Ash shoved aside her plate, turned toward the door.
“Ashlinn…,” Mia said.
“No, fuck it,” the girl spat. “Fuck this and fuck him. I’m not going to sit and eat shit for something all of us have done. We’re all liars. All killers. ’Byss and blood, you were a sworn Blade of the Red Church, Tric. Unlike Mia, you passed your initiation. So don’t sit there and play the fucking victim when your own victims are in the ground, too!”
The door slammed for the second time as Ashlinn left.
The room fell silent. Mia toyed with her wineglass, running her finger around the lip. Ash’s words echoing in her head, along with the memory of her final Red Church trial. Called before Revered Mother Drusilla. One simple task between her and initiation.
Mia heard scuffing footsteps in the shadows. She saw two Hands swathed in black, dragging a struggling figure between them. A boy. Barely in his teens. Wide eyes. Cheeks stained with tears. Bound and gagged. The Hands dragged him to the center of the light, forced him to his knees in front of Mia.
The girl looked at the Revered Mother. That sweet matronly smile. Those old, gentle eyes, creased at the edges.
“Kill this boy,” the old woman said.
For all her bravado, Mia had failed that trial. Refused to take the life of an innocent. Clinging to the few shreds of morality she had left. But Tric had been at the initiation feast when Ashlinn betrayed the Church.
Which of course meant he hadn’t failed.
She looked up at the Hearthless Dweymeri boy. Into those bottomless eyes. Seeing his victims swimming in the dark. His hands not black, but red.
“I THINK I’LL TAKE SOME AIR,” he said.
“You don’t have to breathe,” Mia replied.
“I’LL TAKE SOME ALL THE SAME.”
“Tric…”
The door closed quietly as he left.
BigJon and Corleone glanced at each other sidelong.
“… More wine?” the captain offered.
Mia breathed deep and sighed. “Fuck it, why not…”
Snatching up the bottle, she leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the edge of the captain’s polished table, taking a long, slow pull right from the neck.
“You have … interesting traveling companions, Crow,” Corleone said.
“Mia,” she replied, wiping her lips. “My name’s Mia.”
“Cloud,” he replied.
“Is that your real name?” She squinted, suspicious.
“No,” he smiled. “You don’t get to know my real name.”
“What’ll you give me if I can guess it?”
He took in his ship with a sweep of his arm. “All you can see, Dona Mia.”
The girl ran her hand across her eyes, down her face, sighing again. Her head felt too heavy for her neck. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth.
“You can drop us off at Whitekeep,” she said. “Any of the two hundred silver you can refund would be appreciated. Whatever you think fair.”
“You mean kick you off the Maid?” The privateer frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, let’s see,” Mia sighed, counting on her fingers. “I’ve brought two daemons and a deadboy aboard your ship. My brother and I are both darkin, and he’s also the abducted son of the imperator with what’s likely the whole Itreyan Legion chasing his arse. I implicated you and your crew in the murder of a handful of Luminatii, their crew, and the destruction of their ship.” She tipped her head back, guzzled the last of the bottle, and dropped it on the deck. “And I’ve drunk all your fucking wine.”
She hiccupped. Licked her lips.
“Good wine, though…”
“My brother’s name was Niccolino,” Corleone said.
“S’a nice name,” Mia said.
As if at some hidden signal, BigJon slipped down off his chair and quietly exited the room. Mia found herself alone with the brigand, save for the cat made of shadows still draped about her shoulders.
Corleone stood slowly, walked across to an oaken cabinet, and fetched another bottle of very fine red. Cutting the wax seal away with a sharp knife, he refilled Mia’s glass, then retired back to his chair, nursing the booze.
“Nicco was two years older than me,” he said, taking a swig. “We grew up in the ’Grave. Little Liis. Him, me, and Ma. Da got sent to the Philosopher’s Stone when we were small. Died in the Descent.”
Mia’s eyes sharpened a little at that. “My mother died in the Stone, too.”
“Small world.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said, swallowing deep from her glass and trying not to think about the night Alinne Corvere died.
“Ma was devout,” Corleone continued after matching her swallow. “A god-fearing daughter of Aa. We went to church every turn. ‘Boys,’ she’d