Midnight Jewel

  “Well, I can’t lay low here,” I interjected. “I have to leave. Now.”

  Tom sighed. “My lady, I know you get distressed about unnecessary violence. I know you don’t like endangering the innocent, but those men were not innocent. They’re more monster than we are. At least we’re only in this for profit.”

  “I’m not distressed,” I snapped. “I just have to go.”

  I stalked out of the parlor, and Tom followed me to the front door. “Wait.”

  “Are you going to stop me?” I pulled out the dirk. Every second I delayed was a second Grant could be bleeding out in the street. “I won’t let you—”

  I stopped when I saw the blade, red with blood. Despite all my dreams of sword-wielding glory and the lessons Tom had given me before and after jobs, I’d never stabbed someone like that.

  “Have you ever killed anyone?” Tom asked softly, guessing my thoughts.

  I couldn’t stop staring. “No. But . . . I’ve wanted to.”

  “Well, you haven’t killed anyone tonight. His wound is going to be ugly, and it’s going to hurt, but it wasn’t in the right place to kill him. Assuming it doesn’t get infected.”

  “But what about the others? Our guys were beating them when they were down!”

  “And I told you, they deserved it—no matter how foolish Anders was to start that madness.”

  “But did any of them die?”

  “I don’t know. I had a few other things to keep track of.”

  Had Grant been kicked and struck while unconscious? My stomach roiled, and I turned the doorknob. “I’m leaving now, Tom.”

  He put his hand on top of mine. “You’re a friend to the Alanzans. I thought you’d be as pleased as Anders at what happened.” He tilted his head and studied me. “Did you know them?”

  “No. But it’s like you said. I don’t like unnecessary violence. Please, let me go.” I always tried to keep my cool façade around Tom, but I was growing increasingly panicked. Was there any way I could win if I actually had to fight him? Not likely. Especially with the rest of the men just in the other room.

  Tom reached into his pocket and handed me one of his favor coins. “For saving me. Not many people get two.”

  I hesitated as I glanced at my bloody dirk. Then, I sheathed it and pocketed the coin. “Can I go?”

  “Turn your cloak inside out. Bind up your hair. I don’t know if you’ll be targeted, but it’s best if you aren’t recognized. The only damage you caused was at the end, and you’ve built up a lot of goodwill.” He must have been recovering from his earlier consternation because he flashed me one of his charming smiles. “Being an angel might pay off.”

  I had no time to answer. I was already hurrying down the steps, my heart racing and fear building. Once I was out of his sight, I turned the cloak inside out and then removed the wig completely, stuffing it under my shirt. So many people were masked tonight that I’d blend right in, even with my natural hair.

  I ran all the way back to the city’s center. When I reached Molly’s, panting, the crowd had already dispersed, and all of the heretic hunters were gone. Blood still remained on the road, though. I interrogated a few passersby about what had happened. Some knew nothing. Some knew there had been a fight. Desperate, I actually knocked on Molly’s door and faced down the henchman who opened it. My hands were shaking.

  “What happened to the heretic patrol?”

  He shrugged. “They either left or were dragged away.”

  “Did any of them die?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shouldn’t you be a little more concerned?” I demanded.

  “Not really. If they’re dead, Molly gets to keep whatever was in their accounts.”

  He slammed the door, and I didn’t move. I could hardly breathe. A crushing sense of fear began to smother me. Fear that Grant was dead. Fear that I was responsible.

  I turned from Molly’s and began running toward the bakery.

  CHAPTER 23

  WHEN I REACHED GRANT’S BUILDING, I TOOK THE STEPS up two at a time, nearly tripping in the process. I pounded on the door and pulled the itchy wig out of my shirt as I waited. When no answer immediately came, I knocked again and gave it a good kick as well.

  He’s not here. He’s lying dead on some street, dragged off by a thief. Or maybe he’s not dead but just too injured to make it home, and it’s all because—

  The door swung open. Grant stood there, holding his shirt. A few dark welts crisscrossed part of his chest, and one side of his face looked a little swollen. The other held a small cut. Otherwise, he seemed okay. He said nothing and simply beckoned me forward, but I saw a glimpse of relief flash through his eyes. After he closed the door, all I could do was stand and stare as I tried to catch my breath.

  “You’re alive,” I finally blurted out.

  “I’m hard to kill.”

  I dropped the wig and removed my dirk. Then I flung myself against him and didn’t realize how tightly I held him until he said, “Ow.”

  I started to move back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t think—”

  “Stop it,” he said, keeping one hand on my hip. “I’m not easy to hurt either. Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and folded myself into him. All the panic, all the uncertainty . . . everything that had built up within me came bursting out. “I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead. And I couldn’t handle it—I mean, I didn’t know how I’d—and I just—I felt like I would die too—and I—”

  “Easy there,” he said. His nervous body language contradicted the lightness of his tone. He’d gone rigid in my arms and drew back a little. After a moment’s thought, he removed my mask and examined my face. His expression became more troubled as he did, the hand on my hip growing tentative.

  My own hold tightened. I needed to cling to him, half afraid he might disappear again if I didn’t. That fear of losing him had the same effect as when I’d realized how painful the burn on his arm must have been. The same effect as hearing him talk about being a ghost. Some-thing changed in me during those moments of his vulnerability— because he changed too. He stopped being my adversary, my partner in espionage, or even my object of superficial desire. He was just . . . Grant.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” I said softly. “Because I actually do like you. And I think . . . maybe you like me too.”

  He did. I could see it. And I could also see that it terrified him. Keeping his hand there, barely touching me, took more effort than all that fervor on the floor had. Because when you were a man who was resigned to being unfixed to anything, it was easier to tear off the clothes of a transient lover than it was to simply meet the eyes of someone you might care about. And it was beyond comprehension that that person might care back.

  “It’s fine if you only like me a little,” I added.

  Despite his unease, a smile began creeping over his face. His grip on me grew stronger, steadier. “Only a little, huh?”

  I walked my fingers up his neck and ran them through his hair. “Yes. As little as you want, if it makes you feel better. I don’t want you to throw me out again.”

  “I’ve never thrown you out. You stormed out.”

  “I won’t this time.”

  I raised my chin and parted my lips, the invitation clear. He accepted it. His indecision vanished with that kiss, replaced by an intensity that almost felt desperate. Like maybe he thought he’d lost me too. He lifted me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me to his bedroom. The kissing never broke until we fell onto the bed in a tangle. He rolled me to my back and brought his mouth down again, but I stopped him for a moment, resting my hand against the side of his face so that I could just look at him. I smiled, and he smiled back. And even with my body so spun up and restless, I realized I was just as elated to simply be there with him as I
was to finally let desire run its course. I let my hand drop, and as we kissed again, I sensed a similar revelation in him.

  After that, I stopped worrying about whether I was doing everything right. I stopped caring that I still fumbled with clothing while he removed it with such ease. Despite his own eagerness, he took his time and drew out every action in a way that was both glorious and agonizing. He could read my body’s cues, and I learned some of his. I also learned that there was a lot I’d never known about going to bed with someone.

  And when it was over, when we lay side by side in blissful exhaustion, I discovered another gap in my sexual knowledge. What did you do afterward?

  Grant had his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully. I sprawled on my side, half-covered in sheets, as I let myself savor all the different sensations still echoing in my body. I felt lazy and liquid. I felt as though I’d been remade.

  I looked over at him and couldn’t even imagine what he was thinking. He was Grant, after all. But he was so still just then, so at ease for once, instead of constantly fighting his way against the world. I scooted over and rested my head on his chest, cautious of the purpling welts. He’d have bruises for days. He started a little at my movement, but after several moments, he put his arm around my shoulder.

  We stayed in that contented closeness for a few precious minutes, and then, in his way, he abruptly said: “I have three questions for you.”

  That should’ve immediately set off my alarms, but I was still too languid and dazed to give it much thought. “Okay.”

  “Your first time?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated. “Was it obvious?”

  “Not right away.” His face remained pensive, but there was an appreciative edge to his voice. “You aren’t exactly shy about what you want. That threw me off.”

  A little of my old doubt returned. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No, no, you were fine.”

  I lifted my head. “Fine?”

  He sighed. “You were exquisite. Intense, daring, provocative—more so because you don’t even realize it. You make it hard to be patient. Is that better?”

  Delight—mixed with a little bit of self-satisfaction—filled my chest. I wondered if this counted as the sort of “sweet and tender things” Florence had spoken of. For Grant, it was probably akin to reciting poetry. “Yes. Is that your second question?”

  “You know it isn’t.” He finally turned his head and looked at me, his expression earnest. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” I said, surprised. “It was . . . I don’t know. I’m still reliving it. I don’t have the words. It’s beyond words.”

  He looked relieved. “Good. Though I would’ve settled for ‘fine.’” And then, because he excelled at the unexpected: “So. What are you doing running around with Tom Shortsleeves?”

  I groaned and rolled away, returning to my back. “Come on, Grant. Do we really have to talk about this now? For once, can’t we have a nice moment?”

  “I thought we just did. A lot of them. And of course we’re going to talk about this now. Mirabel, you were running around with some of the city’s most dangerous men! You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

  My body still sang from what we’d done, and I’d even wondered earlier what the odds were tonight of repeating it. Judging from this conversation’s trajectory, they weren’t good.

  “Well, I’m still alive. Don’t you have any faith in me?”

  “A great deal, which is why, the more I think about it, I should’ve realized a long time ago who the golden-haired angel that’s captivated the city is.” He shook his head, expression pained. “When were you going to tell me? Why didn’t you already?”

  “I don’t know. The time never seemed right. Probably because I knew you’d react like this.”

  He sat up. “Like what? Like being worried about you?”

  A glimmer of the old frustration sparked in my chest at his tone. “Like you judging me.”

  “You should be judging yourself. What happened to your righteous sense of fighting injustice?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing. We give back to the oppressed. We punish the corrupt. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, and you know it.”

  “I didn’t know you’d do it by becoming a vigilante. And a common thief.”

  “I’m not!” I jerked upright, wrapping a blanket around me. “I don’t take any jobs I don’t want to. It’s earning me money to help pay off Lonzo’s bond. And it connects me with the pirates you thought the traitors might be buying from. I thought you’d like that.”

  “Tom Shortsleeves steals art and jewelry, not army supplies. Everyone knows that.”

  “But Tom knows pirates who do steal for the traitors. Like Sandler. Remember the lead I got you?”

  He made no acknowledgment of that. “There are better ways for you to earn money.”

  “And I’m pursuing them all. Marriage, your case, Tom.” I waved my hands impatiently. “One way or another, I’ll get Lonzo back.”

  “Marriage is what you list first?”

  “I already told you I’ll do anything I can to pay the bond. Going through with marriage might not be my preferred plan, but it’s the most reliable.”

  “Going through with . . . wait. Do you have some serious offer?” His eyes widened. “Are you engaged?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “Not exactly. I just have this arrangement. Sort of. If I can’t pay off my contract myself or get Lonzo’s money any other way, there’s this elderly—ah, extremely elderly—gentleman who’ll marry me at the last minute. He’s very nice,” I added quickly. “Very respectable, very generous with his wealth. And he doesn’t expect any ‘marital duties.’”

  I’d never seen Grant so shell-shocked. “I guess you weren’t kidding when you said you’d do anything. The other night, you acted like marriage was some distant contingency, but you’ve got a husband already lined up! Then what is . . . this? What we’re doing in bed?”

  “I . . .” I averted my eyes, unable to face that outrage. “Having a nice moment?”

  “Do I have any place in your life after you’re married?”

  I turned back incredulously. “Do you want one? Did you change your mind about attachment? I wouldn’t know. You aren’t exactly expressive when it comes to your feelings.”

  “Unlike you, overflowing with honesty. Was I supposed to be the illicit lover that you keep on the side while you reign as the pampered queen of your ‘extremely elderly’ gentleman’s estate?”

  I ran a hand over my tangled hair, weary and embarrassed. “I don’t know, Grant. I didn’t really think about us beyond this.”

  He flinched and stayed silent, which was never a good sign.

  “Marriage is my last resort,” I insisted. “That’s why I never mentioned it. I don’t even think about it. I really am hoping to buy freedom for Lonzo and me. I’ll either get the money from Tom, or you’ll solve your case, and we can all be happy. Me with my reward, you with your official agent promotion.”

  His furious expression abruptly turned puzzled. “What?”

  “Isn’t that what you get?” I became equally confused by his reaction. “You’ve said before you have a lot on the line with this job. And Silas explained how you’re an honorary agent—and that solving this will change things.”

  “Did he say I’d become an agent?”

  “Not exactly . . .” I tried to read his face and figure out what I was missing. “I just assumed it. What else is there?”

  Grant lapsed into silence again. Our roles shifted, and now he was on the defensive. “I do get a promotion . . . but not to a run-of-the-mill agent.” He took a long, deep breath and exhaled before going on. “Osfrid and the Balanquans have made a deal, in order to ensure relations stay harmonious. The colonies are going to send a delegation— ambassadors and their
families—up there to live among them and help with the peace. It’s unusual that the Balanquans would allow it—they’ve become pretty tight with their borders. But as much as Osfrid’s king wants a good relationship with them, he also wants insurance. Since I’m trained, I’ll be spying on the Balanquans. The whole delegation will, actually, but I’ll be in charge of processing all the intelligence. No one will suspect it as long as my cover stays intact. They’ll just think I’m there because I know the language.”

  My whole world came to a standstill. “You’re going away. Far away. To the people who treated you like a ghost.”

  Amusement—dark amusement—crossed his face. “That’s the thing. In the Balanquan social hierarchy, ambassadors are treated with extreme honor and indulgence. They acquire a status second only to the league chiefs. I’d be in the sixth branch—that’s what the social levels are called. Sixth is well above my family’s status, well above my uncle’s.” Grant pointed to the mysterious scar on his arm. “This was my mark of status before—my citizenship among the Balanquans, born to a third-branch family. When I returned, my uncle made a case that I didn’t deserve to be a citizen—both because I was a mixed bastard and because I’d spent so much time away. He argued I was more Osfridian now and had lost my rights to the Empire. The judges agreed. They burned this off and exiled me.”

  I shuddered. “Grant, I’m so sorry.”

  “I found out later that my uncle was being elevated to the fourth branch to work in a commander’s household. It wouldn’t have been possible if he was still related to me. But with this assignment? I’ll vastly outrank him. For the first time in my life, he’ll actually have to treat me with respect.” Grant’s eyes glittered darkly, and his words dripped with bitterness.

  It was a lot to take in, a lot to process. And I still hadn’t recovered from the news he would be leaving. It sat in my stomach like a leaden weight. “So this drive you have to finish the case, this goal you told me you were working for . . . it’s not about settling into the agency. It’s not about supporting Silas. It’s about revenge.”