Page 23 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Chapter Fourteen

Isaac

I saac never expected to visit the Fox Den again, but as Anton led him towards the building, he had to admit that it made sense.

As one of the few gambling hells that accepted both Blood Worker and Unblooded patrons, it was a key part of the capital’s nightlife.

And, for the more industrious among them, a realm teeming with gossip and information, if one only knew how to look.

A perfect haunt for one such as Antonin LeClaire the Second.

He still struggled to wrap his head around it, the role that Anton had played in his sister’s schemes, the Eagle to her Sparrow.

Not the diminutive bird that waited from the sidelines, but a fierce bird of prey, fluttering his plumage to catch the attention of those around him.

And through that all, he had run a secret scheme behind Shan’s back, building up this ragtag little rebellion spreading sedition through the streets.

A rebellion that Isaac was going to meet, and—if he proved himself worthy—join.

Anton veered to the side, pulling away from the front entrance where a burly enforcer would be waiting, only letting in the cream of Dameral’s crop.

It seemed that for those who had neither name nor prestige nor wealth, well—there were other ways in.

Isaac shivered in relief, pulling his thick woolen cloak tighter around him, ducking towards the shadows that spread with the early evening’s gloom.

The witch lights that had for so long illuminated the capital’s streets were dimmed, every alternating post left unlit.

An effect of the rationing, no doubt, and despite the eerie pallor it left on the cobblestone streets, Isaac was thankful for it.

It made it far easier for Anton and him to slip by, another pair of poor souls heading to or from work, passing under the attention of the bored Guards who patrolled on their horses.

Anton led him down a short flight of stairs, into the basement of the building beneath the grand hotel, a bustling kitchen that served the needs of the gambling hell.

Serving girls and boys danced around their unceremonious entrance, clearly used to the comings and goings of strangers.

Anton’s steps did not falter as he wove through the bustling space, heading for a set of stairs that did not head down into the hell, like Isaac expected, but up.

Up and up, into the hotel, a narrow staircase made for the servants, like so many of these establishments had, allowing them to slip into position without any of their betters noticing it.

Little more than tools, working to ensure the perfection of their glamorous lives, all while bleeding for the sheer privilege of it.

Something raw and ugly burned in him, the sour taste of bitterness along the back of his tongue.

Everything he had worked so hard for, the dreams he once had when he was young and foolish, back when he thought being Royal Blood Worker would solve all his problems, had been built on this.

A series of exploitations great and small, so interwoven into society that there was no way to untangle it without destroying it altogether.

They emerged into a small alcove, and even though Isaac had few opportunities to visit the lounge reserved for the most frequent visitors of the Den, the new angle threw him.

The long bar to their left looked smaller, a narrow and slim space, and tables and chairs that spread out from it grander, but Anton did not lead him to any of those seats.

No, he was pulled through a large but unobtrusive door into a finely appointed room, one that looked as lush as any of the King’s private gathering spaces in the palace.

The room was set as a parlor, with large, plush chairs lined with the softest velvet, interspersed with hand-carved tables, places to rest drinks or small plates of food, the limited menu of the Den made more for sopping up the excesses of liquor than for a true meal.

A fire—a true fire, no damning hints of red or the shimmering boil of magic that would have marked it as witch light—burbled merrily in the marble fireplace across the room, a grand centerpiece that took up the bulk of the wall.

But there were two people sitting there, waiting for them.

“Isaac,” Anton said, nodding first towards the woman, then the man, “this is Maia and Alaric.”

Isaac just nodded as he took a seat, meeting the inquisitive stares of the people across from him.

The woman he didn’t recognize, and he was sure he would have remembered someone as downright gorgeous as her.

Her skin was dark and smooth, her braids pulled back tight against her scalp, highlighting a face that could only be described as striking.

There was something sharp about her gaze that felt almost familiar—the same fire that he had seen in his own reflection.

The look of someone who had fought for everything they had and was still deemed unworthy.

The man was someone he knew, if only in passing.

As a Royal Blood Worker with no noble legacy, Isaac had precious little interaction with the House of Lords, but even he had heard of Alaric Rothe.

The Unblooded Heir who refused to be denied what should have been his birthright.

He cut a towering figure in the halls of Aeravin’s oldest Blood Working families, but here, he seemed a little less frightening.

Though he was still as large and imposing as ever, there was a relaxed set to his shoulders that made him a little more approachable, a little more human.

“Well,” Maia said, with a smirk. “If it isn’t Anton’s pet Blood Worker.”

Isaac didn’t rise to the bait—that was his role in all this, after all.

This revolution had started in the hands of the Unblooded who needed it most, and Isaac wasn’t going to rip it out from under them.

He was a tool to be used, a promise of a future where it did not need to be an us versus them . “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Maia’s lip curled into a smirk, but there was no kindness there. “Well, at least he’s polite. Hardly what I expected, given his reputation. What of your other Blood Worker, Anton? He is late.”

Isaac tilted his head to the side, wondering at who this other Blood Worker would be as Anton pulled out his pocket watch, a quick check of the time. “Easy, friend. Isaac and I are early.”

Maia just sighed, leaning toward a serving table where a carafe of coffee waited next to a steaming teapot—a strange choice for a gathering in a place such as this.

Isaac was used to the excesses of the Blood Workers, late night politics and strategy hashed out over wine or spirits, but this was a more serious discussion.

The kind of discussion that held the fate of an entire nation in its hands.

Isaac had just grabbed himself a cup when the door opened again, this time revealing a shock of golden hair and the face of one all too familiar—his beloved Samuel.

No, not quite. Not his Samuel. Isaac took in the finely pressed suit and the coldly blank expression on his face, realizing that the one who stood before him was Samuel Aberforth, heir to the Eternal King, Councillor of Law.

A costume as complete as any he wore as Royal Blood Worker, the true man hidden somewhere beneath, safe from prying eyes.

Behind him, though, was someone he did not recognize—an older woman with a stern face, her dark eyes flicking to him with something like disbelief.

Though she wore a fine dress that rivaled any Blood Worker’s, a silken sheath of emerald that hugged her form, Isaac could feel no trace of magic from her.

It was a stark contrast to the man she stood beside, a gaping lack that he should not be able to recognize so easily.

He ran his tongue across his upper teeth, thankful to find no pinprick of pain, no sharp edge to cut himself open with.

Relief swept through him like a wave, only to be squashed as the woman closed the door behind her, blocking it with her body as she continued to stare him down. There was hurt there, the kind of hurt that felt personal—who was she?

And what had he done to her?

“Monique,” Anton said, slipping back into his charming persona without so much as a blink.

He took her hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back of it, but she was entirely unmoved, brushing Anton off like he was little more than a gnat.

“Thank you for allowing us to use this space. Isaac, this is Miss Lovell, the proprietress of the Fox Den and our gracious host.”

Isaac bit his tongue. With the force of the glare she pinned him with, there was nothing gracious about this.

But Isaac did not dare risk stoking her ire any further—whatever this battle was, he’d have to win it on his own.

There was no help to be found from this rebellion, as Maia and Alaric both watched with intense interest, like he was on trial before them.

And perhaps he was. But he kept his attention focused on the one who proved to be the biggest threat. “Madame, it is an honor to meet you.”

“Honor,” she sneered, before finally turning her attention to Anton. “How could you bring this murderer here? After he killed my girl?”

Oh, that was it, wasn’t it? The dealer he had killed, taken from the Fox Den itself.

One of the suppliers to the Blood Factory—an easily justifiable action, from his side of things.

But he had never known them himself, outside of Dunn, hadn’t known their stories or their hopes or dreams. It had been easy for him to do what was necessary, but he never stopped to think what it had been like for those who had known them, who weren’t privy to the atrocities they had committed.

Those who were just friends and neighbors and family, their loved ones taken away without rhyme or reason.