Page 85 of The Mask Falling

“That,” she said, “is for polluting my home. For drawing breath where my mother lived.”

I forced myself to look back at her, my cheek throbbing. That was when I saw what was in her other hand: a heavy-looking fire iron, ending in a blunt hook.

“And this is for fouling my body. For my child,” she said softly. “For whatever your despicable violation might have done to them.”

Before I could speak, she struck me hard in the knee, buckling my leg, then belted me across the ribs. And straight away, I was back in the room, the white room where Vigiles had mauled and spat on me. This time, I made no attempt to fight back. I curled straight into a ball.

It felt like years before the beating stopped. She hit old bruises and made new ones. The worst part was when the iron smashed my elbow, sending a shock all the way to my fingers and jolting heat into my eyes. All I could think was that I had to protect myself without hurting Frère. Ménard would not see that as self-defense. Neither would the Vigiles.

When the iron split my lip, anger overcame self-preservation. I flung out a hand and grabbed her weapon, and our gazes locked across it. My arm was stronger than hers. Both of us were panting. Her face was smeared with perspiration, pupils down to punctures.

“If you dare contaminate my body with your presence again, espèce de monstruosité, I will make sure yours is a hell to inhabit.” When Frère jerked my chin up, her manicured nails dug into my skin. “Benoît seems to think you have value, but I know you will always work against us.”

“I know something, too,” I whispered. “I know your secret, Luce.” Her nails pressed deeper. “Your child is unnatural. You’re an unnatural progenitor, and your precious Benoît will kill you for it.”

Her hand was white-knuckled on the iron. A flicker of apprehension crossed her face.

“Touch me again,” I said, “and I will tell him.” Blood leaked down my chin. “I will send you to the guillotine you love so much.”

Little by little, her composure returned. So did her cruel smile.

“Benoît would never hurt me for falling under unnatural influence. Vigile,” she called, and handed the iron to the one that came. When he was gone, she turned back to me. “Do not imagine you have any power over me, anormale. Here, you are the marionette.”

She drew a silk handkerchief from her skirt and wiped my blood from her ring with it. The bite of metal filled my mouth. My threat had just rolled off her, and I couldn’t fathom why.

“Your father tried to save his own skin, you know.” She looked down at me. “They examined him for information on your whereabouts. Do you know what he told them?”

I reached for a reply, but the words refused to come. Even if she intended it to hurt me, she was offering me knowledge about his final hours, and I owed it to him to listen.

“He swore you had never belonged to him. That you were not his child,” Frère told me. “He renounced you, calling you a changeling and all manner of superstitious babble.” She tossed the handkerchief into the fire. “It might have saved him, had Vance’s plan not necessitated his death. He went to the block despising you.”

The handkerchief lay in the hearth. I focused on it. The intricate lacework. The blood-spotted silk. It would have fetched a few coins at the black market. Enough to fill a hollow stomach.

“His head is staked on the Lychgate. I hear Weaver had it boiled in brine to keep it fresh,” Frère said. I kept my gaze firmly on the handkerchief, watching as the flames consumed it. “Because your father was a servant of the anchor, you could not love him enough to save his life. Do not tell me that, as Underqueen, you did not have the means to try.”

Her wristwatch let out a smallpingbefore I could answer her charge. Frère glanced at it, then shoved my head down to the floor and strode away.

****

The Vigiles threw me back into my own room and locked it. There was no fire or food. Even the mantle had been withdrawn. I washed the blood from my chin and huddled up on the daybed, preserving warmth as best I could.

My father had been tortured before they murdered him. I tried not to imagine what they might have done to draw my whereabouts from his lips.

He had called me a changeling. A fey creature. When I was still young enough for a cot, my grandmother had hung a pair of iron scissors nearby, to ward off any fairy that might carry me away and leave a síofra in my place. Years before, she had done the same for my father and aunt.

Frère was Scion-born. She couldn’t know the wordchangelingunless he really had said it. He had never given much credence to the stories my grandmother honored, but with his last breath, he had used them against me. He had refused to acknowledge me as his daughter—or, apparently, as human.

He must truly have been afraid of me. All my life, he had been afraid. I hadn’t imagined it.

I shook myself. People changed under torture. I had not given in on the waterboard, despite the pain and humiliation, but Suhail Chertan had been under strict instructions not to do any enduring damage. My father could have suffered anything.

Exhaustion sank its hooks into me. I would have a fresh coat of bruises by morning. Frère lacked strength, but anger and a foot-long bar of iron made for a powerful combination.

I had to get out of here. Ducos needed the information I had.

Except I still didn’t have the location of Sheol II. Even after a sound beating, the thought of leaving without that knowledge was too bitter to swallow. Twice I had come close enough to taste it. Twice it had eluded me. Instead, I had unexpected knowledge, and I had no idea what to do with it.

Arcturus had wanted to tell me about the Rephaim becoming Emim. Whatever oath had stopped him, it must have been strong.

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