Page 62 of Bloody Black

Q uite unexpectedly, the door is pushed open by someone leaving. A blushing maid backs out, balancing a tray of empty wine goblets. Before the gap can close again, I slide through like smoke, sneaking into my husband’s wedding.

My crew is scattered among the guests, heads bowed, expressions appropriately blank. If you didn’t know them, you wouldn’t even look twice. Well, except for Samson, who is so large and purple he’s basically impossible to miss. He’s among the guards, face stern, intimidating everyone around him.

Yet, my eyes are glued to William.

William. My husband.

His golden hair is neatly combed, not a strand out of place.

He’s standing at the altar with a self-satisfied smile, not quite the king I imagined he would be.

Though he’s certainly dressed royally, there’s something ill-fitting about all of it.

He’s heavier, more menacing. His lips are smaller than I remember, a bit thin.

There’s something distinctly predatorial about his gaze.

He’s still wearing our wedding ring. It glints as he lifts his hand.

Meanwhile, Genevieve stands beside him, hands clasped, her nails trimmed into perfect ovals. She’s dressed in a pale sea-foam and royal blue beaded gown, a silver circlet nestled in her hair. My breath catches when I see how lovely, how regal she looks. Like a princess—no. Like a queen.

The future queen of Celestia.

I openly stare.

She looks exactly how I was supposed to.

The kind of woman they write ballads about.

No matter who she truly is underneath, Genevieve clearly looks the part.

Based on appearances alone, she’d be a better queen than I.

Serene, graceful, unmarred by violence… and she’s probably capable of having lengthy conversations without offending anybody.

For a beat, I falter. What if they’re happy? What if he’s a good king, or rather, at least better than my father? Perhaps Genevieve loves him and he loves her, and if I’m successful at getting revenge, it will ruin everything.

Instead of rage, my typical ire, I feel… spent. Like I’ve burned up all my hatred getting here, and everything that fueled me has run out.

Was I ever as young as she? Was I ever so pure?

Certainly I was not as naive. I’d been raised to fight, raised to question and argue and make demands.

My father taught me everything he knew—gave me not guards but mentors and teachers and friends.

Not so I could sit beside a king, but so that I could rule .

And still, William had tricked me.

It is at that moment that he reaches toward Genevieve, and truth be told, I expect her to do as I did, smiling warmly.

She doesn’t. Instead, my half-sister flinches.

Ever so slightly, just the tiniest tell.

Only a woman who has spent years helping victims of men’s violence would notice it, and in that moment, I’m absolutely sure of one thing: William hasn’t changed.

He’s merely chosen a new victim, and he’s bullying her into marrying him. Once he has his royal heirs, she’ll meet an unfortunate, untimely end.

“And now, for the gifts!” a stately porter announces, bowing.

This part of the festivities is where noblemen present gifts to the couple. Each gift is accepted with forced smiles and performative thanks, and then the crowd claps politely. The whole procession is excruciating.

My eyes flick up to the wall above William’s head. It’s shadowy, but I can just barely see several black-robed figures. They stand motionless, high above the altar like ravens on a ledge. Waiting for the cue; waiting for my signal.

William runs a thumb along the blade, nodding. “A fitting gift,” he says, and the irony isn’t lost on me. He’ll need that sword very shortly. To use against me.

A baroness gives a book of poems, bound in gold. That part, at least, does not appear to have been a lie. He really does love poetry. Or at least, he’s putting on a very convincing act.

Finally, at long last, a black box is brought forward, tied with a lopsided white bow .

“Interesting. Who might this be from?” When there’s nothing but silence for the reply, William gives an apologetic smile. “Must have been one of the princes who could not attend.”

His jaw tightens. Only someone watching very carefully would notice the look in his eye, notice the vague discomfort and expression of dread.

“Perhaps we should open the rest in private,” William says. “I’m eager to be alone with my bride.”

Genevieve tilts her head, offering him a sweet, expectant smile. “We wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful, darling,” she says softly, her voice just loud enough for the room to hear.

All eyes are on him. There’s no room for retreat without causing a scene. A king never loses composure in public. So, even though his fingers hesitate, he unties the ribbon.

Nestled in the box is my white nightgown. Torn. Bloodied.

I saved it just for him. He can’t immediately discern what it is, however, so he lifts it out, unsuspecting. Then he furrows his brow, slowly unfolding it. As he does that, bits of flesh fall to the floor. Rotting fingers, for all the men who touched me without asking.

Covering my mouth politely, as if I’m yawning, I touch the tip of my nose with the tip of my thumb. Three taps. There’s no way that it can be misinterpreted.

High above, one of the cloaked figures nods. Another reaches for the pulley. They’re barely visible, but everyone is so focused on the ground that no one is looking up in the rafters.

The banner above their head unfurls, and the black flag – our Jolly Roger flag – flutters down. Roger is very well decomposed, spread-eagled for the entire room to see. Along with the words YOU KILLED ME written in the largest print Xandretta could manage.

It’s very well done. For a djinn, her handwriting is quite flowery.

For a beat, there’s total silence as everyone in the room stares. Processing.

“What is that? Can anyone see?” The front row of noblemen are scrutinizing a lump of bloody flesh on the dais.

“It’s a penis!” screams a woman in an oversized pearl choker.

Domino, very predictably, starts giggling.

All at once, the crowd of guests is on their feet, clawing and running and lurching and hissing, all desperately trying to leave.

Silver goblets clatter to the floor. A noble woman in an olive-colored gown stumbles into the violinist, knocking him off balance, hitting the harp.

Then the orchestra collapses in confusion.

Even I can’t help but smile at the pure pandemonium of the room.

Especially when Samson draws two swords and gives a war-like cry, making it obvious that he’s part of the mayhem.

“Everyone run! The pirates are here!” The guards erupt into shouting, trampling, and shoving, completely panicked. Gods know, they can’t have the royal family murdered again . “Get the king to safety! And the princess, Genevieve!”

In the melee, Genevieve falls. Two guards seize her arms and yank her upright. I just barely glimpse her face as they drag her past, down the aisle. Wide-eyed, dazed, as if she can’t believe this is happening .

William’s voice roars over the crowd. “Blackbeard did this!” He shoves one of the guards out of the way. “He’s somewhere in this castle! Find him!”

Eyes narrowed, I watch as guests stream from the room. There’s such a crush of people, and there are still more milling around, looking for alternate exits.

“Step one: ruin the royal wedding… done.” Domino is still laughing, unable to hide her shameless grin.

Not even bothering to be covert, I pull out yet another hairpin and then go to the edge of the room. Immediately, I set to finagling the locking mechanism on a door embedded in the wall.

“Time for step two,” I say to Domino.

But the mechanism is ancient, more than a little rusty, and I have to spend some time finessing it. Finally, the lock turns over, and it makes a loud click.

When I tug on its handle, I find Tremaine standing in the passage, his arms full of weaponry. “Fancy finding you here,” I drawl, and tug him inside.