Page 21 of The Unweaver (Unwoven Fates #1)

“Y ou seriously gonna wear that?” Anita lifted a hand off the Bugatti’s steering wheel to gesture at Cora’s rumpled ensemble. “To the Gilded Lily?”

Cora, hesitating on the Emerald Club’s curb, held the passenger door open and glanced down. In the light of day, the tarry stains of Verek’s cancer on her coat were not as subtle as she’d hoped.

Anita Tambo, on the other hand, was stunning in a mink coat, her smart hat tilted at a rakish angle over her abundance of springy curls. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears and wrists.

Not for the first time, Cora considered ignoring Bane’s orders and letting Anita shake down Rune Borges for information on the magic-draining bullet solo while she took the first train out of London.

The intense burning in her palm dispelled the fantasy. Escaping the Realmwalker was impossible.

Her mood was as bleak as this endless winter. Cora didn’t need to sense death to know it was coming for her. Now the awful truth was out, it was only a matter of time. Whoever had the honor of culling the Unweaver, she hoped they made it quick.

After the disastrous meeting yesterday, though, Cora was relieved to have one person not completely disgusted by her. By her clothes, certainly, but not her. At least not yet. Depending on how the day went, she might very well be walking back to the club.

No shoving this cat back in the bag , Cora thought with bitter resignation, sliding onto the plush leather seat. “Unfortunately, I am lacking in wardrobe options at the moment.”

Anita slammed on the gas before Cora could close the door and launched the car into traffic with a squeal of tires. Cora was nearly tossed onto the street as they took a corner at breakneck speed, careening around a parked lorry and sideswiping it with an ear-piercing shriek of metal on metal.

Finally, Cora wrenched the door shut and darted a look behind them, panting and gripping the handle for dear life. “Christ, is someone chasing us?”

“Huh?” They came within inches of plowing down a man whose step off the sidewalk might very well have been his last. “Just making a detour, is all. They won’t let you into the Lily with those rags on and I certainly ain’t got anything that would fit an Amazon like you. We’ll just pop into the shops and be on our way, savvy? Mal won’t mind us taking the car out longer. Him and Guy got a whole factory full of them now.”

The car veered and hopped over the curb, almost flattening a fruit cart. Screaming joined the angry chorus of blaring horns.

“Oi! Watch your sodding arse!” Anita flipped off the driver as she cut him off. “Driving is loads of fun. Do you know how? I could teach you.”

Hurtling through traffic in sphincter-puckering turns, Cora wondered who, if anyone, had taught Anita how to drive.

The sharp edges of terror at an imminent car crash dug into her. Cora couldn’t pry her gaze away from every man, mineral, and vegetable they might be on a collision course with, no matter how desperately she wanted to.

“I’ll, er, keep that in mind.” Cora gnashed her teeth. “Where is our charming employer today?”

“Who knows? Mal keeps his own counsel.” Anita lit a cigarette, and the car filled with pungent marijuana smoke. With a sidelong glance at Cora’s white-knuckled grip on the door, Anita offered it to her. “One of Yvonne’s enchanted cannabis sticks.”

Cora eyed the cigarette, suspicious of what schemes were rolled within it. Was this part of Bane’s plan? Get her high, pump her for information, and report back?

Anita chuckled. “Come on, love. A puff won’t hurt.”

“Fuck it.”

Cora inhaled slowly, like Teddy had taught her, and coughed anyways to Anita’s uproarious laughter. Her head filled with a fuzzy cloud of smoke and floated above her shoulders. The comfortable haze dulled her existential panic at Anita Tambo’s driving. She could kiss the French Phytomancer for creating such dank divinity.

“What’s the Gilded Lily like?” Her tongue felt thick in her dry mouth.

“Bougie. Since Madam Kalandra took over, the Lily only caters to a particular kind of clientele.” Anita jerked the wheel, narrowly avoiding vehicular manslaughter. “Toffs who can spend a hundred quid on a tart. Per hour.”

“A hundred quid?” Cora hacked another cough. She’d known girls at the Starlite who sold their bodies for a shilling. Then again, she’d sold herself to Malachy Bane for a hundred quid per job. Though her career, if it could be called such, dealt in dead flesh rather than living. Strange the day that Cora Walcott earned the same rate as a Gilded Lily courtesan. She didn’t know whether to be proud or mortified.

“With our carnal talents, you bet we’re worth every penny.” Anita flashed a dazzling smile that faded when she turned back, thankfully, to the road. “I hope Madam Kalandra ain’t still peeved about me switching sides for Mal. Not like she’s got any right to be. She’s the one who bloody introduced us at the Lily.”

Something unpleasant slithered in Cora’s belly at the thought of Bane—that traitorous, untrustworthy bastard—in a brothel. A puff of the cigarette dulled it, so she took another before passing it back. “How long did you work there?”

“Since I was fifteen. My family sold me off after learning about my devilry, as they called it. God-fearing louts. I’ve had enough exorcisms for a lifetime.”

“Likewise.” Cora shuddered at repressed memories of overzealous nuns. “They do the lure-out-with-holy-water or the expel-with-fire exorcisms?”

“Expel-with-fire.”

“Oof. Brutal.”

“Wankers,” Anita declared. “All except my baby brother, Tim Tambo. He plays standup bass at the club, you’ll like him. All in all, Madam Kalandra didn’t treat me too poorly. And sex work can be empowering if it’s the lady’s choice. Besides, I like fucking and I’m good at it. If you’re good at something, you should never do it for free. It’s the birds that put out for a pint and an I’ll call you later who are the ones really getting fucked.”

Anita took another puff. “Though, working at the Lily wasn’t always the most glamorous of jobs. Especially that first time. You know what kind of toffs pay a premium to take a girl’s virginity?”

“Creepy old rich ones?”

“Right-o,” Anita said. “You know, I never understood the phrase ‘losing your virginity.’ I ain’t lost shit. I know exactly where it went. Sold to the highest bidder. Nothing misplaced about it. He was a racist old codger who couldn’t get it up lest a blood mage was doing the heavy lifting for him. Funny how it was always the most bigoted toffs waiting in a long line for me. One white toff even paid me to whip him while he called me master.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I miss it sometimes.”

They barreled into a wealthy SoHo shopping district. Cora had been there once when the leaves still clung to the bowering plane trees. This time she wasn’t scurrying through sewers in a filthy cloak but driven in a luxurious Bugatti by a retired courtesan.

“I miss it even more after this recent dry spell,” Anita said. “I ain’t gotten laid in days . How about you?”

“Er, I dunno. Six, or seven…”

“Weeks?” Anita’s brows shot up. “Months?”

Cora swallowed. “Years.”

Nate was a moth-eaten memory now. She hardly remembered what he looked like, only his earnest fumbling and sloppy kisses in the dark. She’d found his affection stifling. Which had been a major improvement given her less than romantic history.

Cora had known how Nate would die in the war and it had changed nothing. The foolish human had laughed at her warning and gone off to get himself killed. Not in the glory of battle, but in the trenches with typhoid. His dreams of valor died in the mud along with him.

In the years that followed, Cora had retreated into the safety of solitude. Sacrificing pleasure for sameness after deeming it not worth the risk.

“Years?” Anita stared at her. And not at the road. “You taking the piss?”

They nearly smashed into a mailbox. Cora screamed and Anita veered to the side at the last second, the wheels skidding.

“Blessed Mary, why? You’re a pretty bird. Was it because of the war? The ban on jimmy hats? God damn , there’s less extreme ways of avoiding babies and crotch rot than seven years of bloody celibacy.”

“It’s not that.” Cora wished they’d crashed into that mailbox if only to avoid this conversation. “I never enjoyed sex. It… usually wasn’t my choice.”

Anita grabbed her hand, and Cora felt her blood stir where their hands touched. Sympathy brimmed in the Sanguimancer’s eyes. “I get it.”

Cora withdrew her hand and glanced out the window. Even with Nate she’d never been the initiator. His eager persistence had worn her down until sleeping with him seemed the less tiresome option. She had laid there with the bewildering discomfort of a body laboring away on top of and inside of her.

That first time, Nate had tried to make her climax. Grinding her clit under his thumb like he was sanding down a table, he’d asked, “Are you close?”

Grimacing, she’d tried to wriggle away, which he mistook as passionate encouragement. Did she lie to make it end sooner? Or be honest and possibly prevent future victims of this crime against clitorises?

She’d removed his hand. “No. Thanks.”

To both their relief, he hadn’t bothered again.

Thirty years old, and Cora had never felt pleasure from sex. Felix had seen to that. The reality she’d long resigned herself to was all the more frustrating given how close she’d come from that dream— that dream —last night. Nearly realized pleasure was worse than none at all.

There was a certain emancipation in spinsterhood, though. No man called the shots in her life. Well, until recently.

“Soon as we get you new rags, love, we gotta get you laid. Hell, you can borrow one of my two blokes. I could spare Lenny. He’s prettier when he don’t talk, and even prettier when he’s face down in your lap. Mm mmm .” Anita gave a throaty laugh.

Cora couldn’t imagine dating one man, let alone two. “Do your blokes know about each other?”

Anita shot her a look. “I’m sleeping with them at the same time.”

“Oh.” Then, “ Oh .”

“Unless there’s a fella you already got your cap set on, eh?” Anita said with salacious curiosity. “Say, what is going on with you and Mal?”

“Nothing.”

Anita smacked her siren red lips. “Uh huh.”

“Nothing. Temporary cohabitation. Mutual animosity. Decent cook, though. In any case, Bane’s a cold-hearted bastard.”

“I used to think so, too. He don’t suffer fools lightly. But Mal? He don’t speak with his words. You gotta listen to what he’s doing.”

Cora stared at the streets blurring past as her thoughts retreated inwards. Violating her lifelong secrecy had inflicted a deep wound that would be slow to heal, if it did at all. Whatever tentative trust she’d placed in Bane had been revoked. He was irredeemable in her eyes.

Until she was dreaming. The hurt and anger melted into feverish longing while she slept. Last night’s dream had been particularly… vivid. She tried not to dwell on the reasons why.

But the sight of him between her thighs, gazing up with blue eyes that existed only in dreams, had taken residence in her mind.

It was unusual for her not to dream of memories, her own or the dead’s. This dream’s climax, as it were, had been woven not from remembered experience, but from unknown inspiration.

No, a very known inspiration. The bastard.

Temptation grew, and so did the certainty of regret. Indulging the temptation would be like sinking her teeth into forbidden fruit, pleasurable in its poison.

There was no room for question. Fucking Bane would only ever be that: fucking. Mind-numbingly good, most likely, but he’d satisfy her body and leave her heart wanting. The Malachy in her dreams was not the Malachy in reality. A shame, as dream Malachy was infinitely preferable.

If she followed Anita’s advice, which was questionable, and listened to Bane’s actions instead of his blunt words, Cora had to admit he’d demonstrated he cared for her. To a certain extent. He’d never made her feel ashamed for what she was. Directly.

He’d even tried to unchain her from it, although she thoroughly disapproved of his heavy-handed methods. He had gone to lengths to keep her safe, including traversing her out of a burning room and taking a bullet for her. But it was no less than he’d do for any of his gang.

And with more than one gorgeous woman in that gang, Cora wondered what lengths he’d gone to—or given to —the other females. Yvonne’s familiar intimacy. Sloane’s spritely charm. Anita, the walking seduction.

The former courtesan had said she’d met Bane at the Gilded Lily, though she hadn’t clarified in what capacity and Cora wasn’t going to ask. She wouldn’t put it past Bane to pay for sex. Not from necessity, but for efficiency. Had he paid Anita? Or had—

Nope. Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.

A moment later Cora asked, “Have you ever slept with Bane?”

“Mal?” Anita burst out laughing. “No. Though… I would, if you know what I mean. Yvonne says he’s miraculous . I bet he fucks with his eyes open, staring into your very spirit with those black eyes of his while he fucks you into another Realm. Not that I’ve, ah, thought about it. Of course.”

“Of course.” She offered a brief, unfelt smile to Anita’s lascivious grin. Unpleasantness slithered in her belly at the confirmation of her suspicions. Miraculous, indeed. “Are Bane and Yvonne still together?”

“Curious, ain’t you?” Anita’s sly side-eye made Cora regret asking. “Mal’s a real private gent, but I’ve never seen him with the same dame twice. Not even Yvonne and her love potions could tie him down. He’s different with you, though.”

“Even more of an arsehole, you mean?”

Anita tossed her head back and laughed. “Love, you should’ve heard the tongue-lashing Mal gave us after you left the club yesterday.” In a near perfect imitation of Bane’s lilting voice, she said, “You should all be fuckin’ ashamed of yourselves, welcoming Cora to the gang like that.”

Cora blinked. “Bane has reached the bottom floor of common decency. Celebrations are in order.” The memory of the meeting she’d tried to blot out made her stiffen. “Thank you, by the way. For yesterday. It meant a lot to me.”

“Sure thing, sweets. Blood and death oughta stick together, eh?” Anita grinned. “Y’know, Mal’s blood sings when you’re around. It’s been a long time since anyone talked to him the way you do and kept living. You know what I think? I think he hates how much he bloody loves it.”

It wasn’t the Sanguimancer’s observation Cora doubted, but her interpretation. The only intimacy she’d shared with Bane had been in her dreams. In the waking world, he only touched her when it was necessary. For traversing. And bathtub disentanglements.

She cleared her throat, eager to discuss any topic other than Malachy Bane. “Say, Anita. Have you ever heard of something called Coshoy’s Egg?” Scouring Bane’s vast library hadn’t provided results.

“Co what? Never heard of it. Oi, here’s a parking spot.” She flicked the cigarette butt out the window and parked, tires screeching, at an acute angle with one wheel on the curb and a tree branch stuck to the roof.

High-end boutiques lined the cobblestone street, brimming with unimaginable luxuries.

Cora banged the door open into a stack of crates whose owner was, unfortunately, present to witness their upending. Shouts and footsteps grew louder as he rushed over.

Head down, she hurried towards the nearest store, winding through the throng of shoppers weighed down with their heavy coats and purchases. She feigned absorption in the window display. Her gaze caught on a pair of elbow-length gloves, and she paused to admire them. The satin would feel like a secret on her skin.

“Let’s go in,” Anita said.

Cora would stand out like shit on lace in this boutique. The last time she’d braved a ritzy shop like this had been to nick Teddy’s Christmas gift. Sorrow settled in her heart, along with a heavy drag of guilt.

“C’mon, I always wanted to shop here. You can get into these digs, but… Listen.” Anita’s expression grew pained. “These human shops will only let me in if they think I’m your maid. Savvy?”

The words sunk through the haze of cannabis smoke. Her head, floating in a liminal space, crashed back down. Mages were prejudiced in many ways, but race often wasn’t one of them. The shared burden of secrecy necessitated a certain open-mindedness.

Anita’s hardened resignation told Cora she wasn’t looking for sympathy or apologies. Just stating a fact.

“Let’s go somewhere else.”

“ Savvy ?” Anita held open the shop’s door with a determined glint in her eye. “My lady.”

“No blacks,” sniped the woman behind the counter, tapping a sign on the wall where her racism was displayed in bold letters.

“She’s my…” Cora searched for the word, wishing she hadn’t smoked quite so much grass.

“Maid,” Anita provided.

The shopkeeper didn’t buy it. Cora was dressed more like a maid than Anita was in her mink and diamonds. She slapped the sign on the wall again.

Rather than crumpling, Anita squared her shoulders, told the shopkeeper where she could stick her sign, and waltzed out.

Cora had enough time to nick the gloves she’d been eyeing before catching up to Anita’s brisk stride halfway down the street. They said nothing. There was nothing to say.

A sigh escaped Cora’s lips when she slid the gloves on. They’d been exposed for far too long.

Anita glanced from the stolen gloves to Cora and howled with laughter. “Maybe you are as fun as Teddy, love.”

Her twin’s name was like an anchor on her heart.

The next shop was on a less fashionable street, but was run by mages and their human kin, Anita told her, as Bane’s businesses were. The shopkeeper was more welcoming, her manners crisp but cordial. The wares, while less luxurious, were still an overwhelming bounty to Cora.

Now among mages, new prejudices sprung. Cora peered at the shopper’s faces, hoping no one would recognize her for what she was yet. How fast could Bane’s gang have spread the news in less than a day?

She bumped into a woman carrying a bundle of garments. Cora looked down. The woman looked up. Terror spread across her face. Sucking in a breath, she dropped the garments and fled.

Cora’s heart sank. Bad news traveled fast. By now, news of the Unweaver had probably spread like plague across Britain. By now, a train couldn’t get her far enough away from London. She’d need a ship. Or a shovel.

She was about to make her own escape when her gaze snagged on Anita haggling with the shopkeeper. Anita had faced down prejudice with a stiff spine. Rejection hadn’t dampened her enthusiasm in the slightest. The Sanguimancer’s confidence was impervious to the fickleness of others.

Acute stabs of judgment for Cora were chronic lashings for Anita. To others, Cora’s faults lay hidden beneath her skin while Anita’s perceived faults were skin deep.

The shame Cora dragged around like chains had been galvanized over a lifetime, the links forged by the nuns, Felix, Mother, countless others. Even if, god forbid, Bane was right, she couldn’t unshackle herself from them. But perhaps she could loosen them so they chafed less.

Instead of letting the woman’s terror crush her, instead of caving under the deepening shame, she stood a little straighter. It felt… unnatural.

As they shopped, Anita regaled her with gang gossip. Who was fucking whom? Everyone, apparently, all the time. Dimitri’s lovemaking was so tender Anita had been half-convinced she was in love with him afterwards. Who was trying to kill whom? Also everyone, all the time.

Each dress Cora tried on was more exquisite than the last. Fine fabrics and simple patterns, elaborately embroidered, embellished with rhinestones, shimmering with fringe. The newest fashions were liberating. Waistlines had dropped and hems had risen. The sight of her own calves was strangely satisfying. The whisper of silk on her skin felt sinful.

Spurred by Anita’s encouragement and a cannabis-inspired recklessness, she racked up a fortune on silk stockings, lacey chemises, beaded dresses, fur-trimmed coats, and boots that didn’t have holes in them.

Cora didn’t recognize her own reflection. The girl haunted by death stared into the mirror and a stylish stranger stared back. She’d make an easy mark in these rich rags. The luxuries filled her with guilt. “I can’t possibly buy all this.”

Anita wouldn’t hear it. She told the shopkeeper to put it on Mal’s tab and the woman didn’t bat an eye. Cora wondered how many other women Mal had purchased clothes for here. When she caught her reflection again, she saw a rich man’s mistress. The new wool scarf felt like a collar.

Cora insisted on paying for everything. It was still his money, but she didn’t want to be any more indebted to Bane than she already was. Her deal with the devil could always get worse. Her insistence swayed nobody. Mal’s account was charged. Cora kept a mental tab of what she owed him, wondering how he’d make her pay him back.

The shopkeeper offered to dispose of her old clothes. Anita offered to burn them. Instead, she gave them to a girl cowering in the back alley. In the grim lines of the girl’s sooty face Cora saw herself. She wanted to reassure the girl that it would get better. The lie died in her throat.

Unwanted children, if they were very lucky, would survive to be unwanted adults. She handed the girl a fistful of money, instructing her to hide it and tell no one.

Cora walked down the cobblestone street, new clothes on the same hollow woman.

They loaded their purchases back to the car, peeled into traffic, and sped perilously away. Nails biting into the leather seat, Cora wished she had another marijuana stick.

“Tell me about Rune Borges,” she said, desperate for a distraction.

“Rune’s a pompous arse who loves to hear himself talk. But he knows his shit. These days he’s married to Camille. Me and her worked at the Lily together. Courtesans who don’t get a contract renewal retire at the ripe old age of thirty. Camille went from entertaining several rich pigs to marrying him , the biggest pig of them all.”

Retiring at thirty sounded very appealing to Cora. “Were you offered a contract renewal?”

Anita nodded, growing quiet as they pulled up in front of the Gilded Lily. “Hope Madam ain’t still pissed about that seven years later. It’s best if she don’t know we’re here, savvy?”