Page 18 of Soul Hate

F our figures walk down Tana Street after dark. We don’t talk particularly, minds consumed by our task. Hooded cloaks obscure our faces, though I suppose it wouldn’t be weird for me to be seen with Michelle and Emilia. Nouis’s hand is wrapped around mine as we walk, the pressure of his fingers a great balm to my nervous fidgeting.

The road is lit by old and tattered burning street lights, the glass which is supposed to protect them is grimy with decades of smoke, colouring the light a murky orange. Paint peels from the posts, and many are covered in the scratched names of strangers professing undying love. The cobbled road has too many potholes for my liking, filled with dust or sand as a quick fix. This will be at the top of my list for the repair fund, when Halice is back to normal.

We arrive at the cafe, the word Amica painted in fresh green paint above the wide doors. Everything is closed for business, the window shutters secured and the door firmly shut. I raise my gloved hand, knocking at the door. Emilia looks around the street behind us, devoid of other travellers—a side effect of the Church Militia doing their unwelcome patrols.

There are heavy footsteps as the door opens a crack. A stocky woman narrows her eyes at me as I lift my hood to show her my face. She huffs, pinching her nose in, like she has a headache forming. Then she opens the door wider for me.

“They’re in the back,” she says unhappily, eyeing me like I’m about to carve out her heart. We file into the cafe space, cluttered with mismatched tables and chairs. She closes the cheap wooden door quickly, rattling through the locks and bolts with fierce movements.

“That way,” she mutters, jabbing a short thumb over her shoulder. I follow her gesture to a blue door in the back corner. My heart hammers as a familiar itch takes root in my fingertips. I suck in a breath, forcing myself to calm down to little avail.

Remember the breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, count to four, repeat.

“Thank you,” I answer, taking off my cloak completely. Emilia and Michelle do the same.

“I want no Soulhate nonsense from you,” she barks, pointing a short finger at me. “You don’t touch a hair on his head, you understand me? Or there will be me to answer too.”

Surprised but not worried, I can’t help but smile. A threat clearly made out of love. However this woman knows Idris, she must have great affection for him.

“You have my word, signora. I will control myself if he does,” I swear, hoping fervently it’s not a lie.

“Go on in then,” she scoffs, shaking her head as she walks towards a set of stairs, leading up to what I assume are her rooms. I head for the back door. Every step is like fire ants biting at my toes. I take a moment, preparing myself for the revulsion, and push the door open.

The room inside is small and windowless. A large dented round table sits in the centre, surrounded by a smattering of wonky, painted chairs. There are two green cabinets pressed against one wall, both showing scratches, chips and clearly in need of a lick of new paint. Candles with swaying flames are clustered on their shelves.

The two men inside are already quiet.

Idris is a blister in my vision. My pulse slams in my throat, the whispers taking route in the back of my mind. He slowly forces his eyes off the table to see me. I swallow tightly, the motion like hot ashes down my throat. I force myself to look away, breathing deep. I aim for one of the chairs, sitting down and digging my nails into the wood to keep myself there. Slowly the fire begins to quell.

I keep my eyes low, focusing on taking note of everything else in the room. I keep my breathing even. Slow and purposeful.

The other man I recognise as Alfieri Barone. His family had always been staunch supporters of Jacopo. The Barones are sea merchants, and successful ones at that, with lots of business in Chalgos. We’ve crossed paths on occasion.

I keep my eyes on him. His chin-length mousy hair is tucked behind his ears as he leans back in his chair, nursing a large flagon of ale as he rubs his stubbled jaw line. He studies me in turn, offering a cheeky grin.

“Renza,” he greets with a wink.

“Alfieri,” I respond.

“How many times have I told you to call me Alfie?” he chuckles.

“Five. But it annoys you, so Alfieri you’ll stay,” I tease gently. He cackles in good humour, taking a swig of his ale.

“You told people?” Idris scowls, gesturing to Emilia and Michelle as they walk through the door. When Nouis appears, Idris bolts to his feet, blond hair flying.

“No. No, absolutely not. Are you insane?”

“Stop, he’s on our side.”

“Do you think I’d let her go anywhere near you without protection?” snaps Nouis walking to my side. He sits next to me, a hand wrapping around my arm.

“You’re an idiot.” Idris seethes at me. “You told him? Him ? He’s working with Bellandi.”

“How dare you.” Nouis’s voice rolls with righteous indignation. “Of course I’m not. What he’s done is disgusting and vile and totally deranged.”

Idris slams his drink on the table; it shudders angrily from side to side. “You were his damn proxy,” Idris hisses.

“A convenience.” Nouis takes a deep breath, using a tone to imply Idris is behaving beneath himself as Nouis steadies the rocking table, “I did him a favour because he knows my aunt, but I would never be complicit in such a disgusting scheme. I spent all my summers here; Halice is a second home. I would never do anything to harm it.”

“Idris, I understand why you think this, but you’re wrong. Nouis saved Giulia. He saved me. Twice . Not just at the temple. He saved us last night.” My throat burns with his name, but I force myself to meet those golden hazel eyes. It’s like staring into the sun at High Summer, the heat searing into my mind.

“Saved you?” repeats Idris grinding his teeth but his eyes narrow dangerously. “Last night?”

“An assassin broke into Giulia’s room, trying to kill her. I found him before he could, and then he tried to kill me too,” I say slowly, forcing the words out without screaming or sobbing. Idris helps, looking at him makes the tears dry up and my mouth go dry. “Nouis is the only reason I’m still alive.”

Idris looks like he wants to murder someone. Anyone . Probably me.

He glares at Nouis. “Where is he now?”

“The morgue,” Nouis answers.

Idris scoffs, throwing himself back into his seat to glare at his drink. “Convenient. We can’t even question him.”

“I did my best. Not all of us are trained killers,” Nouis defends himself hotly.

“No, but you are. I’ve seen you wield a blade before,” accuses Idris. That slaps me in the face, and not just because of the bond.

“Wait. You two have met before?” I venture, turning my whole body to look at Nouis, the chair juddering underneath me.

“In passing,” Nouis growls out his distaste, wrinkling his nose. Idris scowls, draining his flagon. Neither volunteers their history.

“Well, I think perhaps we’re wasting time?” offers Alfieri, clearing his throat. He smiles at Emilia warmly, gesturing to an empty orange seat.

“Would you ladies like a drink?” he asks cordially, easing to his feet.

“Thank you,” Emilia answers, gracefully lowering herself into the offered seat. Alfieri goes over to the cabinet and pours a few glasses.

“I said tell no one,” Idris mutters unhappily, eyes drifting to the girls. The idea of him ever setting eyes on them makes me want to burn this whole room to the ground.

“Pot and kettle, Idris,” I snap back, looking over to Alfieri as he puts a glass of wine in front of me.

“Alfie can be trusted,” seethes Idris.

“So can Emilia and Michelle. We all have an interest in making sure Serra isn’t used as Bellandi’s scapegoat.”

“Why Giulia?” Alferi claps his hands, interjecting the comment rather pointedly by jumping into business. He plonks the new drinks on the rickety table and sinks into his chair.

“What?”

“Why kill Giulia?” Alfieri elaborates. He pauses a moment, a sheepish look edging around his eyes, “I mean … is she improving?”

“She’s still with us,” I croak. Michelle tenses and Emilia pats her arm.

“So she could wake up?”

“Doctor says any day now,” I nod, forcing myself to smile. I know it’s not convincing. Alfieri turns to Idris with a pointed look. I get what he’s implying.

“What does she know?” Emilia says for the room. “What don’t they want getting out?”

“Exactly,” Alfieri smiles at her. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Alfie, and you are?”

“Emilia,” Emilia answers, her eyes cutting him up and down in quick assessment.

“Emilia,” Alfieri repeats, leaning towards her, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Idris gives him a kick under the table. I wrap my fingers around the glass of wine, desperate for something to keep me in this seat and not start a brawl.

“Giulia was looking into something at the bank.” Michelle scratches her head. Her mind’s eye somewhere else. “She was stressed about something, in the last few days leading up to the attack. She never said what it was, only that it was work.”

“You didn’t ask about it?” Emilia frowns. Michelle pulls a face at the question.

“Of course I asked, but she didn’t want to share. Besides, it’s not like I get the intricacies of the bank and I didn’t want to make her any more uncomfortable,” Michelle answers a little begrudgingly.

“You think something might be going on at the bank?” Alfieri asks.

“That would make sense,” Emilia chimes in. “I mean, isn’t Bellandi trying to build that ghastly new temple?”

“Ghastly?” asks Alfieri in good humour.

“Oh the designs are awful!” Emilia wrinkles her nose, leaning forwards to dig her elbows into the table as she rubs her eyes. “No ingenuity, a stupid amount of gilding and art to make it gaudy, and other than that … it’s just plain ugly.” I can’t suppress the grin as the artist in Emilia pokes her head to the surface.

“So you’ve seen them? The new plans?”

“I’m an architect and I’m nosy. I collaborate a lot with my colleagues and I see most of what gets built in this city, particularly something that big. It needs collaborators,” Emilia explains, resting her head on an open palm. “But the beastly thing is an absolute money pit. I’m not surprised Bellandi has to play with money to fund it.”

“Perhaps, but why ‘play with money’ before the explosion?” Idris ponders. “It would have been far safer to wait and not risk getting caught.” I fight the urge to look at him, keeping my eyes on literally anyone else in the room.

“You don’t think it’s for the new temple?” Nouis asks pointedly.

“I wouldn’t like to say,” Idris spits, the silence following making it clear that Nouis’s presence is what holds Idris’s tongue. I grit my teeth, setting down my glass.

“Then I’ll look into it. It’s my bank after all,” I answer. “It won’t be strange if Bellandi finds out I’m there. He knows I’m working on a new budget.” No one raises any objection, so I assume that’s a set plan.

Silence fills the room for a long pause. The candles dribble beaded wax down their tall, slender stems as their tops wobble with marigold flames.

“The temple explosion, I did some digging…” Emilia sets the roll of paper she’d brought with her on the table. Alfieri helps her, weighting the corners down with empty glasses. We all stand up, pressing hands on the table and leaning over for a good look.

The Grand Temple’s blueprints.

“This must be over a hundred years old,” Michelle mutters, running her hand over the old dry parchment.

“One hundred and twenty-six, to be accurate,” Emilia agrees, tapping a scrawled date in the bottom corner, “but the temple itself is younger. It took five years to finish. There was an issue with?—”

“What did you find?” Alfieri interrupts kindly, giving her a cheeky wink. Emilia nods, roses blooming across her cheeks as she gets back on track.

“Back when this was built, the Grand Temple had the tallest and largest domed ceiling anyone could’ve ever imagined—for the time that is. So big they realised they didn’t know how to build it without these massive stone columns to support it.” Emilia gestures towards them. “Not like we do today.” I remember those white columns, seeming to sit so awkwardly amongst the rows of pews.

“Meaning?”

“Well, each column supports part of the roof, but they put in extras because people were afraid of it collapsing. Meaning that if one or two columns went, the others would still stand and the roof wouldn’t completely cave in.”

“How many columns would need to go to see that kind of devastation?” Alfieri connects the dots quickly. Emilia nods slowly, certain of her words.

“At least seventeen out of the twenty-one. And given they were destroyed by explosives rathern than by axe or hammer… my guess would be they tried to sabotage all of them. But there’s more.” Emilia takes a deep breath as we hang on to her every word. “These columns weren’t just resting on the tiled floor. If you look here, the stones were sunk into the very foundations of the building. Metres deep. They were buried and cemented into place, immovable if you will. Meaning for one to fall down, you would need to crack the stone pillars all the way through. With an excessively powerful blow.”

“Hence an explosion,” Alfieri says, leaning over the page.

“I went through Serra’s things and tried deciphering some of her maths,” Emilia says, frowning at the memory of it. “The woman doesn’t keep notes as tidy as she should, but I think I got enough: an explosion is most brutal at its centre. As it detonates outwards, it loses force. So the explosive devices would’ve been directly on the pillars to cause… what happened.”

“The people in that church weren’t stupid. They would’ve seen explosives,” I point out.

“Not if they were disguised? Decorations perhaps?” offers Michelle. “It’s easy to disguise or conceal things with art.”

Blood leaves my face. “Wasn’t Terzo supposed to get married there later that day? That would explain any unusual decorations.”

Terzo was one of the Garden’s artists, a sculptor set to marry his Soulmate, the daughter of a wealthy wool merchant. The two were nauseatingly happy in their love, and Halician society was thrilled for them. That would’ve explained how no one saw anything. Terzo was rather eclectic and now very wealthy. I could only imagine how the decor must’ve looked.

“How did they work it out? Those at fault I mean.” Alfieri frowns, rubbing his jaw.

“ We did that quite easily,” counters Emilia. “I mean the theory anyway if not the exact maths.”

“You did, but you’re clearly an expert,” Alfieri corrects, eyes sparkling at her. “But how did they do it? You understand building structure, and your friend, Serra, was researching explosives. Between you, you’ve got the skills to put it together. What about them? Did anyone see this document before you? Maybe they’re linked to the culprits?”

“No, the Court of Records had to pull this from their archives just for me. It was covered in dust.” Emilia shakes her head.

“So how did they know about the columns, and where to place the explosives?” Alferi asks.

That’s a very, very good point.

“Maybe the Church has a copy?” ventures Emilia. “I often give clients copies of my drawings to keep or display.”

“The Church has a copy? A copy they could look at and work all this out from?” Michelle asks pointedly.

“Maybe, or maybe the family of the original architect still has it. Who knows? But to orchestrate what they did, they needed to see something like this. This wasn’t spur of the moment; it was meticulously planned.”

“If the architect’s family did have it, it wouldn’t be too hard to steal or buy it off them,” adds Alfieri.

“Why steal when you can simply request documents from the Court of Records?” Nouis frowns, gesturing to the work in front of them. “It’s public record.”

“Because they keep a log of who requests what,” Emilia answers instantly. “For security.”

“Which makes sense considering everything,” Michelle grumbles under her breath.

“What do you think, Renza?” Nouis asks softly.

“I think this is good. This is evidence we can use, if we can prove the Church has a copy of the plans,” I answer, folding my arms. “But it doesn’t tell us what Bellandi is planning next or indeed clear Serra’s name.”

“Well, maybe I can help with that. I can get close to Bellandi,” offers Nouis.

Idris scoffs, shaking his head and lurching away from the table to glare at the nearby wall. I flinch at the sudden action, fighting the hair standing on end all over my body.

“Sure, Rizaro, you go do that.” Idris’s bitter sarcasm clogs up my ears. “Let us know if you find anything.”

“Why would that work?” I ask Nouis, forcing myself to focus on the task and not the irritable man who sets my teeth on edge. “Do you think you can get Bellandi to trust you?”

Nouis takes my hands in his, considering his words for a minute before speaking delicately.

“I mentioned Bellandi knows my aunt right?” Nouis says with a wry smile. “Well, let’s just say he’s a favourite of hers. An intimate favourite. ”

I blink in shock and press my lips together. Really? Bellandi and the Holy Mother herself, an item? Seriously ?

“Oh!” Emilia suddenly gets it, cupping a hand to her mouth to smother the shock.

“I thought your aunt was… significantly older than Bellandi?” I clear my throat, not sure how to process that information at all. Nouis shakes his head, seeming uncomfortable.

“She is,” he agrees, wrinkling his top lip with a grimace, “but I’m fairly certain the infatuation started with him.”

“Old love is just as lovely as young love,” Alfieri grins wickedly, chuckling to himself.

“I said infatuation, not love,” scoffs Nouis “My aunt is not that type. But I think I can use it to … talk to him. Earn his trust.”

“Well, if you really think you can get him to trust you then it’s worth a try.” I pointedly refuse to acknowledge Idris shaking his head like an angry toddler in the corner.

“Okay, Nouis will get close to Bellandi, and Renza will look at the bank. So how are we going to break Serra out of jail?” Michelle asks, ticking off tasks on her fingers like a shopping list.

If Idris’s head had moved any faster, he’d have snapped his neck.

“You what?” he barks. I drop my head to my hands. I thought they’d given up on this insanity.

“We need to get Serra out of prison,” Michelle repeats like it’s obvious. “We can’t leave her to Bellandi’s whims. He’s trying to pin this whole thing on her. He will kill her to quiet the public.”

The noise escaping Idris is delicious, like he’s about to burst into flames. Even Alfieri looks surprised, though he’s also enjoying Michelle’s revelation far too much.

“What on earth are you thinking?” Idris demands in despair. He turns to glare at me, his gaze blistering against my brow. I grit my teeth, gripping the table so hard I might break my hands.

“Me? I told them this was mad. I thought you’d both let it go.” I sigh, turning to look at Emilia and Michelle in turn. Emilia rolls her eyes and folds her arms.

“With all that we now know about Bellandi? If we fail to stop him, Serra will die if we don’t get her out. We can’t risk that.”

“Breaking her out only makes her look more guilty,” Idris snaps, hands raking through his hair. “And what damn business do any of you have trying to arrange a jailbreak? What makes you think you can do it?”

“Haven’t you heard? Diamonds are made under pressure,” Michelle answers, jutting out her chin.

“So is coal. It’s dirty and dark and only useful when burned,” Idris hisses. “You’ll all get killed. Or you’ll get caught, accused of treason and executed, which will have the same end result.”

“We can’t leave her there,” says Emilia, scowling.

“We won’t. When we have Bellandi out and Halice is safe, we’ll free her then,” promises Idris. “For now at least we know where she is and can make sure she stays safe. Renza, back me up here.”

I pause, picturing Serra in that dark prison cell. I swallow tightly before speaking, my chest clenching uncomfortably.

“Do you really trust Bellandi not to use her against us?” I ask the real question on my tongue. “He knows I care about her. Serra is…”

I trail off. To say she’s my friend seems like a disservice to what we once had. To say ex-lover seems like a disservice to what we have now. Idris takes a long, deep breath.

“We won’t let anything happen to her,” promises Nouis.

“You can’t make that promise,” Emilia says quietly. “No one here can.”

Idris doesn’t answer. He forces himself to take a deep breath, before speaking in a low, uneven voice. “Renza, listen and really hear me. The safest way to look after Serra is to do this by the book. In the prison, we know where she is. I will even go and speak to Captain Collier to make sure he keeps her safe, alright? You know this is madness.”

He’s right, though it pains me to admit it.

“He’s right, Renza. This would be suicide,” whispers Nouis, a hand going to my arm. I look between the girls. Their gaze is just as determined as before, perhaps even more so now the challenge has been laid down. I can see the question in them. Am I in?

I rub my eyes and bite my lip. All I can see is Serra, swinging from side to side before my eyes. I can’t—I won’t let Bellandi take someone else I love.

I meet Emilia’s dark eyes before giving her an imperceptible nod.

It looks like we’re doing this alone.

* * *

We leave the little back room and start to put on our cloaks again. Idris talks quietly with the cafe owner, who keeps throwing me dirty looks. I shake my head, wondering how on earth they know each other.

I pin my cloak together, thankful for the light, breathable cotton. The High Summer sun might be resting for now but the air is sticky and clings uncomfortably to the skin.

“So, what time shall we meet tomorrow?” Idris asks. My head whips around and I regret it the instant I meet his frustratingly captivating hazel eyes. I gasp, reeling backwards two paces as I let that pulse of disgust and violence roll over me. Idris is patient, not flinching as I swallow to try and get everything under my control again. My pulse begins to slow as the wave settles back to the uncomfortable bubble in my chest.

“What are you talking about?” Nouis’s tone makes it clear Idris should step back immediately. Idris pays him no mind.

“I was talking to Renza.” He returns his address to me. “So, what time?”

“What are we doing tomorrow?” I frown, turning my eyes to the fastening on my cloak.

“The bank. We’re going together,” Idris says matter-of-factly, as though we’re discussing the weather. I glare at my fingers, refusing to look up.

“What do you know about banking?”

“My family owns a slew of businesses, and I spent six months working with Bevrick Morton, the Chief Financier of Chalgos’ famous Merchant Row,” Idris answers. “Who knows, another pair of eyes might be helpful.”

“What were you doing in Chalgos?” I ask, the question tumbling out before I can really think about it.

“Learning about business of course,” Idris answers, like it’s obvious. “So, tomorrow?”

“I’m coming too,” Nouis insists. “I don’t like the idea of you two alone. You have no need to tempt the Soulhate bond like that.”

“I thought you were cuddling up with your best pal Bellandi?” snipes Idris.

“Enough,” I warn the two men. “Nouis, you’re with Bellandi tomorrow. Stick to the plan. Idris, I don’t think you being around tomorrow will be at all conducive to actual work.”

“Perhaps. But after you were attacked by an assassin yesterday, you can’t go around without someone to protect you. I don’t trust the Militia or anyone outside of this group, and Alfie is busy tomorrow meeting with some of his contacts about the Militia. So you’re stuck with me.”

Protect me? Idris? I’d laugh if the whole situation weren’t already so insane.

“You’re just as likely to kill me as protect me.”

“You must think so little of my self-control,” Idris chuckles, voice dropping an octave, “but twice now you’ve started the altercations between us. Not me.”

“Twice?” hisses Nouis, his eyes zeroing in on me. “What happened?”

I shake my head, hands going to my hairline. I’m going to be spending an entire day alone with him and not kill him?

This is going to be an unmitigated disaster.

“Renza, a word in private?” Idris gives Nouis a pointed look before beckoning me to the side. Fire itches in my throat as I sigh and follow him a few paces away. Every muscle tenses in preparation for a sudden movement or surprise attack.

Idris leans against the wall, looking at the floor. I dare to steal a moment to look at him, analysing those chiselled features, broad shoulders and the thick muscles of his arms and thighs. I drop my gaze again, noticing those expensive brown leather boots he’s wearing. They’re meant for action and marching rather than the sloping streets of Halice.

“We need to trust each other, and we need to understand this bond better,” he says quietly. His voice is as deep and low as the oceans, yet sits uncomfortably in my ear. “This situation with Bellandi looks like it might get worse before it gets better. While I know you trust Rizaro, please understand that I don’t.”

“That much is obvious. But why? What has Nouis done to earn your distrust?”

“There was an incident a few years back…” Idris answers, voice dark. “I’ll tell you another time, but for now I need you to take me at my word.”

“He saved Giulia,” I repeat in a quiet hiss.

“I’m grateful, but it doesn’t change my mind. You and I need to stay alive long enough to free Halice and work out exactly what is going on here, so whatever your personal feelings towards me, put them away and know this as an absolute fact: I am going to keep you safe, Fate be damned.”

My head jumps up, my eyes lock on the shadows of his angular features on the wall. That promise–that vow—held so much determination I couldn’t question it. My heart skips a beat in surprise, warming a touch knowing that he loves this city as much as I do.

“I have no personal feelings of hate, Idris. This isn’t me.” My words are barely more than a whisper. “It’s the bond. I swear it’s not personal.”

“Either way. I am going to keep you safe,” he repeats, making to leave. My hand moves of its own accord, latching onto his forearm to stop him. He freezes on the spot.

“It matters to me that you know,” I insist. “It matters to me that you know that I don’t hate you, not in my rational mind anyway.”

Idris seems to relax as a beat passes between us, and I remove my hand.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. Of course it matters; I didn’t mean to dismiss it,” he says softly.

“But also, I have to know…” I shake my head, biting my lip before continuing. “Why weren’t you at service that day?” I hate the accusation as it comes from my mouth.

“Because I knew you’d be there. And you deserved at least one whole day without fighting… this,” Idris answers softly. “I’ve really never been one for religion.”

I take a deep breath and nod.

Silence lingers a moment. My eye catches on the cafe owner watching us unhappily with her arms folded.

“Okay, what is your story with her?” I ask. Idris turns to look over his shoulder, a small smile crinkling his mouth.

“That’s Paula.”

“Paula promised I’d have her to answer to if I slipped up this evening,” I inform him. Idris laughs, real warmth lacing the sound.

“Paula was my nanny when I was little. She inherited this place from her father when he died and turned it into a cafe after I left the city,” Idris says. “She’s the best. If she ever offers to tell you a bedtime story, take her up on it. You won’t regret it.”

I snort with laughter. “I’ll remember that.”

“Her brother was at the Grand Temple when…” Idris trailed off, voice tight. “He was her only family.”

I take a deep, shaky breath. “I swear I’ll get justice,” I vow.

“ We will get justice. You’re not alone in this,” promises Idris. Despite the way his words taste like curdled milk, my heart does feel lighter.

I take a deep breath. “Tomorrow. Outside the bank. After lunch. We’ll need a cover for why we’re together; we can’t look like we’re getting along. Bellandi will have spies everywhere.”

“Don’t worry, I already have a plan for that,” Idris smirks.

That sounds like trouble.