Valiant Ladies, page 14
And there it goes again. A tightness to his words I don’t trust.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure?”
His brow pinches. “Of course. If I knew something, I would tell you. I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about this.”
Interesting phrasing. “Do you mean to say you’ve lied to us about other things?”
“Kiki.” Ana places a hand on my elbow. I wrench my arm out of her grasp almost on instinct, my body tensing up. But when I glance at her face and see the worry etched on her expression, something deep in my chest loosens.
You’re being an ass, supplies a helpful little voice at the back of my head.
“Fine,” I say, turning away from him so I don’t have to look at his face. Trust is a fickle thing. Before any of this bullshit happened, I would have said I trusted Santiago, as much as I trust anyone, but now, I am not so sure. I am not so sure of anything. Since that night at the viceroy’s ball, it feels like the world—my world, at least—has shifted on its axis. Up is down. Left is right. Nothing is what I thought it was. Nothing is as it should be.
“Bring us some ale,” Ana tells Santiago, mostly just to get him away from me and whatever aura I am radiating. I am sure it is far from pleasant.
Santiago nods, and with a last glance at me, he turns away and retreats back to the bar.
“I hate ale,” I say.
“I know,” Ana replies.
“Then why did you order it?”
“Because I’m selfish like that.”
Santiago returns with two large cups, filled to the brim with the vile brew. I bring it close enough to sniff. Make a face. Ana smiles. It’s disgusting but drinkable. It’ll do for now.
“I had another reason for ordering the ale,” Ana starts, tentatively, as if she’s uncertain of my response. “I happen to know that Ale preferred the taste of ale to the taste of wine.”
She pauses for a beat, studying my reaction. When I don’t scream or cry or hurl invectives at her, she holds up her cup and says, “To Alejandro.”
The snake that had been coiling around my rib cage since the night of his murder constricts, stealing my breath. But then, it loosens. I have spent every waking moment agonizing over his death without sparing a single thought for his life.
He would hate my grief. He would loathe my self-indulgent suffering. He would despise my torment.
I lift my own cup, tapping it against the rim of Ana’s. “To Alejandro. And to justice.”
With that, I knock back the ale, relishing the way it burns all the way down.
CHAPTER 17
Ana
Why in the nine circles of hell did I think this was a good idea?
A swirling combination of horror and awe fills my gut as I watch Kiki down her fifth—or sixth?—cup of ale. Her cheeks are rosy, the way they always get when she’s had a bit too much to drink, but it’s not mirth filling her eyes tonight. It’s something different, something darker. A manic, unfocused energy that’s so unlike her, I don’t quite know how to handle it.
Grief, as it turns out, is a terrible drinking companion. Some part of me knew this. I had drowned my own sorrows for days, but it was sobering to see it happening to someone else.
She slams the heavy metal cup down on the table, the sound ringing in my ears, loud even in the bustling chaos of the tavern. “Another! Santiago!”
From across the room, the man in question shoots me a look. Get ahold of her, that look says. Normally, I would tell any man suggesting we rein it in to go fuck himself, but Santiago isn’t just any man. And he has a point.
“Kiki,” I say softly, like I’m trying to corral a wild horse. “Maybe you should slow down.”
She turns her unfocused gaze toward me, swaying slightly in her seat. The ale shouldn’t have hit her this hard, this fast.
She hasn’t been eating.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the realization hitting me like a fist. Of course. I hadn’t thought about that. I hadn’t been thinking much at all.
Typical Ana, a sober Kiki would say. Rushing headlong into things, guided by instinct and blessed by luck.
But this Kiki is anything but sober.
“What?” Somehow, she manages to stretch the word into three distinct syllables. With her eyes on me, she reaches for her discarded cup. Gazing into its depths, she frowns when she notices its empty. “Someone drank my ale.” She chucks the cup over her shoulder and thrusts her hand out to steal mine, the back of her knuckles rapping the rim, knocking it straight to the floor. “Dammit.” She waves her arms in the air and shouts, “Santiago! More ale!”
I grab her hands and yank her arms down. “No. No more ale for you.”
Anger flashes through her eyes, but it’s not her usual sort. This anger is messy. Unfocused. It’s the rage of an animal being backed into a corner, knowing it’s going to have to fight to get what it wants. “What crawled up your ass?”
It’s something I would say. Not Kiki.
“We have to go back to Esmeralda’s, remember? To talk to Rosalita?”
“Fuck Esmeralda. And fuck Rosalita.”
I flinch, dropping her hand as if burned. Kiki doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.
“Maybe if my brother hadn’t met her, he’d still be alive. Maybe he was killed because—because—”
“Don’t.” I have heard enough. Misery makes you unwise. I know that. But I will not allow Kiki to walk—or stumble—down this road. “You know this isn’t her fault.”
Kiki shrugs, a sloppy version of her normal, artful gesture. “Don’t know anything. Couldn’t talk to her.” She glances around as if wondering where all the ale has gone.
“And at the rate you’re drinking,” I say, “you’ll pass out before we get the chance.”
“Never pegged you for a … for a…”
Whatever insult she seems to want to lob at me hovers just out of her reach. Works for me. It would be nice if she didn’t say anything we’d both regret.
She shakes herself, waves a hand as if batting away the words that won’t obey her slurred speech. “Seems awfully hicoprytic—hicorotici—hypocritical. Of you, specifal—specifically.”
Lord have mercy. I never should have brought her here. I stand, reaching for her arm. “We’re going back home. It was a mistake coming out tonight.”
She jerks her arm out of my grasp. “You drink all the time. You think I didn’t notice?” The anger makes her words sharper, more lucid. “You think I didn’t hear you skulking about to drown your own sorrows? Why must mine be made to swim?”
I don’t know if the metaphor makes sense—literary bullshit is Kiki’s thing, not mine—but I don’t much care. “Yeah, well, that was different. We came out for a reason, Kiki. To get answers. Or have you decided you don’t care anymore?”
I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say or very, very wrong, but either way, it gets her out of her chair and onto her feet. “How dare you?”
“Yeah, how dare I? How dare I try to keep you from drinking yourself into an early grave before we’ve even had a chance to speak to the one person who might be able to give us ans—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence because all of a sudden, a fist—Kiki’s fist—is hurtling right toward my face.
Kiki
I don’t know what comes over me in that moment. There is no reason good enough to justify it. It happens, as if some demon harpy is piloting my body.
I do what I have never done outside of our sparring sessions.
I take a swing at her.
The moment seems to slow as time goes oddly lugubrious. Ana’s eyes widen, then narrow.
She steps to the side, as deft as ever.
The edge of her coat brushes against my fist as I fall forward, pulled along by the force of my own sloppy punch.
Well, shit.
My hand hits the ground first, followed quickly by my cheek. The rough wood scrapes my skin, drawing blood. Something bubbles up inside me. For a moment, I fear I am going to be sick. That Ana will leave me here and I will drown in a puddle of my own vomit. But what comes out of my mouth isn’t the regurgitated sins of my very recent past. No. It is laughter.
I laugh into the floor, aggravating the scrapes on my face. I laugh and laugh and laugh.
At some point, the laughter changes. It morphs into something darker, something uglier.
My face is sticky, probably with the remnants of decades of ale and spit and whatever else has soaked into these floorboards. But tears, too. My own.
A strong arm wraps around my middle, pulling me up to my feet. I sag against the chest of whoever is holding me. Ana, I presume. But the part of me that cared is soaking into those floorboards too, left behind after seeping through the cracks of whatever has broken in me.
“Come on.” Ana’s words are a balm against my ear as she steers my useless form out of the tavern. “Let’s go home. You’re no good to anyone like this. We’ll try again tomorrow when you’re sober.”
This time, I don’t argue. There isn’t much fight left in me even if I wanted to. All I want is to forget any of this ever happened.
Ana
We’ve almost made it to the door of the tavern when the night goes from bad to worse.
A gaggle of finely dressed gentlemen saunter in like they own the place. That’s how they enter any room, really. I know this well enough because I know that between the lot of them, their families own more than three-quarters of the land this fair city sits upon.
“Wha—?” Kiki mumbles into my shoulder. She looks up to see why I’ve stopped moving, and I feel the moment she recognizes the man blocking our path.
“Sebastian,” I say by way of greeting.
He blinks at us for a moment before he sees beyond the breeches and boots and coats. Men’s clothing. The lot of it. Tailored for us but still. His gaze slides from me to the woman holding on to me for stability. “Eustaquia?”
He doesn’t even address me. It’s as if I’m a mere servant, unworthy of his attention. Normally, I wouldn’t give half a rotten shit about a snub from some high-society prick, but this particular high-society prick is standing between me and the door. And worse yet, he’s the one who’s trying to take my Kiki from me through the holy sacrament of marriage. Fuck this guy. What the hell is he doing in Santiago’s anyway? This is our place. Mine and Kiki’s. Not his.
He tilts his head, trying to get a good look at Kiki through the veil of her unbound hair. “Are you quite all right?”
She goes curiously still as she angles her head to look at him. “’m fine.”
Sebastian’s scoff is oddly gentle. “Clearly not.”
One of his companions approaches us. A man with storm-gray eyes, a little older than the rest. He peers at Kiki with a look of concern. “Lady de Sonza? Would you like us to escort you home?”
I angle Kiki away from him. “You’re not escorting anyone anywhere. Who the hell are you anyway?”
His pale eyebrows inch upward. “I am merely a concerned spectator, nothing more.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t need your help.”
Sebastian’s gaze shoots to me, something flashing through his eyes that I can’t quite read. “You’re a fool. You do realize that, don’t you?”
“And you’re a prick,” I say. “Get over yourself. And get out of our way.”
Shaking his head, Sebastian waves his friends off, shooing them away to engage in whatever drunken debauchery they have planned. The gray-eyed man is the last to leave. His gaze lingers on us as he walks away. Then, he shakes his head and turns toward the bar with the others. Sebastian huffs in disapproval.
“I want to say I’m disappointed you’d bring a mourning woman into a den of iniquity, Ana, but that would hardly be the truth.”
“Said I’m fine,” Kiki slurs. That last ale must be hitting her hard right about now. And on an empty stomach to boot.
“You are very clearly not fine,” Sebastian quips, sounding for all the world like a prim and proper governess. Where’s the boy who had his friends smash my face in? Hidden away, where Kiki can’t see him. “Come along. I’ll take you home.” He sneers in my direction. “Seeing as how your present company doesn’t seem to have your best interests at heart.”
He moves forward, as if to take Kiki from me. I tighten my hold on her arm, but the second he touches her, she reacts as if her blood hadn’t almost entirely fermented. She whips her coat out of the way to retrieve something from her hip. Steel glints in the warm firelight of the tavern.
Before my brain can even register what’s happening, the barrel of Alejandro’s gun is pressed to Sebastian’s chin. Kiki drew it so fast, I didn’t even see her do it. Sebastian goes very, very still. Kiki’s hand trembles just so slightly as her finger curls around the trigger.
But when she speaks, her voice is clearer than it should be. “You keep your hands off me.”
If I didn’t know any better, I would say that she sounded sober. Maybe it’s her fury, drying the drink right out of her blood, even if only for a scant few moments. I approach her, slowly and deliberately, keeping my steps audible so as not to spook her. The last thing any of us need is for her to pull the trigger because she is surprised. If she’s going to kill the viceroy’s son, I’d rather she did it on purpose.
Sebastian swallows thickly. “Eustaquia.”
The pistol quavers. “Keep my name out of your mouth.”
Sebastian catches my eye over Kiki’s shoulder. I shake my head at him, hoping he understands that to provoke her would mean certain death. For them both, no doubt. There is no way Kiki would survive whatever the viceroy would do to her if she were to slay his oldest son and heir in a fit of pique.
“Kiki,” I say, closer to her now. Close enough that I know she must hear me, even over whatever darkness is roaring through her head. “Let him go.”
“Why?” Her voice is oddly soft. Distant. “Why should he live when better men have died?”
The pistol quivers. Sebastian’s eyes slide toward it, his nostrils flared, breathing hard. But he doesn’t say anything to piss her off.
I suppose he’s smarter than I give him credit for.
With unparalleled care, I reach for Kiki’s hand. The one holding the pistol. Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself.
My fingers brush Kiki’s wrist. Softly. Slowly. When she doesn’t flinch, I slide my palm across the back of her hand, wrapping my own around her white-knuckled grip on the pistol.
Gently, I lower our joined hands.
“It’s all right,” I say, even though it isn’t. Nothing is.
Sebastian skirts away from us, shrugging his frock coat back into place. He meets my eyes. Something passes over his face, but whatever thought is running through his head goes unvoiced.
“For what it’s worth,” Sebastian says, “I am sorry for what happened to Alejandro.”
Kiki doesn’t move. She remains where she is, swaying slightly, staring at the wall where Sebastian’s head had been.
“You keep his name out of your mouth.” I wrap an arm around Kiki’s shoulders and walk her out of the tavern.
I’ve got one foot over the threshold when a hand falls on my shoulder.
I turn, ready to bite the face off whoever dares stop me, Kiki’s weight growing heavier by the second.
Sebastian stands behind me, his face pale beyond the limits of the tavern’s firelight.
“There may be no love lost between us—”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Sebastian’s brow furrows. If I had any faith in him as a human being, I would say that was concern etched into his features. “All I want is for Eustaquia to be safe.”
“Why do you care? Worried that your precious fortune will take a hit if you don’t get to leech off hers through marriage?”
He cants his head to the side, fixing me with an inscrutable look. “Whatever you think of me, know that there are far worse men out there.”
With that, he turns away, joining his friends in the tavern.
I don’t like the way he said that. If life has taught me anything, it’s what a man’s voice sounds like when he’s trying to hide something. But I can’t follow him back inside. Not now. Not with Kiki half out of her mind on piss-poor ale.
“Ana…,” Kiki mumbles into my throat. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“If you have to vomit, don’t do it on me,” I tell her, angling her chin in the opposite direction.
* * *
It isn’t easy getting Kiki—and the horses—home in her condition, but somehow I manage by having her sit in front me on Tornado while Rocinante follows us like a white shadow. I prop her up on a bale of hay once we get to the stables as I put the horses up. They’re happy to be home and docilely chomp on their hay as I remove their tack and give them a cursory brush. I can make them pretty in the morning.
Hauling Kiki up the stairs and into her room is an ordeal in and of itself, but we make it in one piece. As a unit, we collapse onto the bed. Breathing heavily, I lay beside her, not bothering with my own clothes and boots, mud-stained though they are. She shouldn’t be alone. Also, I’m tired as hell, and my own scattered thoughts will be poor company. Sebastian’s words chew at me, long into the night.
There are far worse men out there.
CHAPTER 18
Kiki
When I wake—if you can call clawing myself from the edge of a pained oblivion waking—my mouth is filled with the sour taste of vomit and the even sourer taste of regret. I roll over, burying my face in my pillow. Squinting one eye open, I check to see if I am alone. I have the vaguest recollection of Ana carrying me home, hauling me through the front door, not even caring if the servants saw. What propriety is there to save in a family marked by suicide and scandal?
My bed is empty, but there is a lone strand of red hair lying on the pillow next to me. So, she did spend the night. I haven’t the foggiest clue where she’s gone off to, but the sight of that single strand warms something within me, even if I do still feel like I’ve been trampled by a herd of very angry cattle.
