Page 40 of House of Marionne

“You want to emerge?” he mutters, not quite looking my way.

“Excuse me?”

“Sit.” He touches my chair with blackened-bluish fingertips but retracts them quickly when he notices me staring.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“I have something,” he says, gazing over his shoulder, “that could help.” He doesn’t wear a mask, and he definitely doesn’t look like a Cultivator. His coat sleeves are rolled to hide its improper fit. Tally marks, like Mynick’s, cover his arms and disappear up his sleeves. I meet his watery eyes. They are an ocean of drowned secrets. But desperation or something equally potent tethers me to my seat.

“You drink this.” He slips a vial of a thick translucent substance from his pocket. “And you’ll emerge in hours.” His rotten fingernails wrap around the bottle, and every rational thought in my head screams, Get up and run.

“Who are you?”

“Who isn’t really your concern, is it? Why, perhaps. But not who.”

“Fine. Why are you offering me this? And don’t say money. There are people here who practically smell like money. And yet you’re talking to me.”

His mouth twitches a smile. “You sure you’re a Marionne? Not Ambrose, eh?” He rotates in his seat to face me fully. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I overheard you and your friends.”

“Eavesdropping isn’t helping your case that you’re just trying to help me.”

He pulls the hair back from his face, revealing his thirsty skin. “The name’s Octos. Trader. My ancestors ran Misa’s shipping yard.” He widens his posture, and I realize I’m supposed to be impressed. “Through the war,” he clarifies, reading my expression.

I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I keep my mouth shut because I don’t want to come across as a clueless idiot. Had enough of that today.

He chuckles at my apparent confusion. “Misa was our region. A place where magic was in the open, before the Houses,” he continues, sensing my intrigue. “But the Order was worried that because the world was obsessed with expansion, our little private piece of the globe would be discovered. It was safer to learn to blend in. Well, not everyone liked that idea, and a big war broke out. In a week’s time, Misa was gone.” He snaps. “Erased, just like that. My family’s business sank with it.”

I try to picture an entire city like Chateau Soleil, with magic everywhere, out in the open, but the pieces don’t come together. “So what did your family do since the family business wasn’t an option?”

“Well, the Houses were the new way.” He rambles on in that way people do when they like to talk because they don’t often get the opportunity to. “Before, my great-grandfather took a test and boom.” He slaps the bar and I jump. “You’re official: complex Shifter, Cultivator, Retentor, whatever, as long as you pass. But the war changed all that. So when it was my time, I enrolled in a House.” He toys with a napkin, trickling a tendril of magic on its edges.

“Ambrose, I gather.” I eye his decorated arms.

He twists his magic, and the napkin shifts into a white rose. “Aye. But they didn’t appreciate my skills, I don’t think. Wasn’t pious enough. Or maybe I picked the wrong House.” He broods, tugging at his worn coat. “They kicked me out of there as Primus. Couldn’t quite hack the dagger honing. Tricky little devil.” His fingers trace the slopes of his face. “I finished First Rite, so I didn’t lose all my Dust. Though I lost my ability to summon my mask years ago.” A flicker of something burns through his stare. I recognize the sentiment; I know it well. I lived it my entire life. Longing bleeding into desperation. I gaze around. Maybe I’m still living it. It’s written in the lines of his face. The way he boasts of who his family was, trying to impress me. He pretends he’s okay with being the outcast. But he’s not.

This isn’t about money. Whatever he wants from me has to do with my last name.

“But the drink works. I got it from an old ’Roser buddy myself.”

“And you would just give it to me? For nothing?” I narrow my eyes.

“In return, all I ask is that you spare a little change to get me a drink. Rikken’s tired of my freeloading.” The hunger in his posture, the way his nails are dug into the lip of the bar says he’s holding back.

“And?” I press.

“And . . . one day, if it ever comes down to it, you remember my name—Octos. That I did you a favor when you needed it.”

Because I’m a Marionne. He reads me like I read him. I’m not sure I like that. He holds the vial out to me when the bartender slides a soda my way.

“Octos, schmoozing the fresh meat already, are you?”

“Just making her acquaintance. Letting the nice lady know if she ever needs a favor, I’m her guy.”

“Give him a soda, too, please.” I pay Rikken, and a moment later he slides Octos a drink, with much hanging on his lips that he doesn’t say. Octos gulps it down and sympathy nudges me. I’m not sure many here would even give him the time of day. I sip my soda, eyeing the vial.

“So we have a deal?” He pushes it toward me, mistaking my silence for agreement.

I spot Abby across the room. Her and Mynick’s duet has ended, and she’s in his lap gabbing with a bunch of other Secundus. She catches me looking and waves.

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