An Embroidery of Souls, page 9
“No.” My stitches burn as I cross the room. Soon I’m standing mere inches from her, internally daring her to meet my eyes. “It’s wonderful.”
I didn’t understand it fully yesterday—the soul she had stitched seemed so disjoined from a person—but now, seeing these portraits, everything has shifted.
I meant what I said. It is wonderful, but it’s frightening too. Knowing she can see the truth of somebody like that, the truth of me. My impulse earlier was right. I need to get the clue from yesterday, then put distance between us. It’s the only way to proceed.
“Thank you.” Jade finally looks at me, dark eyes boring into mine. “How are you? How are your wounds?”
“Sore. Tender. But thanks to you, I’ll live.” She blushes, and my foolish heart skips a beat. Damn it. I try to move the conversation along. “And how are you feeling?”
“Me?” Her eyebrows bunch up, which is somehow, frustratingly, adorable.
“Yes, you.” I nod toward her stomach. “You got sick yesterday, after the sievech showed up.”
“Oh, that.” She winces and looks away. “I’ve been thinking about it, actually. It happened with the corpse too, the one without a soul. At first I thought it was my anxiety, but I don’t know. It’s almost like the…the wrongness of the situation set me off somehow.”
“But you feel better now?” I mentally slap myself for pushing. It shouldn’t matter to me this much.
“I do.”
An awkward silence falls, and I clear my throat. “So, yesterday. Were you able to get what you needed?”
She lifts her hand, and I notice she’s holding a small swatch of cloth. She unfolds it, revealing what I now recognize as a soul stitched there, all manner of hues staring back at me. It’s not as full as the one she left for the sievech, but it’s something.
“I did. After you went to bed, I stitched the soul clinging to the fur I clipped yesterday. It belongs to the thread speaker who created the sievech.”
Which is useful to exactly one person. Judging from Jade’s tone, I already know the answer to my next question.
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “The only other thread speaker I know is my mother, and this doesn’t match her. I have no idea who this belongs to.”
A week ago I would’ve thought her a liar. Now, though, I believe Jade. Still, something about the soul tickles with familiarity, and I reach my hand out.
“Can I see that?”
Jade passes it wordlessly. I squint, taking in the colors she stitched. Caramel swirls, blue dots, jagged zags of red, and smooth lines of brown. I hold it closer to my face, then farther away, that tickle of familiarity growing to a rumble. I’ve seen this before—seen it recently.
“Lukas?” Jade’s voice burns with curiosity. “What is it?”
I don’t answer her but quietly lower the portrait and cross the room to a picture hanging just left of the couch. Like all the artwork here, it’s not a creation of ink or paint but one of cotton. In it two figures stand, their arms slung around one another. The first I recognize. It’s Jade’s mother, Zamora, her lips pulled in a sly grin, eyes a stormy gray. The space around her is absent of a soul, as if she didn’t want to stitch her own truth.
It’s the man on her left I’m interested in, though. Hair of shimmery copper threads, blue eyes, and his soul resplendent around him. It’s fuller than the one Jade stitched. More complete, as if her mother had a clearer picture, but still. It’s all there. The caramel swirls, blue dots, jagged zags of red, and smooth lines of brown.
It matches.
“Oh,” Jade breaths beside me. “Oh.”
“I know.” I swallow and step back from the portrait, though I can’t take my eyes off it. “It looks like we found our suspect.”
Chapter Twelve
Lukas
Johann Schäfer of Dreiden, Kabrück. Five words. One name. Two clues. It was stitched at the bottom of the thread portrait with the soul match. At the very least, Johann created the sievech. At most, he’s our killer.
After our discovery, Jade and I spent the rest of the morning searching her attic, looking for any additional information. When that yielded nothing, I went to the Registrar’s Office and searched the public immigration records—still no clues.
What we found will have to be enough.
My heart thumps, the pounding of a drum as I lower myself into Sallenda’s sewers. Moonlight cascades from above, a shaft of silver in the blackness, but it fades to a sliver, then nothing, as I replace the grate. A second later a match sparks to life—one from the full pack Jade gifted me. I light the greasy tallow candle I brought along and wait.
Just like last time, it’s Manuel who finds me.
“You again?” He scratches his head when I come into view. “I thought we’d seen the last of you.”
“Cora gave me a job,” I say simply, “and I’m here to do it.”
He blows air out his nose, clearly skeptical, but holds up a hood. “Come on, I’ll take you to her.”
* * *
If anyone could kill with a smile, it would be Cora Ramos. Something about it pierces me the second the hood is lifted, and my heart wobbles, unsteady.
“Lukas.” That grin twitches, just a hair. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
Once again she’s sitting on her underworld throne, flanked by six Serpensas. This time, though, there’s a puddle of blood at her feet, a glint of gold inside it.
My stomach lurches when I realize what I’m staring at. It’s a pin detailing a wreath of gold feathers surrounding two crossed swords. A symbol of the queen’s guard, a branch of elite soldiers charged with protecting María-Celese.
“See something interesting?”
Cora’s words are sharper than a blade, and I jerk my gaze back to hers.
“No. Absolutely nothing at all.”
Whatever Cora’s doing with queen’s guards, it’s none of my business.
She studies me a moment, her chin tilted. A gown of the deepest black clings to her, shimmering faintly in the light, as if it’s made of scales instead of silk. A dark mimic of how I imagine the actual queen to look. I’m reminded again of all those rumors claiming Cora’s after the throne. Perhaps more than rumors, if she’s killing queen’s guards.
“Good,” she eventually says, curt. “Now tell me what brings you back.”
I take a deep breath. Everything hinges on this moment. If what I have isn’t enough—
I don’t want to consider that possibility.
“Johann Schäfer,” I say. “He’s your murderer. The one gouging out people’s eyes. The Unseen Death.”
Or at least he likely is, but that won’t be enough for Cora. Hopefully, this little stretch of the truth doesn’t come back to bite me.
“Johann Schäfer.” Cora rolls it around her tongue. Coming from her, it sounds like honey. Her gaze cuts to mine. “What do you know about him?”
Embarrassingly little, but I can’t exactly admit that.
“He’s from Dreiden, a small village in Kabrück.” And he’s a thread speaker.
I don’t add that last part, though. It could lead to questions I can’t answer without discussing Jade, and she doesn’t want her name dragged into any Serpensa business.
“That’s all?” Cora’s eyes narrow, displeasure written in the firm line of her mouth.
“That, and he’s the murderer.”
A pathetic offering. I know it, and Cora does too.
“So you claim.” Her words are barbed. “But you have no proof, know almost nothing about him. How are you sure he’s the killer?”
Fortunately, I came prepared with a lie.
“Because I saw him,” I say, watching her for any reaction. Of course she gives nothing away. “I’ve been staying out all night, patrolling the streets, hoping I’d be the first to find a body and the clues that came with it. I got lucky, though, and instead of finding a corpse, I witnessed a murder. The man looked Kabrückian, and all those immigration records are available to the public, so I went to the Registrar’s Office and checked documents until I found his picture. Johann Schäfer. I don’t know why he’s doing this, but he’s the one you want.”
Cora looks at me so long that my skin goose-bumps. Finally she says, tone deceptively level, “You must’ve been very lucky to witness that, and without him seeing you too.”
I swallow and force myself to meet her eyes. “I was.”
A curtain of silence sweeps in. The air is thick with tension and disbelief, difficult to drag into my lungs. Cora doesn’t believe me, that much is clear, but neither does she know what I’m hiding. Sweat drips down my neck. Still, I hold her gaze.
When she does speak, a chill ripples down my spine.
“Do you know what drives one person to kill another in such a horrid way?”
I’ve never been less certain how to answer a question. It must show, too, because Cora chuckles.
“I can see that you don’t. Lucky boy. Let me tell you, then. There are two motives for killers like this.” She lifts a finger, the start of her count. “One, pleasure. They’re twisted. Sadistic. They enjoy watching the pain they cause. Or two, power.” She raises another finger, and her gaze drops to her thread tattoo. She traces it before her eyes lift back to mine. “Securing more of it. Keeping what they have. Regardless, only a strong motive can bring about such strong actions.”
My stomach turns. “What are you saying, exactly?”
Earlier, I thought Cora Ramos could kill with a smile, but a grin is far from her deadliest expression. Her eyes burn with intensity now, as if she can see right through me. For a second I understand why some people believe she’s descended from the goddess Serpensa.
“I’m merely suggesting you consider whether your suspect meets either of these requirements. Your case, as it stands, is thin.”
It occurs to me that Cora fits both those descriptions—not that I say so.
I bow my head. “Understood.”
Cora’s next words punch me harder than a bullet.
“Then you understand that we had a deal, and you haven’t delivered your end. You swore to bring me the killer, but you’ve merely delivered his name. Do I need to remind you what happens to those who break their promises to me?”
I swallow and look down. I know what happens, and it’s nothing good. “You don’t. I remember.”
“Good.” Cora’s steps echo as she stands and approaches me, until I can see the length of her shimmery black dress. Her hand comes up, and the image of her tattoo flashes across my vision before her fingers press into my chin. I wince as her nail pierces flesh, warm blood sliding down my neck. Her eyes spark at the sight. She watches it, then lifts her gaze back to mine. “Bring me Johann Schäfer, but be quick about it. Now that I have his name, you won’t be the only one looking.”
I fight a grimace when she rips her hand away, slicing me deeper in the process. The back of her dress is open, her shoulder blades shifting, twin sickles as she walks away and sits on her throne, one nail stained red.
There are so many things I want to say as I meet those golden eyes, but I value my life, which is why I hold her gaze and say simply, “Of course.”
The hood is slipped back over my head. I’m nearly out of there when Cora calls to me. “And, Lukas?”
I pause, along with the Serpensa gripping my arm. I can’t see Cora, but I can imagine the tilt of her chin. All that spiked poise.
“You better hope you’re right, and that Johann is the killer.”
* * *
I’m so fucked.
That’s the only thought running through my mind as I retrieve my gun, stashed beneath some dead palm fronds in an alley a few streets away. A soft rain began while I was underground, and I absently wish I’d brought an umbrella. At least then I’d be dry. I shiver as several droplets soak into the cotton of my shirt, fill the streets with their fresh scent, and slide over the pearl inlays on my pistol. EK.
Egon Keller.
My father.
When he was around, things weren’t always perfect, but they were good. Better. The finances may have been leaner than the math would suggest, especially when he got a second job working nights, but Emma was wrong when she suspected he was skimming funds for something nefarious. My dad would never do that, and though the accounts were slim, we never struggled like we do now.
I’d hoped to improve our circumstances tonight, but I failed. Because I may have lied earlier about witnessing a murder, but I told the truth about going to the Registrar’s Office. The only problem was that there was no record of Johann Schäfer.
Most likely he’s still in Kabrück. According to Jade, he can control the sievech from anywhere once it’s bound to him, even from an ocean away.
So I can look all I want, but I won’t find him, not in Sallenda. I’ll have to travel to Kabrück.
My heart clenches at the thought, a wave of homesickness washing over me before I push it down. I can’t leave my family, but I can’t abandon this mission and risk Cora’s retaliation either.
Hence, I’m fucked.
The roads of the Comerqueda District are hard, unforgiving beneath the worn soles of my boots as I make my way back home. Soon I’m splashing through the muddy puddles of Mugra. The breeze sweeps a soggy pamphlet past my ankles, another one of those Down with the Monarchy posters the dissidents like to hand out, runny ink detailing how we’d be better off without a queen. I stomp past it, through alleys swirling with fog, ghostly in the darkness. As I go, I get the strangest sensation, like I’m walking through an adobe graveyard. The houses are so small, squat, and pressed together, like a cluster of mausoleums, and the streets are quiet.
Too quiet.
Like in that jungle clearing when all the wildlife suddenly went silent. The only sound is the fluttering of paper, a BEWARE poster rippling in the breeze, the red-eyed dog staring back at me. Ominous. A warning, almost as if—
A strangled cry rips from my throat as the sievech hurtles at me, seemingly from nowhere. Hard ground punches my back. Starbursts flash in my vision, and then it’s right there. At my face, inkblot eyes boring into mine. Hot breath washes over me, and it’s like all the stars wink out at once. Fear pools inside me, because this time Jade isn’t in a tree with a gun.
I’m alone.
The sievech growls, a hairsbreadth away now, and speaks. “You two thought you could catch me? Fools.”
If I could find any air, surely I’d be screaming. The voice is horrifying, high and jagged and chilling. The sievech actually chuckles as it lifts a single claw to my brow, poised to gouge out my eyes and steal my soul.
That realization rouses me more than anything. Icy cold adrenaline floods my veins. The world turns hazy as I kick, scream, thrash, and bite.
And reach lower. To my waist, fingers closing around my pistol.
Hot blood dribbles down my face as the claw sinks in, reopening my cut—
Crack.
A bullet rips from my gun and tears into the sievech’s abdomen. The creature shrieks once before I fire another round, and it slumps, as close to dead as it can be.
Get up! Run! Leave before it wakes up and finishes the job! my brain screams, but it’s faint, like my head is plugged with wool. For a while I simply lie there, ears ringing, rain drizzling around me. The world feels distant, muted in color and quality. It’s almost like I’m above myself looking down. Just a boy crushed by a monster.
Twice in two days. That’s how many times I’ve almost lost my soul, and this time the sievech actually talked. What did it say? I try to filter through the haze, imagining the creature’s eyes, the stench of its breath.
You two thought you could catch me? Fools.
Clarity slices through, painful and quick, but necessary. You two. The sievech wasn’t just talking about me, and if it was able to track me down—
“Jade.”
Her name is the shallow whisper of a cruel realization. One breath, and then I spring into action, wrestle the sievech off me, and sprint through Sallenda’s streets.
Hoping I’m not too late.
Chapter Thirteen
Jade
My fingers tremble as I attempt to thread a needle for the third time. It’s dark, the sun long since set, my room cast in the warm glow of the oil lamp on my bedside table, revealing rumpled sheets from the hours I spent trying—and failing—to sleep. The wooden walls creak, rain pings on the windows, and the rosewater on my dresser florals the air. Peaceful, or at least it should be.
I give up my embroidery with a groan.
All I can think about is these murders, and I’m not the only one. The crinkled newspaper on my nightstand certainly has ideas, its top headline proclaiming in large, bolded letters: “The Unseen Death Strikes Again! Polesa Speculate the Killings Are the Actions of a Madman.”
Even the smaller stories beneath it relate to the deaths. A woman who swears she overheard Cora Ramos and her Serpensas planning the most recent attack. Sightings of a large, dark beast prowling the streets at night—the sievech, certainly, though the reporters don’t know that. And beneath those, an article I read with interest: “Pressures Rise for Regela to Resolve Tension with Queen as Murders Show No Signs of Stopping.”
All of it, every story, related to these attacks, though none mention Johann Schäfer—the man involved in this mess.
Someone my mother knows, with whom she was friends, if that portrait is any evidence. The journal must’ve belonged to him, and my mother probably figured it out, and then…what? Did she confront him? Did he track her down and kill her? Or—as I’m hoping—capture her?
Only Johann knows, and I’m more determined than ever to solve this case.
