Page 24

ONE

Neva

Air escapes me in an undignified wheeze as I hit the unfinished hardwood floor, and I curl onto my side to minimize the pain of what’s coming next.

The toe of Darius’ boot catches me in the ribs, just below my sternum, where he knows the bruises won’t show.

Bruises don’t make money. And that’s what Darius is after.

Even so, no man who’s entered the Wicked Lyre Tavern has ever had the chance to get a good look at my tits. No one except Darius, that is.

But that’s the price of sharing the attic space above the tavern with him. I’m given three meals a day, and a hit of the only thing that makes living in this miserable place remotely tolerable.

The force of his kick flips me onto my back and I turn my head sharply to the side, hiding my face behind the sable fall of my hair. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of seeing the tears that squeeze from the corners of my eyes.

“I said get up, slag. Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

I choke on my response, producing only a few inarticulate coughs instead of an answer.

I do manage to prop myself up on one elbow, peeking up from beneath a fringe of hair to ascertain just how pissed he is.

He wakes me like this most mornings, and I have to say, I prefer it to the mornings when he tries a gentler approach.

Namely, when he prods me awake with his cock and demands I satisfy him.

Somehow, the beatings seem a little more dignified.

“Maybe, if you hadn’t kept me up all night,” I grumble under my breath, crawling onto all fours. I keep my voice low, though. I’m sore enough as it is. Besides, push Darius too hard and he’ll decide to teach me a lesson. One I don’t want to learn.

“What was that, slag?” he demands.

Yes. Definitely pissed. I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn his ire this early in the morning, but it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the day.

I manage to get my shaking legs beneath me and climb to my feet, leaning against the opposite wall for balance.

I hug the wall, feeling like the most wretched creature in the entire city of Ascor.

I doubt there’s a soul between here and the Forest of No Return that feels as shitty as I do at the moment.

When I manage to stop shaking, I turn in a slow half-circle to face the man who’s both my tormentor and my savior. Darius leans against the vanity, careful not to disrupt the glass bottles and creams on its surface.

He watches me struggle, a cruel glint of amusement in his dark eyes. I wish he didn’t look so much like his father. It makes it harder for me to hate him as much as I should.

Gregory was the only man who ever showed me an ounce of kindness, and it chafes me that this little bastard wears Gregory’s face.

It’s not an especially handsome countenance: too boxy to be traditionally handsome, the eyes too deep-set and far apart, nose too large and teeth not large enough.

But where Gregory’s eyes were kind, Darius’ always have the mean, rangy look of a feral cat.

And he has the temper to match. He’s also shorter and thinner than his father ever was.

“You’re dancing in the back room tonight,” Darius informs me, flicking the closet door open to reveal the small selection of gowns he’s procured for my act.

All are made of silky or sheer fabrics and would easily cost a year of my wages. They’ve more than paid for Darius’ tavern in the last few years. More accurately, I have more than paid for this tavern. After all, it’s my body men are flocking to see.

“Please.” The ragged entreaty is all I can force from my shaking lips.

He knows what I’m asking for.

Darius has kept it from me for three days. He can’t honestly expect me to dance while my stomach tosses like a ship at sea. I need a bump if I’m going to be able to make it on stage sometime tonight.

I can read the answer on his face before he ever opens his mouth.

That hateful smirk tics up a few degrees; he’s clearly enjoying my distress.

It’s a rare treat for him to hear me beg like this.

The last time he got the satisfaction, I literally came crawling back on hands and knees, begging for another dose.

Hopefully I won’t have to do that again this morning.

He toys with the small, leather pouch at his waist, jiggling it in my direction as a taunt before flipping the material of his coat over his front to hide it from view.

“You’ll get it when you’ve earned it, slag.

” Then he chuckles as he sneers down at me.

“A group of merchants are selling their wares along Gendar Street for the next fortnight before moving north. At least half of ‘em will be downstairs tonight. You please them and then I’ll give you that bump you’re so desperate for.

” His lips curl into a viper’s grin, dripping insincerity like cloying venom.

“And if you please me tonight, I’ll give you another. ”

With his toe, he nudges a bowl across the floor, and a portion of my daily slop oozes over one corner and onto the hardwood.

For just an instant, I imagine scooping the bowl off the floor and grinding his nose into the congealed mass of tasteless slop.

Let him feel the indignity of being fed and put through his paces like a fucking show pony.

But my fingers only perform an ineffectual flex at my side, instead of the suicidally stupid action I’ve just contemplated.

This place isn’t palatial, my role is demeaning, my jailer is an arrogant prick, but I’m under no illusions.

I’m better off here than I would be on the streets.

That’s the only reason I’ve stayed as long as I have.

Because, as shitty as this life is, it’s still better than being homeless in Ascor.

I’ll put up with Darius until I can squirrel away enough gold pieces to buy myself a way out of Ascor and a way in to some other city.

Any other city, where my face isn’t instantly recognizable as the salacious Snow White.

Darius selects a gauzy, multi-hued dress and tosses it lightly on the bed we share.

I stare at it, mouth popping open in indignant surprise.

I’ve worn this dress only once before, performing for Prince Achmed, who hailed from a place far, far away.

A place called Agrabah in the Anoka Desert.

The prince painted a hazy picture of Agrabah while I danced for him that night, dropping each layer of my gauzy drapings, one by one, until I lay mostly bare before him on stage.

On the rare occasions I’ve dreamed of escaping, I’ve thought about traveling to Agrabah to find the prince again.

“The Dance of the Seven Veils?” I breathe, too tired to summon true outrage. “You can’t be serious.”

Damn Darius to the blackest regions of the nether realm!

I’ve only done this dance once in front of an audience and that was a long time ago.

Now he expects me to do it again without any practice, with barely a cup full of oats in my stomach and the fatigue of withdrawal threatening to drag me sideways to the floor?

I’ll make a fool of myself and then Darius will punish me for it later.

Darius worms a hand into his coat and dips one finger lightly into the pouch at his belt.

It comes away dusted in white, like a baker’s confection.

He steps closer to me, offering the digit.

I don’t normally like to take it this way, but he’s not leaving me much choice. This is all I’m going to get.

So I take his finger, guide it reverently to my mouth, and slide my tongue along every contour, trying to catch every speck of the priceless powder I can find. The process is over quickly, and my mouth tingles pleasantly as relief swells through me.

“Perform well, and you’ll get more,” Darius promises. “But, if you don’t...”

He lets the statement hang, a sword over my head, waiting to drop. The meaning is very clear.

Failure isn’t an option.

***

I tangle my fingers in the velvet folds of the navy-blue curtain and drag it back a few inches to peer out at the crowd beyond.

Male voices overlap, sounding like a rumble of distant thunder.

The room is hazy with pipe smoke, the heavy fog of it pressing into my lungs and further tightening my chest.

The number of men who occupy the chairs that ring the small stage staggers me, and I can tell there are still more I can’t make out clearly, arranged at the small tables or standing at the back.

How many men are packed into this back room?

Fifty? One hundred? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many men crowded into the Wicked Lyre at one time, even around the annual festival, when spirits run high and men pay their last coin to see the creamy flesh of a nubile, young thing.

Every man in the room is wealthy. If their clothing isn’t a giveaway, their voices would be. Cultured speech, with accents that range from the clipped tones of Grimm, the airy sing-song of a Wonderland noble, or the lilting honeyed tones of a cove-dwelling merchant from the Sea of Delorood.

I let the velvet slide between my fingers, dread settling in the pit of my stomach like a heavy millstone.

How the bloody hell am I supposed to pull this off?

I’m dizzy already. I’m going to go out there, slide one veil off, and then trip and fall on my face.

And that will be the end of poor Neva Valkoinen, the end of Snow White.

They’ll find my body in an alleyway, a patchwork of blooming blue and purple bruises, swarmed by the city’s vermin.

Darius’ voice issues from the other side of the curtain, an ugly common accent among the sea of more pleasant voices.

The room goes silent when he begins to speak, introducing me to the crowd as he has for years now.

Is it four? I think it must be. Gregory died when Darius and I were seventeen. I’m twenty-one now.