Page 8 of A Steeping of Blood (Blood and Tea #2)

FLICK

In a tea shop not far from the scorched remains of the Casimirs’ once-prestigious establishment, Flick sat in the shadows with a terrible cup of tea and a purring kitten, ever watchful.

She read the invitation once more, running her fingers over the gold edges.

Days ago, against her better judgment, she had followed a carriage that was dropping off a neat and glamorous card at each house on Admiral Grove, nearly running straight into a throng of Horned Guard gathered at the end of the street.

And criminal that she now was, she stole one.

A Tribute to the Written Word , the card announced. Join us in honoring our fallen heroes and celebrating a vicennial of our monarch.

It was just over a week from now, at Ettenia’s palace north of here. She’d read of vicennial celebrations in history books, an event where long-standing monarchs reminded the rich and the powerful of how great they were and why they ought to remain in power.

She scoffed at the timing. Her mother had been busy in the scant days since the massacre. She was already making her next move, stirring her citizens while planning to honor the fallen members of the press that she had killed.

Flick sighed and tried another sip of her tea. Blech. Tea-flavored water was what it was.

The shop was equally drab, void of life in a way Spindrift had never been.

She drummed her fingers on the side of the teacup, watching the liquid ripple like fear had across White Roaring, leaving it rife with tension in a way Ettenia’s bustling capital never had been in her lifetime.

Some hurried to wherever they needed to be, voices hushed, children clutched close.

Others were pumping fists into the sky, waving wooden stakes, shouting at the top of their lungs.

She couldn’t decide which was worse: the angry mobs, the increase in Horned Guard, or the Ram’s black-clad men.

Everything was terrible.

Flick wanted to tell those people her mother didn’t care that they were hurting and mourning. She didn’t care for their safety any more than Flick thought the vampires were out to attack them.

There were no limits to what her mother would do, Flick knew now. She saw the Ram’s black-clad forces in every shadow, heard the screams of the reporters who had gathered for the truth, tasted the metallic tang of blood in the air as the Athereum meeting hall turned red.

They had been following her ever since that night.

At a different point in her life, she might have run straight to the nearest Horned Guard—which wasn’t far, considering how many of them were patrolling the streets since that night—but life was different now.

Flick wasn’t as naive, nor innocent. The Ram employed them both: The Horned Guard might not kill her on sight like the black-clad forces, but Flick wouldn’t be surprised if the Ram had given them instructions to apprehend Flick and bring her in.

“More tea, miss?”

She startled at the waiter’s voice. She sensed his judgment of her: a young woman dressed like a boy, sitting in a dark corner with a gray-splotched white kitten in her lap.

The place was empty, outside of her. Most businesses were.

A string of human kidnappings had made the papers recently, claiming vampires were behind it.

In Flick’s experience, vampires drank blood, they didn’t steal humans away.

She wouldn’t be surprised if her mother was the real culprit—she had always been good at riling up the crowds with campaigns for her business, why wouldn’t that extend to the promotion of fearmongering?

“I would say yes if you actually served any,” Flick replied, and immediately resisted the urge to slap a hand over her mouth and pluck the surly words right out of his ears.

That was not the speech of a respectable lady.

Sometimes, more often than not as of late, a bit of Casimir slipped out of her.

“I beg your pardon?” he said with a sniff.

Flick tipped the teacup. It was too late to retract her statement now. “This barely constitutes tea.”

With a harrumph , he swiveled on his heel. In her lap, Laith’s kitten straightened, lurching her head to watch as he stomped down the stairs. She turned her ice-green eyes to Flick when only the two of them were left.

“I believe you’re right, little dollop,” Flick said with a sigh. “We really must leave.”

This was their life now. Every few hours, they’d relocate to a different coffeehouse or pub, keeping the ledger safe, integrating into the crowds before finding an inn to spend the night, the difference between her mother’s estate and the rented room glaring.

She kept her head low and senses vigilant as she traversed the streets, avoiding the Horned Guard and shadows alike.

She’d exchanged her pastel gowns for loose trousers and shirts in sorry shades of brown that she was slowly beginning to like.

Today’s outfit was caramel and chocolate, purchased a few days ago on the Linden line of credit before she realized word would reach her mother.

For there was no telling what was being tracked. And Flick had spent long enough here.

One might tell Flick to loosen up and worry less. It had been a week, and surely the Ram had better things to do than hunt for a girl with nothing.

Except she had something: The ledger they’d spent days planning and plotting an infiltration into a glittering vampire society in order to steal.

It was why Flick had it open in front of her just now.

It incriminated the Ram, Laith had told them.

It might even contain worse, but among the half thoughts, abbreviations, acronyms, and references to names and places Flick knew nothing about, the majority of the ledger was written in code.

She had only just cracked it this morning, the sight of her mother’s script making her breath tight.

She’d had a week. Seven excruciating days.

Seven days since she’d discovered her mother was far worse than the head of the colonizing East Jeevant Company: She was the masked monarch of Ettenia too, her influence over the empire and its economy running deeper than any citizen knew.

Seven days since Jin had died and returned as a vampire, then disappeared. Since Laith had killed Penn. Since Matteo and Arthie had gone after him, and Arthie, well—

Arthie had died too.

The teacup rattled when Flick pushed her chair against the table with half a sob. She had tried to understand why Jin would abandon her, but anytime her thoughts went down that road, it ended with pain, so she’d stopped.

Maybe he was different now that he was a vampire.

Vampires didn’t remember the moment of their turning, but maybe his memory loss extended beyond that.

Maybe he’d forgotten their kiss and every whispered word they’d shared.

Maybe he’d restarted his search for his parents now that he’d learned from Penn that they might truly be alive.

Flick swiped at her eyes.

She refused to cry.

So much death had been dealt that night, so much heartache. It was as though Spindrift had made the Casimir crew invincible, and without it, without that tether, they had crumbled.

Now Flick was alone, the hole in her chest stretched wider by their absence. And if she was being honest with herself, by the truth of what her mother was too.

Being an only child, she’d always been lonely, but she’d also spent most of her life in a veritable cage, and imagination often made for a good companion. As she had gotten older and her mother had grown more distant, the promise of a world outside the Linden estate had kept the despondency at bay.

But she’d seen the world now, she knew how eager it was to swallow dreams whole. How quickly bitterness swept in and filled every crevice. Flick had tried to remain hopeful, to keep alive the optimism that lived in her soul, but it faded more and more with each passing day.

“Hold on there,” she said to herself, rereading her mother’s looping, harried scrawl and matching the text with the code Flick had scribbled on a napkin.

What had Jin once said his original surname was? She was highly certain it was Siwang, which meant that—

“Ow!” Flick said as the kitten launched off her lap, claws digging through her trousers. “What is it?”

Footsteps were pounding up the stairs.

Flick shoved the invitation between the pages to mark her place and threw the ledger in her bag. She pulled her tweed hat over her curls and slung her satchel across her chest, then she snatched up the kitten against her protests, trying to find comfort in the bundle of warmth.

She turned and froze, her thoughts rushing to the day the Horned Guard had appeared at her mother’s door to whisk her away.

That had been terrifying, but only until she’d stumbled into the Horned Guard’s carriage and into Jin’s lap, someone who was decidedly as far removed from a guard as one could be.

This was nowhere near the same. These were not guards, and the Jin she knew certainly wouldn’t be among them.

They were covered in black, unidentifiable but overly conspicuous, and armed to the teeth—she saw the waiting hilts of blades strapped to their arms and legs, the guns holstered within reach.

Her mother’s men. Seven of them.

All she could see of them were their eyes, staring at her through the slits in their masks, but she knew they were here for her. So many days of hiding, of constantly looking over her shoulder, and not once had she stopped to plan what she would do if she did get caught.

What would Jin do? she asked herself. No, Jin was too suave and too charming to find himself in a situation like this. He would have talked himself out of it already.

Look sharp , came Arthie’s voice in her head. Arthie wouldn’t see seven assailants and panic. She’d be smug. Seven men for one girl? That meant they thought she was dangerous.