A crescent moon had ensconced itself in the corner of the ceiling. Its silver paint gleamed in the light. Though gray age spots speckles its pearlescent surface, the painting was beautiful. Opalescent stars clustered around the edges of the ceiling, winking down at her.
If the artist had intended to smother the room in eternal night, he'd succeeded.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been staring at the ceiling—long enough to count all 216 stars and the eighteen candles in the chandelier and the half dozen gray speckles on the moon. Long enough to know a man and wish herself dead all the while.
She breathed deeply and pain lanced through her side. He'd been none too gentle, and now she ached more fiercely than she ever had. Did she even have the strength to rise? Or perhaps a better question would be: did she want to?
Tears scalded her eyes and smeared the stars above. She gritted her teeth and forced them back, not allowing a single one to fall. During the past few hours, she'd shed far too many tears, often not realizing how they poured down her cheeks until his mockery made her aware of the fact.
Never again would she allow her tears to be the source of his triumph as they'd been last night.
She clasped the thin sheet to her chest, bunching it in one fist. Her clothes were scattered somewhere in the room. But with the force with which he'd removed them, they were likely shreds and tatters by now.
The door creaked open.
Her entire body stiffened—even muscles she hadn't known she'd possessed. Was it possible to open her wounds so that she bled out within minutes? Or to smother herself with a pillow? Or would her grip on the pillow slip, which would lead to her eventual awakening?
"Hello?"
The tension binding her body uncoiled, but her dread still lingered. It wasn't Akar.
A slight form tiptoed up to the bed.
Carissa didn't bother turning her gaze from the ceiling.
"I've brought you a change of clothes."
She didn't respond.
"This is his room. Should you remain here, he'll return."
Carissa forced herself to sit upright, a moan dribbling from her lips.
The girl's gaze darted downward. She seemed unaffected by the sight of bruises, but the cuts and burns on Carissa's arms caught her gaze. "Come now. We'll get you all cleaned up in time for tonight."
Tonight? That's right; she hadn't simply agreed to be a nightwoman for one night but for all the nights after. Though she tried to suppress it, her chest heaved. She barely managed to turn to the side of the bed before hot, sour bile poured into her mouth and splattered onto the floor.
The girl tucked a strand of Carissa's hair behind her ear. "There. That wasn't so bad, now was it?" She dabbed Carissa's mouth with a damp rag. "I'm Elisa, by the was."
In her exhaustion-fogged, pain-ridden mind, the name seemed familiar, so terribly, terribly familiar.
The girl draped a blanket over Carissa's shoulders and slipped her arm around Carissa and helped her to her feet, steadying Carissa when her legs buckled. "We'll just go a few more steps."
Though the girl's dulcet tones might be gentle on the ears, she was a liar. They took eighteen steps to the door, sixty-six down the stairs, and forty-seven to the room. Hardly a few.
Carissa reached the cot just as she was sure another step would be the death of her.
The girl hummed quietly as she helped bathe Carissa with a rag. Carissa should have been self-conscious or embarrassed by the lack of privacy, but after last night, she doubted anything would ever faze her again.
The girl tugged a dress over Carissa's head, combed her hair, and fed her a few spoonfuls of muskily-scented broth. Though the taste was stranger than the smell, she gulped a few bites down. Then her head swam with drowsiness as warmth enveloped her.
The girl drew a blanket to Carissa's chin. "The broth will help you heal. In the meantime, sleep well."
***
Sharp, sweet laughter punctuated the air.
"Shhh! You'll wake her."
"Isn't it time she awakes anyhow?"
"The more sleep she has before tonight, the better."
A new woman cleared her throat. "But you must wake her soon. You wouldn't want her to shirk her duties or the Reaper might catch her."
"You know those rumors are fabricated."
"I don't know—remember what happened to the new girl who arrived three days ago? How she just disappeared?"
Carissa shoved her heavy lids upward. "A Reaper?"
A kind face filled her vision. "You awoke her!" The girl's hair was a dark, wavy blond with glistening auburn streaks. Her name was Elisa, wasn't it?
"What Reaper? Where is he?" If these nightwomen knew about the location of the Reaper, maybe they'd tell her. Then she could kill the Reaper herself and end this once and for all.
Elisa patted her shoulder. "Pay them no heed. They are a clutch of gossipmongers with naught better to do before nightfall."
Carissa lifted her head. Three other women filled the tiny room. Their jewel-toned gowns were tight at the top, shoving their ample bosoms up, and flowed silkily over their legs. One's dress even had a slit that ran indecently high up her bare leg, stopping mid-thigh.
One woman, her lips plump and her figure slender, scooted forward on her chair. "If she wants to know about the Reaper, Elisa, then tell her."
Elisa rolled her eyes. They were such a bright shade of amber they appeared to be gold. "Most of the girls disappearing around here are because of Akasha, not a Reaper. She only allows these ridiculous rumors of the Reaper to circulate to keep us in line."
The girl huffed, her lips pursing in a pout. "Fine. I shall tell her." Her indigo gaze settled on Carissa. "Once upon a time, the very essence of evil slipped into Esmeray—a Reaper. Its mane of hair was black like tar, and its eyes were darker than the depths of oblivion."
Carissa stifled a snort. This Reaper sounded rather similar to Akar. No doubt that hadn't been by accident. "Why did it sneak into Esmeray? And how?"
"Reapers can only come if invited. Someone asked the Reaper to come."
A strange chill danced along her spine. "Who? Why?"
The girl huffed and shrugged. "How are we supposed to know?" She flapped her hand dismissively. "As I was saying, the Reaper slipped into Esmeray and began to suck the souls of the inhabitants."
"How?"
"They do it bit by bit, until there's nothing left but a drained corpse. Or until they die."
"But how?"
The girl rolled her eyes. "We don't know. Now stop asking questions and pay attention."
Asking questions showed that she was paying attention, but Carissa kept her lips seamed.
"The Reaper finally found a place to settle—in the Nighthouse of Iver—where it would forever be able to prey upon the souls of the lost... especially nightwomen who didn't do as they were told."
"And then what?"
The girl burst out laughing, and the other girls' titters followed in her wake. "That's the end, silly!"
To them, it seemed this was more a horror story for young nightwomen than anything. "Who told you this?"
The girl shrugged. "Rinka. She's the oldest of all of us."
"And you don't know anything else about the Reaper?"
The girl's eyes sparkled. "I told you—it's a story. My, you have such a morbid fascination with this Reaper."
Elisa made a shoo motion. "Now leave. I need to let her have some wine before night falls."
The girl pouted again—it seemed to be one of her favorite expressions. "Just because you don't like the story doesn't mean you have to kick us out for telling her."
Elisa glared, and the girls gained their feet and left, murmuring things about touching up their makeup and finding lost necklaces. She turned towards Carissa, an apologetic smile softening her lips. "Don't let the story frighten you. They do get carried away sometimes, especially when telling new nightwomen."
Carissa's gaze remained fixed on the door. A flicker of hope thawed her cold heart—refreshing, yet painful. Hope is such a dark place could destroy her, yet she clung to its light. Perhaps she truly could discover the whereabouts of the Reaper—even if those stories were fabricated. After all, who better than a nightwoman to gain information? Perhaps one of the men, drunk on wine, would let a valuable piece of information slip.
Ultimately, there was only one way to stop this chaos from ripping the city apart: to hunt down the Reaper herself.
***
Get up, urged the voice inside her head.
Carissa stared upward, unwilling to move her gaze away. There was nowhere else to look but the ceiling. Where else could she look? The twisted sheets of the bed? The darkened corners of the room? The smugly satisfied expression of the man as he slept? At her own body?
The last one made her shudder. She hoped beyond hope that there weren't more bruises—or within a few nights, her time as a nightwoman would end sooner than anticipated.
She pushed up onto her elbows and stifled a groan. She ached so deeply she wouldn't mind dying abed. How any woman could truly desire marriage was beyond her. Perhaps romance was naught but a trick to lure women into marriage and men's beds. She stared upward until she had enough strength to sit up.
She hated ceilings.
She hated the crown molding, the delicate leaves etched into its wooden surface. She hated the chandelier frothing with crystals and candles. She hated the murals—the soft pastels of sky and meadow, the shimmers of suns and stars, and—naturally—the cream-colored skin of scantily clad women.
She knew the ceiling was, in actuality, beautiful, but the sight of it was beginning to sicken her. With nowhere to turn her gaze over the last few hours, her gaze had scoured the ceiling as she studied every detail—a stray crack, a smear of green in the tree painting, where the artist had tried to conceal a mistake, a chip in the molding.
Her gaze slid to the dainty doe staring at the forest, ears perked. She'd stared at that part of the painting when last night had taken a particularly painful turn, when he'd—
She smothered the memory. What was in the past was in the past. No use reliving it.
The man stirred, his dirt-rimmed fingernails digging into the pillow, the blackened pores of his nose twitching. He inhaled shallowly, his skin stretching against his ribs.
He looked poor. He'd probably spent most of his saved money on the last night.
He seemed harmless enough in sleep, but should he awaken, he probably would want her to work again. Or he'd see her face, tell others about her, and ruin her business. Either way, her time here was up.
She seamed her lips to capture her moans and rose from the bed. Her legs buckled before steadying. At least she wasn't as weak as she'd been her first night.
She staggered across the floor, shoving on articles of clothing as she went. She found her veil and draped it across the lower half of her face. A cloak hung by the door—placed there to be used by nightwomen when they'd finished a night's work. Carissa slung it on and escaped the room.
She should sleep and recover for her next night of work, but she had a mission, and she wouldn't stop until the Reaper was dead. Unless, of course, she were the first to die.
Her first stop: Rinka. The oldest working nightwoman in Iver. The teller of the Reaper rumors.
She hobbled down the hallway and up a level, to the nightwomen's rooms. Most doors were ajar, since most nightwomen visited each other in between shifts—except for the doors belonging to the rooms of does. They tended to be more shy and antisocial until they adjusted. Carissa stopped to lean against the wall and pressed a palm to her aching abdomen.
She didn't blame them.
The door next to her muffled a few sharp whispers. Carissa would have politely continued on, were it a normal nightwoman's room, but a quick glance at the door's location revealed it wasn't: it was Akasha's room.
Carissa pressed her ear to the wood. The thought of being caught made her heart flutter, but knowing what secrets Akasha hid might be worth it.
"Our funds are dwindling." The first voice was deep: Akar.
"We continue to have a steady flow of business. I don't see what you're so concerned about," Akasha purred.
"You said you'd help me so long as I gave you sustenance. That was part of the deal."
"But I am helping, aren't I?"
"Not enough. We need more business. This lockdown is weeding the coins out of every man's pockets, which means they have less to spend at Iver."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"Fix this!"
"Very well. The next time the Council demands tariffs, pay them three quarters of what is due."
Akar's silence lasted five heartbeats. "You want me to cheat the Council?"
She released a bout of tinkling laughter. "You honestly think the Council will notice a few missing coins? Why, they're so concerned with snatching the Reaper—" she snorted "—that they often miss what's right in front of them. Don't they?"
Akar sighed. "Yes, but—"
"If anyone would know these things, it's me, Akar. You do trust me. Don't you?"
"Yes, yes. Of course. But if we evade those charges, we aren't earning enough to supply the nighthouse long term."
"Then I believe it's time you make the nightwomen serve multiple men per night. It's time those women actually began working."
Carissa drew away from the door with a shudder of disgust. Wonderful. More men. She straightened and stumbled towards Rinka's door—Elisa had pointed it out earlier.
She stopped before the door and glanced back at Akasha's room. Oftentimes, it seemed Akasha was more the owner of the nighthouse than Akar. So why wasn't she more concerned over the nighthouse's revenue?
It didn't matter. What did matter was that Iver was in worse financial condition than any nightwoman had realized. What would happen if they couldn't earn more? Would Iver be sold? Destroyed?
Carissa knocked on the door. "Hello?"
The door swung open, revealing a woman with skin dark as bronze and a dusting of crinkles around the corners of her brown eyes. "You've dallied long time." She stepped aside.
Carissa blinked in surprise and entered. "Dallied?" The room was as small as the rest. Most of the space was taken up by candles—plump ones as thick as her waist, narrow ones half as thin as her pinky. Whatever did she need so many candles for?
"Elisa told about me yestereve, yet you've come only now." She gestured to a patchwork cushion on the floor.
Carissa tugged lightly at her veil , making certain the loops on either side of it were securely around her ears. "How did you know?"
The woman snorted. "Good hearing—and—" she stood on top of her cot, shoved aside a nearly invisible panel in the ceiling, and pointed up "—pipes."
"Pipes? Whatever for?"
"So Akasha can hear conversations."
Icy slush flooded Carissa's veins. "They're to spy on us?"
Rinka nodded and slid the panel back into place before plopping herself onto the cot. "Don't worry. I slipped tiny blanket in."
The woman's accent was foreign, as was her skin. Some men no doubt would find her strange, but there were probably others who had a taste for the exotic.
"So. What do you ask? Time is small and precious."
Carissa leaned forward. "I want to know about the Reaper."
Alarm sped across Rinka's features. She darted to the door and smothered the crack beneath it with a blanket from her bed. Then she turned to Carissa. "Who tells you?"
Why the sudden fear? Did Rinka not believe these were mere child's tales? "About what?"
"About Reaper. About me. Why come to me?"
Carissa shrugged. "The other girls said the stories came from you."
Rinka tossed her dark eyes. "You tell one girl to help and then all know."
"To help?" Carissa leaned forward. "So you didn't just tell them for amusement."
Rinka leaned forward, her generous bosom visible through her scooped neckline. "You fear the dark?"
Carissa ignored the tightening of her breath, the panicked flutter of her heart. "Of course not."
"Good." Rinka's slender fingers dipped to a candlewick, pinched it, and moved onto the next one—extinguishing them one by one.
The last droplet-shaped flame disappeared beneath Rinka's touch. Suddenly, Carissa changed her mind, deciding that she was most definitely afraid of the dark.
You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net