe she was trying to send an army of half vampires out on the streets,” Matteo said.

“On the streets?” Arthie asked.

“So I assumed,” Matteo said. “Where else? Monarchs have long celebrated vicennials to rekindle support and commendations. Why wait until the tribute when the upper echelon is safe in her palace if not to unleash onto the streets half vampires who will cause the chaos she needs to gain the favor of those people of importance?”

Where else indeed.