An Embroidery of Souls, page 8
The thought isn’t calming, but it sheds the splinter of clarity that I need, and I aim my pistol at the sievech.
If they’d only stay still—
But they won’t. They’re a tangle of writhing limbs and screeching howls.
“Jade! Shoot it! Hurry!”
There isn’t time to think, and my biceps heats as my thread tattoo comes to life. I’m silent as I scramble down the tree, feet light on the branches. The jungle is filled with bramble, but my steps are quick, quiet, perfectly placed, and I don’t make a sound as I creep behind the sievech.
I couldn’t get a clear shot from the tree. Here, though, it’s a simple matter of placing my gun to the beast’s temple.
The pistol screams, the sievech jerks, and the world goes silent.
“Lukas!” I crouch to where he’s sprawled on the ground, covered in hulking dog carcass. “Gods, Lukas! Are you okay?”
He stares at me, eyes glassy, not with death but with shock. “Jade?”
“Lukas.” I almost sob. His soul is still there, hovering around him. “Hang on.”
I throw my weight against the beast, grunting as it rolls off Lukas. The blood drains from my face at the sight it reveals. It’s like a carmine flower has bloomed across the creamy linen of Lukas’s shirt, while a gash slices from his left temple down his cheek.
My voice wobbles. “Lukas, I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I don’t…Gods.”
“It’s okay.” He winces as he sits up. “It hurts, but they’re just surface wounds. I should be fine. I just want to get out of here.”
“Of course.” I glance at the sievech. It’s still—for now. “I only need a moment.”
Lukas watches as I slip the knife from my boot and slice away a swatch of the sievech’s fur, faint soul traces of the thread speaker who made it clinging to the strands. Once it’s securely tucked away, I retrieve the portrait we used as bait, then stand and offer Lukas my hand.
“Come on, let’s get you to my place. We need to clean out that wound first; then I think I know someone who can stitch you up.”
* * *
The journey back home isn’t an easy one. It’s clear Lukas is in more pain than he’s letting on, but he doesn’t complain, and I usher him onto the couch the second we get through the door. Lukas hisses as he hits the cushion, while I rush upstairs to retrieve a small vial of opium tincture from my bedside drawer.
It’s old, recommended by the apothecary after the courthouse assault ended with my arm broken, but it should still work.
“For the pain,” I say simply when I offer up a spoonful of the medicine, and he swallows it without a word.
It’s foolish, but my cheeks flush when I realize what needs to happen next, and they’re only burning hotter once I fetch my thread kit, some towels, and a bottle of my mom’s favorite tequila. I stand in the doorway a moment, procrastinating the inevitable. Lukas studies me, his gaze foggy beneath the medication.
And because social graces have never been my strong suit, I say, ridiculously, “You’re wounded.”
As if he doesn’t already know.
“I am,” Lukas agrees.
And because he’s high on opium, he doesn’t add anything else that will help.
Okay then.
“Please take off your shirt.”
Lukas’s lips spread into a wide, mischievous grin. “Psssh. You don’t want that. I’m just a dirty boy from Mugra.”
Why would he say that? Why would he believe it? I cross the room, sit beside him, and meet his eyes.
“I don’t care about that. I just want to help you get better, and if you weren’t loopy from the opium, you’d know that too.”
My skin prickles when he holds my gaze.
Finally, he replies, “Jade, I only took the medicine minutes ago. There’s no way it’s kicked in yet.”
Oh. I’m a fool.
“The blood loss, though,” he concedes. “That might be making my brain a little funny.”
So maybe less of a fool, then. Still, I suspect the blush in my cheeks is here to stay, and it’s an effort to get my next words out. “It probably is, which is why I need you to take off your shirt.” Then, when I realize I might’ve come across too pushy, I add, “Please.”
The I’ve-lost-a-concerning-amount-of-blood grin is back. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
“I literally just did.”
I’m not sure where I got the confidence to speak like that, but wherever it springs from, Lukas seems to like it, because he giggles.
Actually giggles.
“Okay, okay. For you, I’ll do it.”
I forget how to breathe when Lukas unbuttons his shirt. Not in an awestruck, muted-by-his-beauty kind of way, more in an oh-gods-how-do-I-behave-around-someone-who-isn’t-wearing-a-shirt? sort of fashion. I’ve never been near someone half naked before. Do the rules change? Will I offend him if I look too much? If I don’t look enough?
In the end I stare firmly at the cushions behind Lukas, and somehow that also feels like the wrong call.
“Jade?”
“Yes?”
My voice is so small, I’m surprised he hears me.
“Did you want to stitch me up?”
A valid inquiry, considering I didn’t bring him here just to stare at the couch.
“Correct. Wait—no. I mean, that doesn’t answer your question.” I take a deep breath and organize my thoughts. “Yes. I’m going to suture your wounds.”
I cast a glance at Lukas, only to find a grin curving his lips, probably because I’m such a fool. To be honest, I can’t blame him, and my cheeks heat as I dip my gaze to his chest, because this is medical, I have to look at him, and anything is better than studying his face right now. Unfortunately, this results in me once again being struck breathless—this time because of all the blood.
Three gashes cross his chest, from his pectorals down his ribs, and while they don’t look deep, they’ve certainly bled a fair amount.
A wave of terror clogs my throat and sets my fingers shaking.
I can’t do this. He’s going to die. It’s going to be all my fault. I—
No.
Lukas needs me. He put himself on the line for me today, and I’m not going to let him bleed out on my couch. I can do this.
I force my breathing to slow as I pick up a damp towel and blot away the sticky layer of blood. Lukas hisses but doesn’t object when I clean his wounds with the tequila, then gently wipe him down with a fresh towel. Soon he’s prepared, and when I can no longer delay the inevitable, I meet his eyes.
“This is going to hurt. Are you ready?”
He holds my gaze until my heart races, then nods. “Yes.”
Okay. Okay, I can do this. It takes me only seconds to prep the needle and thread, and once they’re set to go, I swallow the lump in my throat and face the first of his gashes. Jagged, but not deep. Frightening, but not deadly. And if there’s one thing in this world I’m good at, it’s sewing.
“Here I go.” My fingers are gentle as I place them on Lukas’s chest, warm to the touch. “Relax,” I tell him. “It’ll hurt less that way.”
Then I push the needle through his skin.
He flinches, but my grip remains steady, and I begin the slow process of suturing him up. Tension radiates through him, and his heart pounds so violently, I can feel it through his chest. The pain medication either hasn’t kicked in or wasn’t strong enough, and horror leaks in, an icy rush when I realize I’m hurting him. In an effort to distract both of us, I do the one thing I can think of that might help.
I talk to him.
“Thank you.” My voice cracks the silence, and I almost flinch, which is absurd, because how can a person surprise themselves?
“You’re thanking me?”
My eyes are firm on my task, but I can somehow feel Lukas’s gaze.
“I am. For checking on the sievech. If you hadn’t…” I’m not sure what would’ve happened.
Lukas quiets for so long that I pause to look at him, only to find him staring at me.
“What is it?” I ask. Did I say something wrong? Did I offend him somehow? Was I looking at him too much?
“Nothing,” Lukas eventually answers, and I can breathe again. “I was just thinking, you saved me.”
“I…yes. I guess.”
He’s still staring at me, and I resume my task, if only to avoid meeting his eyes.
“You were in a tree,” he continues, “and then you were on the ground, and you shot the sievech. You killed it—well. Kind of. You kind of killed it. Almost killed it?”
The opium must be kicking in, and some of my fear slips away. It’s easier talking to him like this, when his pain is lessened and his memories are blurred, so that come morning this interaction won’t be much more than a smudge across his mind. “I did.”
“You did. Hmm.” There’s a slight thump as his head hits the cushions. “You used your tattoo. I was mad at that tattoo, but I guess I can forgive it now.”
He says it nonchalantly, but I freeze. He was mad at me? I’d thought as much, but then everything happened…
“Why were you angry?”
He chuckles drunkenly, a sign the elixir has definitely kicked in. “Because it’s not fair. People shouldn’t—” He hiccups. “People shouldn’t have to give up parts of their souls because you want them.”
She didn’t give it up because I wanted it, though, I long to point out. She gave it up because she committed a crime.
It’s a common punishment, in Mérecal and elsewhere, when someone’s attribute helps them commit their misconduct. Remove that quality—stealth from a thief, quick wit from a scammer—and the risk of recidivism goes down. And even the criminals who aren’t court ordered to give up bits of their soul often do, as a way to pay off pieces of their sentence.
The thief knew the risks, the rules, and yet she still broke them. If anything caused the loss of her traits, it was her own choices.
Or at least that’s what I’d like to believe, but is it truly accurate? Because if the goal was solely punishment, why turn around and sell the traits? And even if we didn’t sell them, would that really make it fair? That kind of change alters someone irrevocably, often in unpredictable and damaging ways. If it didn’t, I would’ve had my fear unspooled long ago. But stealing bits of someone’s soul…
It’s stealing pieces of them.
I shiver. For the first time, I wish I had more control over my thread speaking. I don’t, though. In Mérecal, the Crown controls any thread speakers. And it’s not as if I can simply leave. For one thing, it’s forbidden by the queen, and even if it weren’t, where would I go? Most countries require thread speakers to serve the ruling government, with the exception of Echia, where they practically worship us, and most estates in Kabrück, where we’re afforded some freedom. Even so, getting to those places would be no simple matter, and if I were to be caught disobeying the queen?
The consequences wouldn’t be deadly—I’m too valuable to her for that—but they’d certainly be frightening and painful. An existence of complete isolation, most likely, locked away in some barren cell, still forced to use my skills, but with the rest of my life stripped from me.
I have no choice but to use my skills a certain way, and even if I hadn’t purchased my tattoo, someone else would’ve. For the first time, I’m truly sickened by my position, and the guilt rolls in, a nauseating tide. Maybe all those protestors are right. Maybe we do need to stop the queen and all these horrible laws she supports.
“You’re right,” I whisper. “I guess I just wanted to feel safe, and I thought this tattoo would help. I reasoned it was okay since the thief was court ordered to lose them, but I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t.”
Perhaps I should’ve simply purchased bravery from someone—but that doesn’t feel much better. No one sells bits of their soul unless they’re desperate, and desperation can’t be a source of true consent.
I bite my lip, ashamed. This shouldn’t be the first time I’m entertaining these notions. I’ve been so wrapped up in the fear my role brings, I didn’t consider it, but I should’ve realized sooner—
“Jade.” Lukas interrupts my thoughts, a welcome intervention. When he doesn’t say anything else, I pause my work and force myself to meet his eyes, which are piercing. Clearer than they’ve been all night. “It’s okay,” he says. “You used it for good, and I think that matters. Thank you.”
“But—”
“No. No buts.” He gently lifts my hands off his chest and leans forward, our faces only inches apart now. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Just breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly.”
It’s only then that I realize how rapidly my chest is moving, and I take his advice, pulling in an unsteady breath. Gradually some calm returns, and I shake my head.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Lukas’s face is still close to mine, and for a moment I consider what it would be like to kiss him. To lean forward and brush my lips to his. Sink my hands into his hair. I wonder what he would taste like, what he would feel like, or if—
Gods. Why am I thinking this? And what if he can see my thoughts on my face? I abruptly jerk back, look at the floor, and gesture to his chest. “I should finish.”
For a second Lukas doesn’t move. I can’t see him, but I can feel his presence. The weight of his gaze, the heat of his skin, a fog in the air. Finally he leans back, a silent agreement. I return my hands to his chest, although now I’m having all sorts of inappropriate thoughts about what it would be like to touch him in a different way.
Curiosity, I tell myself. It’s just a natural wondering. Nothing more.
“What’s your favorite color?” Lukas’s voice jars me from my thoughts.
“My favorite color?”
“Yes, you know.” A vein of amusement tints his words. “The color you like most.”
“I…” I’m about to ask him why he wants to know when it occurs to me: He’s distracting me, just like I did him.
“Red,” I respond. “A rich, dark red, like wine.” And because something about Lukas makes me feel safe, and brave, I add, “It’s the color of love in a soul. Of deep, enduring love.”
What I don’t add is there’s quite a lot of it in his soul.
Lukas grins, and from there the conversation flows. It’s the first time I’ve talked to someone like this in…ever. My mother’s the only person I’ve been comfortable with before, and even with her, it’s not the same. Something about this feels more…charged, and as the night goes on, I shed a few of my inhibitions. By the time the sky’s an inky black spill, Lukas is fully stitched up, and an odd sense of calm has come over me, the first in months. It stays, too, after I tuck him in on the couch and slip into my bed, a smile on my lips.
Because everything is out of control. A mess. Terrible. But since I’ve met Lukas, I have hope that maybe, with some time, I can get back to my comfortable place.
Chapter Eleven
Lukas
I think I’d be in less pain if someone were grinding an ax into my skull, and I moan as I begin to wake up. What happened last night? I roll over, eyes squeezed shut against the encroaching dawn, shove my face into the couch cushions, and promptly freeze.
The couch. I’m sleeping on a couch, not the pile of ragged blankets at home, and—
Oh.
Yesterday comes back to me in a rush. The jungle, the sievech, nearly dying.
And Jade. So much Jade. The way her hands felt, palms soft but fingers callused as I pulled her into the tree. Her face after she shot the sievech, bone white, but eyes on me. And of course, right here as she stitched me up. Her fingers brushing my skin. The way she talked to me so easily.
If I’m being honest, I liked it more than I should’ve, like Jade more than I should. I can no longer pretend she reminds me of Lina in any way. Perhaps they both have fear, but Jade is fierce, even if she doesn’t know it. Beautiful in a way I’m sick of trying—and failing—to ignore. Even my anger with her is a losing battle, the final winter snow as it enters the spring thaw.
It’s not that I’ve fallen for her. Not even close. It’s the fact that, given time, I could—maybe—see myself falling for her.
And that’s not an option.
I need to put as much distance between myself and Jade as possible and, when I do see her, as determined by our agreement, to keep things strictly professional. Because perhaps Jade isn’t her mother, but letting this go any further than a passing fondness would be an insult to Lina’s memory.
But before I can do any of that, I need to get what I came here for. With that in mind, I crack my eyes open, then promptly regret it. The sun isn’t filtering through the windows so much as spearing through them. Perhaps if I didn’t have a raging headache, the gold cast to the room would be pleasant. As it is, my temple gives an especially painful throb, but I force myself to sit up and look around.
The space is largely the same as the first time I was here, which is to say oddly normal. The portraits displayed on the walls still make me shiver—it just feels like they’re watching me. But this time, instead of looking away, I study the art. Each piece is a masterful work of embroidery. While many detail ordinary images—flowers, parrots, nature scenes—surprisingly, it’s the people who draw me in the most. Their faces are stitched in a minutia of detail, while fragmented rainbows hover around them, cast in all sorts of shades. I’m still studying them when the stairs creak a few minutes later.
“Is this really how you see people?” I can’t keep the awe from my voice as I turn to face Jade, who’s on the landing now, watching me.
Her gaze slides past me to the portrait I was studying, then promptly drops to her feet.
“It is. I know it’s odd—”
