Page 38 of Of Song and Scepter
Every assignment, I’ve made sure to be in control of the situation, not some sidekick playing parlor tricks. Even if Odissa comes up with the plan, the execution is my game. But this is so far out of my depth. I can’t decipher the rules. Iwill notdie for this shit.
If Odissa wins the heart of the prince in the end, fantastic—they certainly deserve each other—but a deal is a deal. I cannot keep betting my life on her success. My service ends the moment the bargain is sealed.
As if sensing my betrayal, the familiar icy grip of dark magic wraps around my neck—my blood oath unfulfilled. I shove at it with my thoughts.I’m not ruining her success,I tell the magic,I’m just… ensuring my own.
This blood oath will end soon enough, and I’ll be completely on my own.
I’ll be poor, but I’ll be free.
I trace the sweating walls, aimlessly following the swirls of pink caught within the marble. Moisture licks my fingers. I press onward, following the curve of the wall to a staircase. I climb it on numb feet, hand caressing the gilded railing with disgust. These Corals have so much wealth, they carve their handrailsfrom solid gold. With the edge of my claw, I scratch at the metal and smile when it leaves a mark. It’ll be my secret; here, in the darkened stairwell, I could slowly taint the varnish of grandeur one handrail at a time.
Goddess, even the screws are made of gold. I loosen the fastening, twisting the screw free. One of these would buy a free round of drinks for every patron at the Hissing Bloodfish, every day for a week. A quick scan of the railing tells me there’s more than that here.
My mind reels as I climb the stairs, snicking a screw here and there and slipping them into the pouch strapped to my inner thigh. Three. Five. Ten. How many might I take before I’m discovered? I glance over my shoulder, scanning the open space for signs of observers. Just then, a drip of water releases from the ceiling and splatters onto my shoulder. I flinch at the sudden chill. Shaking the paranoia away, I grasp the edge of the wall and peer out of the stairwell into a long, narrow hallway.
A guard stands at the end of the corridor, his face lit by a lone lamp. His eyes glaze with boredom, staring into the darkness between us. The walls are void of options for looting—no art, no gold. I must be on the top floor—aside from the one chamber door and the window at the end, the only way in or out is through this stairwell.
I study him carefully. His shoulders sag with exhaustion. His weight shifts entirely onto his left leg, hip cocked, as he leans his weight onto the trident in his hands. His cheeks are plump with a rich diet; a favored guard, then, for a favored post. This room must be important.
Curiosity gnaws too fiercely for me to ignore. Humming, I send sparks out the window. The guard grunts, his attention shifting. He shuffles to the sill, leaning out into the night.
Silently, I slip down the hall, passing behind him. I extinguish the sconce, and the hallways falls into darkness. I blink, clickingmy night vision into place. He turns from the window, then creeps toward the sconce with searching, sweeping footsteps. He raps against the metal with his fist.
“Damn thing,” he mutters. He fishes in his pocket, retrieving a piece of flint, and he strikes it with a spray of sparks. With another quick hum, I suck the sparks away, absorbing their energy. The guard grumbles.
I dig my claw into the lock, unlatching it easily, and press inside. The door closes moments before the sconce reignites. The orange glow flickers through the gap in the threshold, and I pause flat against the wall, as I wait for him to knock or trigger an alarm.
The room is empty. A large bed sits untouched to the left, dripping with dark velvet. A desk stands in the corner, the books and parchment organized with precision. Centered in the room, a bathing pool glitters in the low light. Two doors open onto a patio with a stone balcony framing the ocean view.
The obviously masculine presence, the careful precision of the organization, the scent that hangs heavy in the air—this must be the prince’s chambers. It’s the same smell that clung to his chest when I met him on the beach: salt, sun, and driftwood. I haven’t scented him in days, but my heart still flutters in recognition, and my eyelids droop as I greedily inhale.
On the other side of the door, the guard shuffles and grunts but otherwise remains silent. I’m in the clear.
The prince is filthy rich; I’m sure to find something of worth in here. I search the desk first, tracing my finger over the rough spines of his books. I pick one up and ignite its contents—a mess of numbers dances through my head. I place it back on the stack, careful to align the edges.
Next, I slide open a drawer, only to see thin writing bones and jars of ink. The next holds blank parchment. The third drawer islocked. I jiggle the latch and slide it open. A velvet pouch sits in the drawer. Odd thing to keep in a locked drawer.
Outside, the wind gusts, and the patio door sways on its hinges. I flinch at the sound and hold my breath. When nothing further happens, I pluck up the pouch and open it. Inside is a golden chain, a single pendant hanging in the shape of a spiralfish shell. I twist the chain in the dim light, salivating over the way the light dances on its perfect curves.
I should put it back. Lock the drawer. Decide my escape route before the guard—or the prince—comes to check the chamber.
But I’ve never cared much for should. I slip the necklace over my head, the corners of my mouth lifting at the perfect fit. The shell settles heavy against my breastbone. Where it touches my skin, the pendant warms, glowing with golden light. I clamp my hand over it, the pendant suddenly hot to the touch. Panicked, I remove the necklace and drop it into its pouch, and the light fades.
Forget the golden screws. If this mission fails, I could get good money for this in the Vespyr markets, and I’m not stupid enough to turn down a solid back-up plan.
My ears prick with awareness. Water stirs, a rogue wave lapping at the marble pool.
My stomach flips over, and I drop the pouch back into its drawer. I didn’t notice the discrete pile of clothing next to the pool or the slight waft of steam rising from the water. Rookie mistakes. Deep in the pool, settled near the bottom, a dark, masculine shape hangs limply, his dark green tail swishing.
The chamber door is too far away, and the guard is likely leaning against the other side of it. I scan the patio for an easy escape. Vines cling to the palace, but this room is in the upper level. If the vines don’t hold, I’ll plummet into the streets far below.
As the water churns and the dark shape floats closer to the surface, I shove the drawer shut and sprint to the patio, leaping onto the vine. It holds my weight, thank the goddess. I dig my claws into the woody tendrils, finding purchase for my feet within the roots.
I check the distance to the next balcony down—manageable, but it’s going to hurt—and tug my foot. The roots curl around my ankle, digging into my skin. I yank, but my foot does not budge.
The prince’s head breaks the surface of the water, water streaming from his thick curls. He pads across the room, a white towel wrapped loosely around his hips.
He approaches his desk. Did I leave that drawer ajar? He stands there calmly, his back turned to me, and checks something on top of his desk. I closed that drawer. I’m sure of it.
