Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(50)
Ana barely recognized the young man who stood in her doorway. Ramson was clean-shaven, his hair slicked back, his sharp black peacoat fitted perfectly to his lithe figure. Dressed like that and grinning arrogantly, he could have passed for a nobleman’s son or a haughty young duke, come for a night of trouble in Novo Mynsk.
They stared at each other for a heartbeat, and she wondered whether Ramson found the sight of her in fine clothing just as strange. Heat rushed to her cheeks; she grappled for something to say as she turned away. No matter how well the con man cleaned up, she couldn’t make the mistake of thinking his character had changed as well. He was still dangerous: a wolf in sheep’s skin. One slip of her focus, and he’d have his jaws around her neck. “You clean up nicely for a criminal.”
“Darling, you’d do well to remember it’s often the criminals who are the best-dressed.” Ramson strode in and dumped what he had been carrying onto her bed. “Papers,” he said. “Keep them on you at all times.”
Anna scanned one of the papers.
“?‘Elga Sokov, water Affinite’?” she read skeptically. To Ramson’s credit, though, the document looked authentic, stamped and signed with the proper formatting of legal documents she’d studied.
“I figured after Kyrov, it would be best for you to have proper documentation, just in case,” he replied, and then pointed to a second set of items. “I also purchased masks. It’s tradition at the Playpen.”
Ana tucked the papers into the folds of her cloak and picked up one of the masks, holding it to the candlelight. It shimmered with silver glitter, faux-gold swirls fanning out from each of the eyeholes. The gold-painted lips stretched in a cruel, mocking smile.
Ramson held up his own mask. A thoughtful look passed over his face as he examined it. “Some think their actions are more forgivable if they hide their faces.”
“You can’t hide your sins from the Deities.” It was a fact she had accepted for her own crimes.
“Correct.” Ramson tipped the mask onto his face, fastening it with swift, surgical accuracy. “But, in this world, life is a masquerade. Everyone wears masks.”
Perhaps that was true, Ana thought as she slipped on her mask.
Ramson turned to her, a hand on the doorknob. His black mask glittered with faux-gold and counterfeit jewels that looked real. “Have you ever been out for a night in Novo Mynsk, Ana?”
Something in his tone made her heart pound—a thrill of danger beneath the calmness. “No.”
He tipped his head in a nod. “Then stay close to me.”
* * *
—
The streets of Novo Mynsk had transformed. Gone were the fine window displays, the vegetable and fruit carts, the gilded carriages and pure white valkryfs. Gone were the families who strolled around in fine furs, the ring-studded merchants who rushed about their business. It was as though the city had donned a mask of its own, replacing its idyllic daytime fa?ade with a dark and dangerous nighttime act.
Torches blazed in the streets, casting flickering shadows on groups of lurkers and revelers. The small pubs and cramped inns in the dark alleyways flared with life, roaring with bawdy singing and laughter. The scents of smoke and alcohol hung thick in the air.
Ana stayed close behind Ramson, clutching her fur cloak tight to her chest. She’d switched her rucksack for a refined purse, in which she carried all of her sketches. They were the only reminder of the life she’d had, and she had the irrational fear that if she lost them, she would lose her past.
She was grateful they had put on their masks before leaving their tavern. Women in strange animal masks and lurid gowns strolled dangerously close to her and Ramson, smiling and purring in their direction. Sallow-faced men with daggers glinting at their belts flashed their gold teeth as they waved their hands at her in salutation.
It felt as though she had stepped into a surreal underground world that was nothing like the Cyrilia she had known her entire life.
Ramson dipped his head to her, and his voice was husky when he murmured in her ear. “The Playpen is ostensibly a club with Affinite entertainers. But like most aspects of this world, it isn’t what it appears to be. Merchants are known to purchase Affinite employment contracts in the back rooms.”
The words haunted her as they wove through the laughing crowds, toward a club that should never have existed in the first place.
Where had it all gone wrong? She remembered, toward the later years of Papa’s life, how he had grown weak and frail; how his judgment and memory had suffered from blinding, fever-induced rages; how his moments of lucidity had become sparser and sparser throughout the years.
Yet another memory gripped her. Papa, turning away from her as she begged him not to let Sadov take her again. We will take measures to cure your condition. It is…for your own good.
Ramson’s hand brushed her shoulder and she jumped, her thoughts dispersing. They were in the middle of a crowded street. People pushed past her, staggering and shouting in their drunkenness, bottles of liquor flashing in the torchlight.
Ahead of them was the most brightly lit building on the street. It was built in the fashion of a Cyrilian cathedral, domes tapering into sharp spires that loomed into the night sky. Yet instead of the white marble walls and stained-glass windows depicting Deys’krug, the exterior had been built in cheap red-brown bricks and the windows were painted with figures of women twisting in grotesque dance moves—a farcical replica of a revered, holy building.