Page 46

Nestled at the northwest end of the Military Ward, squished between other squat, nondescript buildings, sat our destination. This neighborhood was more of what I was accustomed to in Nuhav, without any of the coruscating lights or glamour from the Commerce Ward’s sky-touching structures.

I was surprised a nobleblood as regal as Lord Ashfen would be found dead in a place like this. The paint of the two-story white building was peeling, the three steps to get to the landing creaked and groaned from our weight. This was a dwelling in serious disrepair.

I noted our location was close to the edge of the Peaks, which meant the North Mines were not far down the mountainside.

The white ramshackle abode was shadowed by a few other structures—larger ones dwarfed it and hid it from prying eyes on the streets. I suspected that was why Skartovius had brought us here, now I knew more about his “cause.”

Rather than barging past the chipped wooden door in front of us, Skar showed respect for the first time I’d ever seen by rapping on the door with an elaborate pattern of knocks.

A minute later, the door opened.

I reeled, struck by the age of the gaunt girl standing in front of us. She might have been fourteen at most, and wore a gray robe—once white but having seen its share of use. Her hands were tucked together in the cuffs in a way that reminded me of the vowagers from the House of the Broken.

The most alarming detail, however, was the ashen tone of her placid face.

This young whelp is a dhampir? I resisted making a face of pity.

The girl bowed low from her hips, dark hair swishing over her face. “Lord Ashfen. Pleased to see you.”

Skar matched the formal bow. “And you, Tecca. Is my comrade in?”

“He is, sir.”

“And your Iron Sister?”

My brow furrowed at the title but I stayed quiet.

“Also present, sir.” Tecca bowed again.

“Quite good,” Skar answered, in what I noticed was a common phrase said by him.

The young girl showed no fear for the tall, imposing Skartovius Ashfen, which was more than I could say about myself. In fact, she showed no emotion at all.

Inside the hall, I could hear the light, airy threads of conversation. The voices were high, feminine.

Tecca stepped aside and we passed.

We walked on creaky floorboards of a narrow hall, passing two open doors on either side. My curiosity piqued—I couldn’t help but glance inside each.

In one room, three girls sat on the grimy floor—the source of the conversation I’d heard—dressed in similarly gray robes. They leaned forward, speaking conspiratorially, and were equally as young as Tecca.

When we went by, they stopped talking, glanced over, and giggled once we were down the hall.

In the other small room, two older women were dressed in robes and aprons, cooking at a small fire pit. The smells were simple fare—root vegetables and meat—but made my stomach growl.

Finding food for a human in Olhav was proving to be difficult.

The older women did not glance over as we passed. They were of middling age—neither ancient nor young. One of them was clearly a human, the other was a half-vampire. Working together to cook a meal.

“Skar,” I whispered as we followed Tecca further down the hall. “What is this place?”

“Patience, love.”

At the end of the hall, the corridor split left and right. To the immediate left was a staircase leading to the second level; to the right, an open archway into a large living room.

We went into the room, which took up the majority of space in the dwelling.

A few rickety tables were set up, where a handful of girls sat and conversed or read from books and scrolls.

The conversation in here was hush, somber.

Everyone wore gray, and there were just as many half-vampires as humans.

At the end of the room, my eye caught a painted portrait hanging from the wall. It was a hard image to miss since it stretched nearly the entire length of the wall, high up and positioned over the room like a lord surveying its fief.

The subject of the portrait was a plump woman of middle age, lying on her side in a leisurely pose.

She rested on a couch with her elbow propped up, hand to her face, intense but kind eyes staring out at the viewer.

The woman in the painting was completely nude, each roll and curve of her flesh, every shadow of her portly frame, expertly brushed.

A homely woman, human, walked up to us and nodded to Tecca, who bowed and then skittered off down the hall, assumedly to join the group of gossiping girls from the first room we passed.

This new woman looked no different than the others.

She wore no ornamentation to denote her status, though by the tiredness in her eyes and the set of her jaw, I could tell she was in charge of this place.

The weariness crinkling her eyes made her seem much older than she likely was.

Her hair was prematurely graying and she walked with a slight limp.

“Lord Ashfen, well met. I am pleased to see you.” The woman’s voice was deeper than I expected. She had her hands clasped behind her, the very picture of passivity. Despite being a head shorter than me and two shorter than Skar, she showed no fear—only resilience and endurance in her features.

Skartovius dipped his chin. “And you, Iron Sister.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “This is Sephania Lock.”

The woman shifted her gaze to mine. Her eyes were yellow and gray, intense, her scrutiny curious without being suspicious. A slight smile curved the corner of her thin lips. “A pleasure, Madame Lock.”

“Please, Sephania is fine,” I answered. My hands fidgeted in front of me. My voice was lower than I’d meant to sound—less assured—only because everyone else in the room also spoke in quiet, reserved tones.

It seemed this was a place of worship of some kind. Everyone wore the same robes, the same colors. Humans mingled with grayskins, which shocked me because humans were not allowed in Olhav, by and large, except as flesh slaves, broodstock, or workers at the silver mines.

“I am Keffa Caernyd,” the woman said, and then dipped her chin. “Welcome to the Hall of the Chained Sisters. I know it’s not much to look at.”

I blinked. Looking past the woman as she bowed, I stared at the huge painting across the room. “ That is quite a lot to look at.”

Another small smile curled Keffa’s lip. “She is, is she not? One of our founders. An expert rendition, if I do say so myself.”

Skartovius chuckled. “You say that because you painted it, Keffa. Show some humility.”

The tired eyes of the Iron Sister sparked with intensity and mirth, showing life. Somehow, she managed to match Skar’s arrogance—for just a split second—which I thought was impossible.

“Is anyone going to tell me what this is? What I’m doing here?” I asked.

Keffa led us through the room to the painting, where we stood under it and gazed up. Skartovius was to my right, Keffa to my left.

From this closeness, the large breasts on the fat painted woman felt like they were smothering me. It was an odd depiction to be centered in this hall filled with only girls and women.

“The Chained Sisters are allies, Sephania,” Skartovius said. “They seek a similar result as I do. Thus, we work together. You can speak freely here, among friends.”

“They’re part of your cause ?”

He nodded curtly. “Though it may not look it, there’s not a more loyal, stronger network among Olhav’s resistance forces than the Chained Sisters. Led by Iron Sister Keffa.”

“Why?” I asked abruptly, moving my gaze over to Keffa. “No offense, my lady, but you’re dressed in rags. Everyone here is. Skartovius is a nobleblood vampire, and more than half of the girls I’ve seen here are humans. How do these two disparate groups come together?”

“We share common enemies, Sephania.” Keffa kept her eyes on the painting, neck slightly craned.

“The Chained Sisters are a group of maligned women of all sects and backgrounds. The bond that chains us together is our casting out from our respective societies.” She turned, splaying a hand out from her robe toward a table.

“Female-born and female-made humans from Nuhav, vilified as interfolk or enslaved on the flesh trade.”

At the odd turn of phrase, I noticed two interfolk girls among the five at the table. They paid us no attention, deep in their studies.

“We are home to women sold as broodslaves in shadowgalas, who could not give birth to their vampiric lords. Interfolk miners who escaped captivity, seen as useless by everyone else or exiled by their faith. Dhampir spit out and trampled on by those who birthed them. This is only a small measure of our numbers.”

I blinked at her, astonished, unable to find the words to respond. A fire roared inside me. A calling, perhaps. It was something I could relate to—an entire flock of girls who had been born to similar circumstances as me, who had overcome their horrible situations by banding together.

My entire life, I had seen my situation and position as unique—tragic and novel—despite seeing so many guttergirls and sewerboys growing up. I thought I was special.

As it turned out, this had existed all along. There was an entire organization housing the forgotten and damaged girls from both cities.

Swallowing past a dry throat, I eked out in a low murmur, “Truehearts save me . . .”

Keffa chuckled. “You will find no believers of the True here. No Faithful or worshipers of the Damned.”

“You are not religious?”

Skar laughed. “Quite the opposite, love.”

Keffa gave him a knowing frown over my shoulder.

“It’s just that your garb,” I pointed out, “is very uniform. Reminds me of the vowagers from where I grew up, or the mute acolytes from Manor Marquin.”

“Outside the Hall, we blend in,” Keffa explained. “Inside, we are seen as our true selves: sisters chained together by our likeness rather than our differences. Uniformity, structure, knowledge—these are important tenets of our belief system.”

“Knowledge,” I breathed. “You seek knowledge. The one thing forbidden in Olhav.”

“Just so, madame.”

A small pause filled the space as we looked into each other’s eyes, away from the painting.

Skar cleared his throat. “We’ve gotten the formalities out of the way. Vallan is here, Iron Sister?”

“He is. Been upstairs all night.”

Skar sighed. “His urges . . .” he muttered, shaking his head.

My head whipped between them as they talked like I wasn’t there. I took a step back so they could converse more easily.

“No, in fact,” Keffa said, “Master Stellos’ urges have been kept at bay for some time now, surprisingly. He has been upstairs doling out the silver and helping with the construction of weapons.”

“Good.”

Vallan’s urges? What in the Damned are they talking about? Construction of weapons?

There was clearly more to this operation than I’d seen on the surface. The more I listened to them talk about schematics and goings-on, the more intently I wanted to be part of it.

Whatever the Sisters were doing, however they were aligned with Skartovius Ashfen, I wanted involvement. I wanted change, which both of these people represented, despite their vast differences in every other category.

Seeing Skar converse so casually and respectfully with a human woman, and a poor one at that, made me see a new side to him. I was surprised someone so violent and vicious and superior could deign to accept help from homeless, beggars, and outcasts.

It was a marvel to witness.

As Keffa and Skar lowered their voices and continued to talk, their conversation drowned away. I lifted my gaze to the painting of the round naked lady lying on the couch, tilting my head as I tried to think of all the possibilities my future might entail.

One possibility I had never expected popped up behind me a minute later, in a voice so familiar I nearly tipped over.

“Quite fat and lovely she is, yeah?”

I gasped and spun.

Her face was gaunt, purple bags drooped her cheeks, but her eyes were as livid and bright as ever, and her smile just as sharp.

The shout that burst from my lungs startled the girls at the table as I rushed her in an embrace that crushed her scrawny ribs.

“Jinneth!”