“I’m not mad, princess. I’m poor, and so, might I add, are you. I’ve never been to Dover before, and I don’t know what sort of transport is available or what it costs. But I’m willing to bet my life that I can figure it out to our eventual satisfaction.”
My hands made fists in the thick stuff of my skirt, and I could feel my ribs pressing against the leather corset with every breath. Being so near him made me angry and hungry and unsettled in a way I couldn’t place.
“Besides,” he added, grinning in the face of my fury, “it’s not like you have any options.”
“You tread on my patience.”
He stepped dangerously close. “You’re cute when you’re angry. I like a girl with spirit.”
I took a deep breath, hampered by the corset. I couldn’t let him know how much he affected me. I had to look down. “I’m not a girl, Casper.” My voice was softer than I meant it to be, softer than he’d heard it before. Whether I was reminding him that I was fully mature or that I was of a different species, I didn’t know. Being near him made me muddled, as if I was always half-drained.
“So that’s how it is,” he said softly to himself. One hand crept up to touch my face, and I slapped it away, but gently.
“I will do whatever it takes to get back to my people, including putting up with you.”
I stepped away, breathing out through my nose so I wouldn’t take in any more of his scent, so slightly wrong and yet so right. I needed to get out of the cluttered shop, where every move one of us made brought the other closer in proximity. London was definitely not a safe town for me, even if my suitcase coffin had never reached the tasseinist’s clever hands.
“Good. Then get ready. Our bank leaves from the southern gate in two hours.”
He opened the box he’d dragged in, a lady’s traveling trunk. I expected to see gowns and boots and jewels, but instead, it was divided into two sections. One held clothes, papers, and books. The other side held a crate of blood vials, each snuggled in its own little niche.
“I traded my harpsichord for this,” he said. But I couldn’t take my eyes off all the blood. I was still hollow with hunger, the need for blood as annoying and constant as a hair caught in my corset. I licked my lips and reached out for a vial.
“Hey!”
He grabbed my shoulders, and I hissed and tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go. His eyes clouded over, his teeth bared in fury, and his fingers dug into flesh that was still tender from my visit with Mr. Sweeting’s claws. There was a ferocity in the lines of his body, in the growl of his musical voice, that made me see him as more than a meal, as more than just a human. His eyes reminded me of a frozen lake, of the deep darkness trapped in ice, and being so near him made my breath catch in my throat. But I had seen what happened to noble Bludwomen who used their humans for the needs of the flesh and grew too attached. Humiliation and heavy fines and, if they weren’t careful and contrite, public disfigurement. I looked down. Would they accept me as queen, if I fell into such an entanglement?
“Look at me, Ahnastasia. You’re not a princess now. And I’m not some lowly trash. I’m your only way out of here. The least you can do is acknowledge me when I’m telling you that I sold the last piece of my soul for a box of blood. For you.”
“I didn’t ask for your soul,” I snapped. “I’m nearly drained. I need more—”
But his lips sealed over mine.
I gasped into his mouth and pushed against his chest with my hands, but I was still weak, and he was much stronger than I had imagined. His mouth was hot and spiced with wine, his lips soft but aggressive against mine. For a moment, the world stopped spinning, and I couldn’t breathe. I realized my hands weren’t resisting him anymore; they were curled into his shirt.
And then he shoved me roughly away.
“You’re not the only one with needs,” he said raggedly. “You might not be a girl, but don’t forget that I’m a man.”
I put a gloved hand to my mouth, to the place where his cheek had rasped against mine. He had stolen my first kiss, the bastard. Just another reason to make him pay. His hands hung at his sides as his eyes searched mine for something he didn’t seem to find. I felt dizzy and weak, hungrier than ever.
“The only thing I need is blood.” I was surprised at how tiny my voice could be.
“Keep telling yourself that. You kissed me back.”
“I didn’t.”
Finally, his eyes released me, and the moment snapped like a snagged thread. I stepped back, my hands flying instinctively to smooth hair that was no longer there. He stepped away from me, too, his boot nudging his leather satchel. It clanked lightly, and my eyes were drawn to it.
“I can smell when you’re lying.” He gave me a crooked smile. “And I saw what you did to my room. Don’t ever touch my things again, or I’ll put you right back in that suitcase where I found you.”
“The feather and the coin—” I started, but he cut me off with a finger in my face.
“Never speak of it again.”
The words fell, heavy as boulders, to the ground. For all his threats and promises, they were the darkest words he’d spoken yet. And I found myself determined to discover what such an odd creature could hold so dear.
Since I had no belongings to pack and no preparations to make, I spent the next bit of time scratching Tommy Pain’s belly and studying my sister’s ring in the bright lights of Reve’s mirror. Any Bludman could tell it wasn’t paste; the dark diamond oozed power and rarity like a fine perfume. And Mr. Sweeting had been right about the topaz stones—they were colder than ice. But they weren’t the seat of the ring’s power and magic, other than the magic of inheriting a matriarchy that was currently in thrall to a monster.
A monster called Ravenna.
She had come to our country as a traveling mystic. With her ink-black curls and dusky skin and huge, almond-shaped eyes, she had seemed a harmless curiosity. From the villages of the Pinkies to the back doors of the Blud Barons to the gates of the Ice Palace she had gone, winning over everyone she met with charm, cleverness, and a low, sweet voice like winter wine.
The first time I saw her, I was but a pup, dancing through the gates of the Sugar Snow Festival. Children were allowed to enjoy the festivities and performers and treats on the palace grounds in the evening, but we were always herded back into the castle to lie in bed long before moonrise, ears straining to hear the first waltz of the Sugar Snow Ball. Later, after all the children were asleep, the adults danced a dance so beautiful and mysterious that no one ever spoke of it. But it was twilight when Ravenna found me there by the palace wall as I galloped around my nursemaid among the wagons of the caravan.
“Tell your fortune, ice princess,” a low voice had murmured from behind the indigo silk of a star-strewn tent.
“Go ahead, little beauty,” my maid had said. “See what the famous Ravenna can tell you of your future greatness.”
Ravenna had been but a lapdog then and harmless. She had smiled at me, teeth bright against her honey-colored skin.
“Give me your hand,” she had said, and I still remembered how my temper had flared, that this common foreigner would dare demand anything of me.
“You can’t make me,” I had answered, my pert little nose in the air.
And she had laughed a laugh like icicles chiming in the wind and said, “Then there is your fortune, princess.”
I had stomped and shrieked and wailed and threatened, but after that, she had utterly refused to take my palm and tell me of my future.
My maid had comforted me and given me a cone of bloody snow to suck on, saying, “The wildest things refuse to be tamed, sweet one.”
Now, years later, after all I’d seen, I wondered which of us she had meant.
“Bonne chance, chérie,” Reve called out the door after us, the black cat twining around her legs. “If you succeed, remember where to find the greatest costumer in the world, eh?”
I waved royally until Keen slapped my hand. “You’re not in a parade. Tone it down.”
When I let out a warning hiss, Casper stepped between us. “She’s right. You’ve got to pretend you’re nobody.” And that’s when I was given the bags to carry and the trunk to pull. I was so furious at being treated like a servant that my palpable rage probably scared off more potential attackers than Casper’s walking cane and Keen’s blade.
The walk to London’s southern gate was dark and dirty. The streets were mostly empty at night, aside from some Pinkies and Bludmen too dull with drink to note the danger all around. Singing and shouting carried on the heavy air, surging out from under the doors of orange-lit bars and inns. Bludrats hissed from every shadow, and sometimes screams would ring out, followed by the sound of rending flesh.
We stuck to larger roads lit by an endless string of gas lamps. Most trouble avoided us, although Casper did have to club a scrawny old Bludman who staggered out from a dark alley, hands outstretched, muttering, “Oh, middlings. Dark and deep, dark and deep.” He fell to the ground, bleeding from the temple and mumbling to himself with a toothless mouth. I had never seen anything more pathetic.
After that, Casper hummed forcefully to himself, the same tune he’d been playing when he’d found me, the one about “Hey, Jude.” The song was becoming familiar to me, and I caught myself humming along once and quickly covered it up with a cough.
As we walked farther and farther downhill, an ominous form loomed over us. Of course, I had heard of the huge walls the Pinkies erected around their cities in Sangland, but it was another thing entirely to find myself dwarfed by the ugly, imposing structure of brick and barbed wire. These fortifications had been designed to keep the monsters out—the bludstags, the bludbunnies, the wolves that were always crying with hunger. And they kept the soft, edible creatures safe inside—the cows and chickens and pigs, not to mention the Pinkies themselves.
But it was hideous and unnatural, blotting out the stars like that, even if the sky was garbled with smoke and pollution from the factories and machinery. The celebrated city of London had shown me nothing but fear, repulsiveness, starvation, and horror, and I would not be sorry to leave it.