❛in which she kills❜
The Red Death was well-known. She was a tale used to scare children from talking to strangers, from wandering in markets, from venturing past the garden gates and slipping out of their mother's grasp. Her name was whispered arou...
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"the tired sunsets and the tired people - it takes a lifetime to die and no time at all." charles bukowski
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THE MIDDLE WAS A DANGEROUS place to those who were not willing. Willing to watch with frantic eyes, willing to stay awake and vigilant, willing to slash and stab and fight and kill. It was a vengeful place, a deadly place. It was a place that was home to many lost bodies, forgotten skeletons, victims. Off the top of her head, there were six she had buried here with her own hands. Six she had shrouded with linen, six she had stolen a bone from. Six graves she had dug until her palms ripped, bloody. Twelve eyelids she had closed.
Six names, crossed off her list.
The Middle was a dangerous place - and that fact had Nim pondering exactly why the Spymaster of the Night Court had designated it as their place to meet.
They were due there at dawn, to give Nim time to learn his plans, his rules. He sounded like a bit of a stickler, to be quite honest, and she had a dreadful feeling in her chest that the male was going to make the mission she already did not want to go on completely miserable.
Nim, ever the unlucky girl, was being sent to the Continent.
She had received the news just after she finished dealing with Eugene Buros - called away from the sweet call of an awaiting bath by that familiar tugging in her mind, that song in her ears. Beron Vanserra had sat on his throne with a smug grin and the aura of a male who had just scored pure gold.
It was hard, at the time, to keep her eyes from watering as he spoke and explained his little ploy with such grandeur. Even as she stood, face blank and body stiff, alert from his Calling, even as his words resonated through her school, there was still a small part of her brain that said - she didn't know what it said anymore.
She only knew what he said. She only knew what was carved into her tongue, into her hands, her feet. She only knew the strings that tied her to her High Lord.
The Continent, Rask, he said, and the name echoed around and around. Reconnaissance and survey. Shadowsinger as her partner, an open gate to the backyard of the Night Court. Said something about exploitation. Said something about training for this, something about being rewarded. Something that was nearing the word proud, that was just a few synonyms away from it.
It didn't really matter, what he said, because she would know it whether or not she made an effort to try. And she knew, just as she always had, that her role as Spymaster to the Autumn Court was important, yes, but she had a bigger role.
