Page 45 of Antiletum (The Nocturne #1)

Roarke’s eyes flick to the mallet and back to me, crossing his arms and grinding his jaw. Unwilling to answer, but the truth flares across his features.

Oh yes, he knows.

“I’d wondered before if maybe you’re so vile because he liked to fuck you too. But I don’t think that’s accurate. His golden boy.”

A hint of panic crosses Roarke’s face. “What is this, Val?”

Ignoring him, I continue, finally lifting my mallet so the head rests right above my fist. I point it towards the fucker before me.

I really do hate him. Always have. Roarke is one of those people that upon first sight just chafed the senses, screaming wrong.

Even before I knew who his father was. Made sense after I learned.

I’ll never forget the look of panic that man wore, seeing me within The Citadel. The bastard son of the new Noctua Alter —the very person who took the position he lost because of his disgusting tastes.

How things often come full circle.

I was beyond the age of his desire at that point.

But still, he recognized me. Of course, he wasn’t able to say anything.

Trying to keep his image as quiet and clean as possible lest he find himself dead—as he should have when he was caught by that boy’s sister in an alley not so different from this one, and she managed to make his transgression known.

Before she wound face down and bloated in the river.

“When I say poor boys,” I continue, “I don’t mean struggling young men—like so many in this city, across the world.

Thanks to Parliament keeping all wares and magic and commerce under their control.

I mean little boys, Roarke. Children. Barefoot.

Dirty. Starving. Abandoned and helpless.

Trusting in their desperation and innocence. ”

Raorke takes a defiant step towards me, outraged. People really struggle with hearing truths they already know aloud from others. “Yes. This is all very funny, Valledyn. I’m leaving now.”

“No. I don’t think you are. In fact, you aren’t going to leave this alley ever again. Not breathing at least.”

He makes to walk around me, but he meets the head of my mallet, crushed into his stomach. Roarke doubles over with a delicious little oof ing noise. Such a weak thing. Can’t even take a hit. Why he’s even been in talks to join Parliament, who can say. Probably reward for ratting me out .

Alas, Parliament must throw scraps to the mongrels, keep them from wanting to bite the hand that feeds.

I bend down to be eye level with him, his crystal blue irises shining, his breaths coming in gasps.

“Maybe you didn’t know that was the reason why you lost your legacy .

That your father was found with his pants at his ankles and his cock in…

Well, in a very unpalatable place, so to speak.

I won’t get too graphic, but I’m sure you can imagine.

He should be dead. Tried publicly for his crimes.

Punishable by execution. But thanks to Parliament , not wanting to sully their esteemed reputation for caring for their own, his transgressions were buried. Still are.”

Roarke straightens, glaring at me with hatred. He tries to grab my mallet, but I pull it out of range of his grasp before his grimy fingers can curl around it. “So what? You think you’re going to kill me because my father made mistakes?”

“Oh, no. Rest assured, he’s going to get what’s coming to him as well. But I’m here for you for reasons completely separate from your father and his love for sodomizing little boys.”

“Stop saying that,” Roarke hisses, trying to round me again.

I halt him with a hand on his shoulder. Bringing him closer. “Stop saying what? That your wonderful father fucks children in the gutter? He really does like it dirty. You don’t like hearing that? Hmm? Imagine how the children he’s abused feel.”

Roarke grits his teeth, smiling cruelly.

“I always knew you and your family were liars. That you aren’t who you say you are.

Your famous father and brother showing up in the night with some sickly, reject necromancer no one had ever heard of.

It didn’t sit right with me or my father.

” Roarke gives me a smug expression, and I know he’s about to give himself away completely after his hints during our game, far too arrogant to let his perceived upper hand go unknown.

“Or my grandmother. Same as all the mystery surrounding your wife.”

So that was his grandmother in Parliament. Good to know. My gaze rolls towards the caelos at his ridiculous predictability.

“Ah, yes. That lovely woman on the cabinet. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that would be your father’s mother, with the level of protection he’s received. She was just as unpleasant as the two of you.”

Roarke ignores my comment. “We know what you’re doing. We know that you orchestrated your marriage for the purpose of raising Heartstones. It’s not going to work.”

“Congratulations on your impeccable critical thinking skills,” I say sarcastically, starting a slow walk with my mallet against Roarke’s throat until this weak man’s back hits the brick wall.

“But you are wrong on a few accounts. One: I am exactly what I have always claimed to be, Roarke.

Just a bastard trying to claw his way out of prejudice and make his own way.

“Two: I orchestrated my marriage because—above all things—Delaney and I are in love and we belong to each other.

It just so happens that our union serves another purpose as well.

And when we see it through, I will rejoice in our victory as we watch Parliament burn. Because, three: It is going to work.

“We will resurrect all the Heartstones. We will raise the Nocturne . We will see the confines of magic set free and everyone returned to the basic fucking human liberties of making their own choices for their own lives. We will see this needless sickness, poverty, and starvation end. Now, if you’ll excuse me.

You are stealing my time away from my wife. ”

Roarke opens his mouth to retort, sensing his impending death. No words have an opportunity to land though as I rear back my arm and sling it forward, smashing the mallet into Roarke’s infuriating head .

His skull splinters under my strength. Blood splatters my face and across the alley in a spray of glorious red. Grey brain matter and skull fragments drip through the nice crater invading his skull, effectively ending his life in the simple span of a heartbeat.

Fuck, that felt good.

Freeing the mallet from his head, it makes a loud squelching noise and his body falls to the ground.

Without a second glance, I wipe my face with a black handkerchief and step over his useless carcass, leaving it to rot in the alley.

Out on the street, I straighten my top hat, continuing the whistling tune I began on my trek to this fantastic little meeting.

A group of children catches my attention.

They’re all thin—smudged in dirt and other vile things head to bare toe, meeting the description of the victims I only just described to Roarke.

I’m overtaken by the urge to take them all back to The Citadel with me.

Offer them shelter and security. A hefty meal and a warm bath.

But that isn’t possibile, at least not yet. I instead crouch to a knee, motioning them forward. “You know who I am, yes?”

A chorus of small voices saying, “Yes, my Lord,” answers.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a fat sack of coins I carry around for moments such as this. Their eyes lighten, their mixed hunger and gratitude makes my stomach sour. No matter what I do, it’s never enough.

With the sack open on my palm, I hold it out. “Share it equally. And I don’t want to hear anything about thieving from each other when I leave.”

They nod their agreement.

Touching the tip of my pointer finger to the side of my nose I look at them seriously, knowingly. “If you do, I will know.”

They nod eagerly, taking turns collecting their portion .

What does it say about our society, beyond their appearance, that these children are unflinching at the sight of gore dripping from my croquet mallet?

Standing tall again, I peer into each one of their faces. I have to swallow hard before telling the group in parting, “Look out for one another. You are not each other’s enemy.”

And I force myself to walk away.

Several blocks down, three severe stone figures sit sentinel in the center of a gurgling fountain: a barn owl, a fox, and a caracal. The Nocturne .

From this vantage point, I can make out the same faces acting as a backdrop for the giant Ellden clock tower, looking over the city. What a disgrace.

Without slowing, I lower my head in a respectful salute to the statues of the fountain, dip the black mallet in the murky liquid, and drag it through, letting the remnants of Roarke’s being slough off and mingle with the other trash in the water.

On my journey back to the looming, domed building of The Citadel on its hill, I’m feeling better than I have in months, despite Delaney still being angry with me.

Despite yet another gaggle of children I’ve had to leave behind.

I can live with my wife’s ire, knowing that she’s there.

She’s waiting for me. I’m reveling in that kiss last night, anticipation cresting over barging in on her lovely presence.

The way she sought my protection when Roarke’s countenance made her uneasy.

She’s starting to cave to my love for her, and her love for me.

But all positive thoughts flee like a flock of frightened birds when I open the door to our apartments, step into the foyer, and find my wife, pale and appalled, between Selise and Mallin. A letter is clutched in her shaking hands .

Fuck.

Mallin glares at me with an unsettling amount of disappointment. Selise is nothing short of thunderstruck. No one needs to speak for me to know exactly what that letter says.

Delaney’s wide, bewildered eyes meet mine. Gutted. “Tabitha?”

The one simple name in the form of a shaky question throws a bucket of ice over all the progress I thought I might have been making.

I forgot about Tabitha.

With a deep breath, I collect myself, trying to calm my nerves, and simply say, “Yes.”

Delaney releases herself from Mallin and Selise, hurrying away with a hand to her stomach, as if she’s trying to physically hold herself together. As if she can’t bear to be in my presence.

“Delaney!” I call, panicked, rushing after her, throwing the croquet mallet into a corner of the room. “Wait! Just—just wait.”

“Stop,” she demands quietly, turning to me only long enough to say, “Whatever excuse you think you have, Val, I don’t want to hear it.”

Delaney starts walking away again.

I follow. Gently, I cuff her upper arm, keeping her close, not letting her go. “She was hurting you,” I hastily explain, ignoring Delaney’s request to not do just that. I have to make her understand.

“I don’t care,” Delaney says softly, continuing her retreat despite my hold on her, pulling me along with her.

I don’t let her go—I refuse—following her steps, holding her in my grasp.

Terrified of what might happen if our physical connection breaks.

“Please. Just listen to me. All of these people—Tabitha, your parents, Rainah—they were hurting you! They were all hurting you and they had to stop. How can you not see that? ”

I’m about to speak again, but Delaney offers me her voice that I need like oxygen. Like food, water, and sunlight. Everything that a living thing requires to survive. I’m nothing but a withering house plant, waiting for her sustenance.

My wife frees herself from my hold with a harsh jerk. “ You are hurting me, Valledyn.”

That single, simple sentence flips my world upside down, draining all the color from life. Sucking all joy into a void to never be reached again. It’s so quiet. Broken. Obviously true.

“No,” I vehemently deny outwardly. Like I could make either one of us believe it. My face is fuzzy and cold. “I have never hurt you, Delaney. I would never hurt you. Everything I have done is to protect you.”

“You told me I’m blind. Look at yourself.” She sounds so defeated, all that pretty fire vacated from her voice, from her eyes. Same as it had been when she first came to the manor, when I finally brought us together.

The lack of bite, of fight, that’s far more concerning, more terrifying, than the times she yelled or cried or threw parasols at me.

My heart races so rapidly I feel sick.

“No.” The sound of that word—again—it’s not enough.

Especially with how weak and uncertain it sounds, even to my own ears.

It needs to be more. I need to say more , to make her understand.

But I can’t formulate what I need to convey, all eloquence evaporating like a puddle in the cruel, draining sun.

“All I want is for you to be happy and safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. That’s all I ever intended.” My voice shakes and I struggle to breathe, my wife’s sad form blurring in my vision.

My wilted little flower.

I can nurture her in all the ways she does me. I will .

But Delaney doesn’t respond. She only gives me a long, suffering look before she retires to her room, the door snicking shut softly, taking all meaning of life with her.