Page 44 of Antiletum (The Nocturne #1)

I forgot about Tabitha

Val

T he reek of piss, sweat, and ale-soaked stomach bile is thick in the evening humidity, smoke-grey clouds billowing in the promise of a storm.

Summer rain in Omnitas is as unfailing as the springtime droughts.

Shadows of spires and tall arches are cast across the rooftops, scattered over the streets.

Owls hoot and screech their song to the night sky. Across the world, foxes and big cats are exiting their daytime dwellings just the same. The same as the Nocturne once did, giving their people the opportunity to own the day as humans and the night as animals. When possibilities were endless.

And they will be again.

Long has the lightness of the afternoon’s croquet game bled into the cloying promise of a dark fueled night, deep off in the city where the festering is worst. Debauchery: the only currency Omnitas truly knows.

Parliament encourages it. Who would want to fight them when everyone is too busy fighting each other? Fighting for survival?

The streets are loud and bustling in the poorest parts of the city, noticeably missing the scented oil lanterns carefully placed in other areas to try to drown out the scent of rot.

Whores half naked on corners proposition me as I pass.

A grown man lies against a pile of trash, his head nodding to his chest and mouth wide open with a line of drool falling to his chin.

Torn shirt hanging open to showcase an emaciated chest. All his meager coins going to laudanum, if I had to guess.

The bruised, purple arm of a dead body is barely visible beneath a wasted azalea bush tucked by the stoop of a crumbling, abandoned shop, ancient stained windows broken and haphazardly boarded.

I can smell death. Taste it on the back of my tongue. It calls to me, causing my skin to tingle and itch.

Someone bumps into my shoulder. Before they can break contact, I clap my hand around their wrist reaching into my pocket.

“I wouldn’t do that,” I whisper menacingly to the man. “That’s not for you.”

He sucks in a breath, inspecting me closer. My face and attire. Recognizing who I am.

“Apologies, my Lord. I didn’t—”

I cut him off by flicking a single gold coin in his direction and leave him behind without another word.

I continue my stroll, cheerfully whistling with Delaney’s croquet mallet over my shoulder. I’ll have to return it to the rest of her set when I get home. Maybe she’ll invite me in to stay for a bit after I knock on her door. Maybe I’ll just step right in, even if she doesn’t.

The game ended on the lightest note possible.

But the not so subtle jabs of Roarke throughout gave much away.

He was far too comfortable in the small circle that stayed for the duration of our game.

One that I graciously allowed him to win.

Kind of me, giving him some little breadcrumbs of joy before it all comes to an end.

Makes this task all the more enjoyable. Seeing him happy. Gloating. Unaware .

But of course, Roarke was the one to have learned of my shifter gifts.

Probably relayed that information to a member of the cabinet.

I'd wager the very one who was already suspicious of the seclusion of my wife. Not that any of it mattered, as the whole of Parliament and the Prime Minister himself didn’t heed her warnings.

Oh, the arrogance of men.

Not as stealthy as Roarke believes himself to be, it was embarrassingly easy to trail him after the park with just enough distance shoved between us. I slide into the alley he chose, guiding a whore along the way. I’m hidden before either of them can make note of a third presence lurking about.

Roarke thinks he knows this city. It’s quiet nooks and hidden crannies between the ancient buildings.

But my blood runs between these stones. I know these streets well enough I could draw maps of Omnitas with my eyes closed.

Every brick and statue. Every single tree and pane of glass staring out at the filth flowing freely.

My fingers have traced its grit. My bare toes scraped against each line and groove.

I’d like to say I’m surprised to have followed Roarke to his father’s old haunts, being much more discreet after his quiet shame ten years ago.

But how different are we, really, from the people who spawned us?

A pleasant turn of events, at least, is that Roarke’s conquest is a woman who appears to be well into adulthood.

The whore moans feigned pleasure, her bored, blank expression telling how she really feels.

Like it’d be a blessing from the Nocturne if the posh prick railing her for meager coins would fall dead here and now.

She’d simply step over his body, like nothing more than a loose limb shaken from a tree. A minor inconvenience.

Much how I feel about this situation myself. Should have put an end to it—to him—years ago. His doting father will be gutted.

How sad.

I’d rather retire to The Citadel right now. Corner my wife with the prospect of a late dinner when I return her mallet. Maybe just dessert, if she’s already eaten. Insist she allow me to spoon feed her a decadent little treat. While she sits in my lap.

I haven’t pushed the subject of our morning meals together, but with the way things have transpired since she learned the ugliest of my truths… Perhaps it’s time to start insisting on how things should be again.

I daresay there will only be minor pushback. Because she likes it.

I have to bat my thoughts of Delaney aside, of how she enjoys my boldness in my affections, how much she enjoys biting back. Wouldn’t do to have a hard cock, lest Roarke believe I’m enjoying witnessing his tryst.

Though Roarke and his father’s tastes are different, their manner is certainly the same. The cries of the woman are becoming sharper. More consistent and insistent as Roarke steadily delivers more pain.

“Hush,” he hisses. A smacking of flesh over flesh makes hairs prickle in my skin. At least desirable thoughts of my wife are crawling away.

How I long to intervene. To put this person out of her misery. Her profession doesn’t warrant enduring such cruelty. The panicked sound of her cries tells me this is not what he offered to pay her for, though I suspected as much.

Back against the alley wall, mallet propped on the ground, I gently tap my fingers against the stone.

Patiently. I’ve waited long enough for this moment; I’m going to do this right.

I’ll have to make a point to send an anonymous contribution to the subject of Roarke’s tastes tonight. After he’s dead.

An ugly slithering crawls up my back, her panicked moans having turned to blatant, obvious wails. I hate myself a bit, for standing in the shadows. Doing nothing. Allowing this to continue .

But stealth is paramount. And though I’d never blame her motivations, information is always valuable. Too much has already gotten out, too soon, seeing the necessity for actions I should have had much more time to make.

Besides, I’ve been aching for this death.

Playing the long game in seeing these men knocked from their pedestals, thinking they’re untouchable.

Roarke thought he was slated for a seat on the cabinet, even after his family lost the illustrious title of Alter .

Leave it to him to brag about being pegged for a position that requires identities to be anonymous.

What a tragedy that he’ll never make it to their “vote.”

He threatened my wife today.

And while I might have been able to stomach his and his father’s wrongs in years past, to wait to deliver justice, well… Causing my Delaney any amount of distress is a crime that will not go unpunished. Not for any amount of time.

Thank the deos , only short minutes later I hear a distinct, aggressive sound of male pleasure, indicating that Roarke’s finished exerting a coward’s level of power over someone less fortunate than the nepotism he has known.

Few words are exchanged, whispered and, on Roarke’s end, annoyed.

Next comes the clinking of far too few coins, followed by the awkward gait of the whore leaving the alley.

Her long shadow slides by the sliver of space I hide in.

Roarke stays behind, making my task easier.

He’s still tucking his miniscule cock back into his pants when I emerge from the darkness.

Typical.

“I had a feeling it would be small,” I say smugly, Delaney’s ebony mallet dragging across the alley floor with a nefarious hiss. “You and your tiny cock. Always trying to prove something. ”

Roarke jumps at the sound of my voice. When he sees my face, he openly scowls, trying to hide his shock.

“Of course you’re here. Do you make a habit of watching people fuck?

Does your pretty wife know about your voyeuristic ways?

” He snaps his finger, pointing at me with a grin.

“I’m guessing this is your transition into a full blown cuckold.

Fitting for you, Val. Maybe you can sit in the corner and stroke yourself while you watch me fuck your wife.

I planned to do it anyway. If you’re good and don’t intervene while I make her beg for help, I might tell you that you can come. ”

I laugh. Cold and cruel, the heady fire of predetermined murder roiling through my blood. I am going to enjoy this kill.

Roarke’s cool composure folds, glancing back behind his shoulder and being met with a brick wall. Cornered. I can see it in his eyes—hear it in the cadence of his scared little heart—knowing his mistake. Having spoken far too boldly and that I intend to make him pay.

With another stalking step forward, he glances at my croquet mallet, still dragging against the ground. Collecting filth along the way. I can’t wait to smear it in his face.

“Did you know that your father likes to fuck poor boys?” I ask.