Chapter 2— Second Chance
Late morning sunlight glared through the Dancing Unicorn’s dusty panes, causing undue pain behind Simta’s eyeballs. Her two orbs throbbed, feeling as if someone had plucked them from their sockets while she lay unconscious, and then kicked them about the room for hours. She was absolutely sure that same someone had added a dash of pepper before sneaking into her room and shoving the abused eyeballs back in her head; a head presently feeling like it needed to explode. Every time someone entered the inn, got up out of a chair, or set their tea cups onto their saucers, or hell, anytime someone breathed, it felt like thunder erupted inside her head, splitting her skull from the inside out.
Simta jumped as a serving girl paused by her table and plopped a teapot and cup in front her, creating a loud clatter. Simta was sure the bitch did so on purpose. Slowly opening her eyes, she glared at the clumsy cow, barely resisting the urge to puke over the obnoxious woman’s dress and feet.
Not recognizing her danger, the woman opened her mouth. “You want some breakfast ‘fore I go?”
Gripping the table’s edge to keep herself from backhanding the insolent twit, Simta clamped her jaw tight and drew in a deep breath through her nose. Relaxing her jaw, she spoke slowly for fear of screaming. Screaming might finally make her head explode. “All I want is silence.”
Smirking, the bitch gave Simta a pathetic excuse for a curtsey. “As m’lady wishes.”
If the effort of throwing the teapot at the girl wouldn’t have caused herself more pain than it would the barmaid, Simta would have hurled it at the arrogant lowborn’s backside. Sucking in a lungful of air, Simta tried to calm down. Past episodes had proven anger only made matters worse. Rubbing at her temples, she thought back on the past three days of the Evertrue Wine and Whiskey festival, which celebrated the newest batches of liquors coming out of the storehouses. Once again, the wine seemed to have gotten the best of her, not surprising considering it had won their private battle for the last five years. The festival was a week of endless parties consisting of hundreds of gallons of the best alcohol in Yernden spread among gatherings of the utterly rich and snot-nosed aristos. True, the lowborn also celebrated but not like the overbearingly wealthy. They were given the dregs, which their supposed betters figured was good enough for them. From the rate they drank the swill, the lowborn seemed to agree.
“Can’t believe you’re drinking that freaking tea,” one of the patrons called from the far side of the room. He raised a tumbler. “Hair of the dog is what you need, and it’s free. Why don’t you come over here and join me?”
Simta squeezed her eyes tight shut. Yeah. Free. Which was part of the reason she felt so shitty. Free drink, lots of food, and music on every corner and in every bar. During this festival, most of Yylse enjoyed the festivities. Nearly every adult below a certain age became a walking repository for debauchery. Since Simta was of the upper class, she enjoyed the very best of the debauchery. No dregs for her, but not many friends or family, either. Her father’s friends and other close relatives considered her a waste of breeding due to her shameful ways, suggesting more than once she be disowned. For his part, her father was more than ready to comply, but not yet. Appearances had to be kept. She must be caught red-handed disgracing the family before he could safely ask Lord Calto to strip her from the family book without risking social censure. So far Simta had managed to just squeak by, but knew her luck could not last.
“Hey, bitch, I asked you a question. Get your sweet ass over here and be nice to one of your betters.”
Ignoring the order, Simta lowered her forehead to the table. The man’s voice sounded familiar. Hopefully, it didn’t belong to one of the shadier acquaintances she’d met while hanging out with Selnac or Harlo. Hopefully, she knew him from here in the Dancing Unicorn where people of her social stature often came. If ever revealed, her shameful lifestyle would not only get Simta erased from the family tree, it would also see her imprisoned and then sent over the Sea of Whispers to some ungodly horrible land like Illian without so much as a fatherly hug. Simta knew her crimes were many. Several were of the worst while others were almost encouraged. Among her peers, being a slut was acceptable. It was quite common among the highborn to see who could seduce a rival’s husband or wife, but seduction was the least of her crimes. Once this was discovered by those who couldn’t be blackmailed, her privileged life was finished. Thieving rare baubles and priceless art was her specialty, but she also dealt in hidden secrets and stolen knowledge. If word of this got out to those she was not already blackmailing, her life was over.
Opening her eyes, she turned her head on the table to peer at her heckler with blurry eyes. Good. He was too well dressed to be a blackguard. She blinked several times to clear her vision, and smiled. It was the oh so respectable Sir Lord Halfrass, one of her father’s most influential friends, and Simta’s most vocal critics.
Simta’s ire started to rise at the thought of Halfrass and the rest of her parent’s social circle. Who were they too judge her? She had tried other, more respectable ways of getting money. She had even opened and run her own businesses, but those endeavors hadn’t lasted after her father found out. It seemed women of breeding never engaged in business, especially when those businesses competed against his friends. He had been almost as ashamed of her then as he would be if he knew of her present escapades.
Grabbing at her throbbing head, Simta silently cursed, raised it from the table, and fastened a hard stare on Halfrass. “My better, Lord Halfrass? Tell me, do you think my father will be amused when I tell him you’ve placed yourself above our family on the social ladder? Perhaps almost as amused as when he hears about you demanding sexual favors from me across the Unicorn’s commons room?”
“What? Oh hell, Simta, is that you.” Rising, Halfrass shook his head. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Go ahead and tell your father what you will. He’s more likely to believe me than a do nothing daughter who’s too stubborn to spread her legs for a husband and give him grandchildren.”
Tossing a few coins on the table, he headed for the door, paused, and turned to face her. “Tell him what you want, just be sure, if you ruin me with him, I’ll sour you with Charmaine.”
“Please do,” Simta said to his back as he left, simmering through her pain and wondering if it was time to slip a discrete word into a few ears about Halfrass’s shady connections. A do nothing daughter? The phrase pissed her off, but so far as they knew, she was exactly that. It was all they expected. She was supposed to do nothing, to want nothing, to have no dreams or ambitions of her own simply because of her sex. Damn it, she was more than just a woman waiting to be set on a man’s arm, a pretty bauble waiting to be traded away. She had things she wanted to do, places she wanted to go but absolutely no way to do them or get there. Theft and blackmail with a touch of whoring were the only ways she could supplement her father’s miserly stipend, and to be honest, the stipend only came her way when he remembered. A woman of her needs and desires had to make a living somehow since she sure as hell refused to be married off like some prized possession. True, a few of her peers knew of her exploits outside the polite world of the Morthanhi family, but not one dared speak a word to her father. Doing so would send them down in flames. Simta had made it her job to find out their secrets, to discover their dirty perversions, their petty indiscretions, and with whom they did these things. Upper society’s secrets were hers to use as she saw fit. The famously pious and overbearing nobility didn’t just pay her with the coin of their silence to keep her lips sealed, some also paid gold rugdles on a weekly basis or with more interesting material items. Either method of payment was fine by Simta as long as she could continue to drink, steal, and bed whomever she wanted. She would keep their hidden affairs, ruinous family gossip, and secretly failed fortunes to herself as long as doing so kept her heading in the right direction, which was out of her father’s house and into her own status as head of a family.
Reaching over, Simta poured a cup of chamom
ile tea. The gentle scent drifted upward like a soothing balm, gentling her head’s pounding. The tea would help restore some semblance of civility to her raw nerves and aching body. After three or four cups, all would be right with the world. She could then check out of the inn, go home to her own wonderfully soft bed, and forget about prigs like Halfrass for a few short hours.
Before she even got her first sip, a hand rested heavily on the chair across from her. Thunder rumbled in her head as the chair scraped across wooden floor planks. Simta groaned when the one man in the whole of Yernden she most dearly did not want to see dropped into the chair like a sack of oats being thrown into the back of a wagon. In truth, she wished he would disappear into the depths of Hell. She hoped he would get eaten by a hellhound, trampled by a horse, or kicked in the head by an arvid. Any disaster would do just so long as the sot ceased to exist.
“I thought I would find you here my dear. How is my beautiful wife to be?”
Charmaine, the Charlatan, the man who would be her betrothed, if she was stupid, blind, and ugly, but she was none of those. Even so, after one mistaken bedding when she had been so drunk and the carriage so dark she didn’t realize she had climbed into the wrong one, the fool had decided she had become his. The reasoning, as best she could determine, was that Charmaine figured once a woman bedded a priest of Trelsar, the two became betrothed. Pure crap, of course, but the theory fit well with their bullshit line of honor and purity, and she didn’t know what else. A good many unmarried priests, she knew from personal experience with Charmaine and several others, were nowhere near virginal in mind or body. All of it was just creative noise to make people think they had a right to be holier than thou and judgmental. Most were satisfied with a hit it and run affair, but not Charmaine. He saw her as a way to solidify social connections and make his pockets heavy. By the Seven Gods and Two, the man wasn’t even good looking. He was a dog-ugly common born lout who attempted to ape his betters. The gods only knew how such common trash had gotten into the priesthood. She’d heard he’d bought his way in with misbegotten monies. Another rumor said a priest had gone in debt to him in a poker game so had no choice but to bring him into the priesthood to keep him quiet. Another story claimed one of the under-priests admitted him so Charmaine would shut the hell up. Those rumors and several others all seemed viable to her, especially the last one.
Big hawkish nose, beady brown eyes, and salt and pepper hair looking like it had been cut by a drunken barber, Charmaine stared at her from across the table, oozing false sympathy and cloying love. The smarmy bastard’s entire demeanor was appalling. He possessed no social graces what-so-ever. Charmaine looked and walked like a scarecrow that had lost all its straw. If a tailor had personally fitted him, it still wouldn’t have mattered. His sharp angles and elbows would have made any attempt at fashion a horror to be near. Not to mention their height difference was abominable. Simta stood barely five-foot-five while Charmaine was several inches over six feet tall. How many inches were hard to tell since he always seemed to hunker. The only thing to possibly make the man more appalling would be if he had had big buck teeth. Fortunately for the world at large, he didn’t. Charmaine had one of those bright beautiful smiles with even white teeth Simta had observed on more than a few confidence men, and this frightened her even more.
At least when he smiled, he didn’t frighten children, small animals, or his congregation. He did have that much going for him, if nothing else.
He cast his smile on her, bright and welcoming, inviting trust.
Simta sighed. “For the last time, Charmaine, I’m not your betrothed. I’ll never be your betrothed. There isn’t enough money in the world to tie me to your bedposts.”
The priest’s muddy brown eyes widened, and his mouth made a round ‘o’ of surprise. “You would let a man tie you to his bed?” Leaning forward, he took her hand in his. “I have heard such games can be very exciting, but we would have to keep it secret as it goes against the sixty-seven wifely duties of my congregation.”
“Have you ever met Lord Halfrass?” Simta asked, remembering the man’s threat to ruin her with Charmaine. “Perhaps I should introduce you.”
Charmaine’s eyes lit. “Would you? Yes, an excellent idea. I can invite him to the wedding.”
“There will be no wedding.” With a tug and a wince, Simta retrieved her hand from the simpering fool. After wiping her hand on her dress, she scowled at the lanky man while wishing her inquiries had unearthed some socially disastrous dirt on him. Charmaine’s sect was one of the strictest and didn’t entirely keep with Trelsar’s teachings. The priest’s congregation was made up of religious zealots who thought the end of the world drew near so they tended to give nearly all of their money to Charmaine, at his urging, to divest themselves of the corruption of worldly trappings. Their beliefs were lucrative to his purse. Charmaine possessed plenty of money even if it wasn’t nearly as much as he desired. Even so, Simta privately vowed she would slit her throat before she’d marry the fop no matter what his worth.
Unfortunately, when the damn fool told her father he’d slept with Simta and felt honor bound to marry her, Simta’s father latched onto the idea like a drowning man to piece of a flotsam. He saw her marriage to Charmaine as a way to rid himself of unwanted baggage. Simta supposed she could easily avoid the situation by packing up and heading out, but she wouldn’t willingly cut those ties until she had enough money to form her own House.
Instead of running, Simta had a different answer to her problem, an answer she didn’t like, but right now she was out of better options.
“Good gods and two,” she muttered, taking another sip of tea. This was turning out to be one of those mornings. At least her head was starting to ease. Slightly.
“Our wedding, my love. You will soon come to understand the grace and beauty of being obedient and in servitude to the one true god.” Wearing a reverent expression, Charmaine looked toward the ceiling and clasped his hands together briefly as if saying a small prayer. Lowering his gaze, he stared into Simta’s eyes with a look of feigned adoration, but only briefly. Two moments later his gaze lowered to the generous V of her gown displaying her rather sparse cleavage.
Generally, Simta didn’t mind when most men gave a peek or even a rude stare. After all, she dressed this way for a reason. With Charmaine, she felt offended and somewhat slimy.
“By the way, darling,” he said, looking even more pointedly at her display, “those dresses must go. My congregation does not allow such, wonton displays of a woman’s body.” He licked his too thin lips, showing his own lust.
For a moment, Simta knew she would heave. Her stomach churned. Bile burned its way up her throat. No way in the two Hells would Charmaine ever again put a hand on her. She’d sell her soul for two coppers and go caravanning with Harlo before it happened.
“Get. Out. Now.” Simta growled, pointing toward the door, glaring with as much venom as she could manage. Quite a feat considering her facial muscles still felt hung-over.
For a moment, it looked as if he’d refuse. Glaring, she picked up the teapot, ready to hurl it at him. Damn the consequences to her spasming body and pounding head. She didn’t care if she passed out from the pain as long as it got him out of her sight.
Almost as if his seat had suddenly grown spikes that punctured his behind, Charmaine bolted up from his chair. Brushing his hand through his hair, he gave her a constipated smile before stepping back from the table.
“As you wish, darling, but a deal is a deal. Your father has given his permission, so you really should try to speak kindly to me.” He sniffed disdainfully.
Fury poured from Simta’s pores. If tonight didn’t net her enough to buy her freedom from this dolt, she’d personally throttle the arrogant fool.
Somewhere in Charmaine’s brain the threat of eminent destruction must have registered. His smile faded, and he started for the door, tripping and stumbling past the too close tables.
Simta winced at the first crash, and
groaned with each succeeding one. Sighing, she laid her aching head on the polished wood table again. Okay, once she finished her tea, she’d go back to her room upstairs, instead of her father’s manor, and try to get more sleep. She didn’t need her father’s lectures, and she did need to be at her best if she were to make it successfully into the Evertrue mansion undetected tonight.
Without warning, the atmosphere chilled. Frowning, Simta raised her head, pulled her cape tightly about her, and stood. She’d had these feelings before. Experience had taught her not to ignore them.
“Going so soon?”
Whirling in surprise, Simta stumbled over her chair as her head pounded one more frigging time. Strong hands steadied and then wrapped around her before she could fall. Shaking her head, she tried to pull away, but she felt confused and sick and her thoughts ran thick. The room spun.
“Oh my, too much to drink again?” Malaria’s voice slithered into her mind and dove into her body. Insistent fingers caressed her skin, bringing memories of forbidden pleasures.
Shuddering, Simta pulled his arms apart and pushed away, feeling both repulsed and drawn to the man. One of Yernden’s wealthiest thieves, Malaria looked like a young innocent, but behind his round, delicate green eyes and perfectly tanned and unlined face was a mind and soul so vile she suspected even Hell would reject him if he fell through Carrid Brewer’s hellhole. His wealth and skills intrigued her. His methods sickened her, but at the moment he was her employer, her solution to the problem of Charmaine. Tonight’s haul would net her enough money to gain her freedom from both Charmaine and her father. Once she separated herself from her father’s connections, Charmaine would gain little from pursuing her. If he persisted, she could always throw him enough money to buy a title and increase his influence. It was what he really wanted. For him, she was just a means to an end. Yes, a fat purse of golden rugdles would buy him off.
Looking at the situation in a brutally honest way made Simta feel used. Why couldn’t she take over her father’s business dealings? Why did it have to be a man in charge? She knew twice as much about handling people and money than all of her father’s thieving accountants. Rage began to burn in her belly. It wasn’t fair, any of it. Because of her father’s arrogant insistence on clinging to tradition, she had to debase herself by working on one of Malaria’s schemes.
“Tell me, how are you doing today, Simta?” Malaria asked. “Are we still on for tonight?” His long fingered, well-manicured hand tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You have the darkest red hair I have ever seen, and perfectly cut emeralds would envy your eyes.” Those long fingers gently traced her jaw line.
The room seemed to have grown hot and her body overly warm. Simta loosened her cape and took another step back. “I’m not feeling very well. Maybe we could continue our conversation later this evening? Besides, I’m not comfortable being seen together, not here.”
The last thing Simta wanted was to have Halfrass or another of her peers enter the inn and see her with a known criminal. It was one thing for people to hear whispers in the dark but a whole ‘nother type of social suicide for her to parade it out in the open. She quickly darted her eyes around the inn. Most tables were empty except for a few toward the front by the doors. A servant cleaned Halfrass’s table while another swept the floor. Nobody she knew, fortunately. The morning traffic was petering out, but within an hour the inn would start filling up with the early afternoon customers looking for a bit of lunch. Bankers, jewelers, accountants, this was a favorite place for the well-to-do, which was why Malaria had no freaking business being here.
Malaria chuckled. “Honestly, Simta, when will you give up the trappings of these fools and be your own woman? If you do well enough tonight, I might see to it you have a place within my business and not just as a petty thief. Then you could really tell your overbearing father to piss off.”
Now that caught her attention. Simta pushed away her growing mental fog enough to focus. “What kind of place?” The bastard better not intend her to be his bed warmer.
Catching her hand in his, Malaria gently led Simta to a darkened corner table. After glancing around the room, he pulled out a chair for her and then took his own seat, placing his back to the wall.
Every nerve in her body grew taut, and she still felt incredibly miserable. It was hard to think when everything was overly acoustic and her mind was tangled. Rubbing her head, Simta took a deep breath. She really wasn’t in the mood for his manipulation.
“Allow me.” Hands outstretched, Malaria gently cupped her head, drew her face down toward the table and started making small, soothing circles on her cheekbones with his thumbs, ignoring her brief motion of protest.
The relief was instant. Waves of soothing energy flowed from his hands and into her body, feeling like hundreds of fingers massaging and caressing her everywhere. The sensation was nearly orgasmic. Laying her head down, Simta moaned, not caring if she drew attention. Just as she thought she might crawl across the table and into the man’s lap, his hands slid casually away. Simta whimpered at the sudden parting.
“I hope you feel better?” Through half-lidded eyes, Malaria regarded her hungrily, almost as if he wanted to touch more than her face.
Simta nodded numbly. What was it he had just done to her? Every cell in her body hummed and twitched. The way she felt it was a miracle the man still had his clothes on. She wanted to reach across the table, rip his shirt and coat off, cut away his trousers, and throw him to floor. Between her legs, a horrible ache grew, a need so deep she didn’t think even he could satisfy it.
“I’m sorry I…” Malaria looked away for a moment and allowed his eyes slowly travel back to her. “It’s been a while. I didn’t mean to do that. I really do want to make you a business associate and maybe something more.”
From beneath the table, Malaria’s stocking foot slid beneath her skirts and up her inner thigh. Simta’s breath caught. Surely he wouldn’t— not in public— not when—
In mid-thought, his toe found her sweet ache and started making slow circular motions. Simta moaned long and low before she could stop the sound escaping. She moved her hips in a grinding rhythm against his foot. For several moments it seemed as if no others were within the inn but the two of them. As suddenly as he had started, he stopped. His foot trailed back down her inner thigh, leaving behind a horrible need.
“Simta, let me take you upstairs and show you all the benefits of being your own woman, of having full control of how your life is run.” With a smooth fluid motion, Malaria rose and moved around the table to help her from her chair.
Strong arms circled her waist and pulled her close. Simta felt small next to his much taller stature. Malaria stood easily over six feet, but, instead of feeling uncomfortable and awkward like she would have with Charmaine, Simta’s body seemed tailor fitted for him. She felt protected, wanted, and dare she say, needed?
Leaning down, he pressed his lips to hers. Simta only briefly worried about being seen kissing him. Worries about her peers no longer existed. Soft lips teased at her mouth, taking all her concerns away. Who cared if anyone saw them? After tonight, she would be her own woman, have her own grand house, and maybe even start her own House. The rest of them, her father along with his family and friends, could just bugger off.