Sentenced to Death

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Author's Note: I have an exciting announcement! As of Thursday, SarahRCubitt13 and I have started a monthly Wattpad bookclub on YouTube, called Watt We're Reading. If you're interested in joining us, see the video above and start reading next month's book, so you can participate in a discussion in the comments

***

Everything was silent and still. The darkness seemed to smother everything—not only sight but sound.

Two red pinpoints flickered into existence. Carissa caught her breath. What were they? And then the two red dots jerked closer to her.

Her gasp was sharp enough that were it a dagger, it'd have shredded her throat. She stumbled backwards, her heels kicking the candles behind her, and she pressed herself to the wall.

Were those eyes? Did the woman have a Reaper in her room? Or was she the Reaper?

Her heartbeat roared so thunderously she couldn't even hear the Reaper's steps. Was it a four-legged creature? Or did it walk upright? The eyes stopped moving two feet in front of her. They were small, beady, without pupils.

Would the Reaper consume her and leave her for dead? Would Rinka help it dispose of her body? Was she going to be one of those nightwoman that randomly disappeared?

A warm, accented chuckle filled the previously sound-void room. "You see?" The tiny dots rose.

The tension in Carissa's body evaporated on a gusty sigh. She still wasn't sure what those things were, but it seemed that Rinka had lifted the objects higher herself—meaning they couldn't be eyes... unless the eyes had been removed from a Reaper.

"Rinka... what are those?"

More chuckles. "Frightening for first sight, hmm?"

Her blood grew hot, burning away the last dregs of her fear. "Yes, Rinka. Very. Now, are you going to explain or did you simply want to scare me?"

The red dots grew closer as Rinka gathered them in her palm. Though their light wasn't strong, the crimson glow was enough for Carissa to discern Rinka's silhouette from the darkness as her eyes adjusted.

Carissa stepped closer. The red dots were perfectly round and smooth—like marbles. "Glowing jewels?"

"They appear so, but no. These are piece of soul."

Carissa's eyelids fluttered as she tried to grasp Rinka's meaning. Surely with her accent, she'd misheard. "They're pieces of someone's soul?"

"Yes. Reaper took it out."

"Took it out of who?"

Rinka shrugged. "Don't know."

"Where did you find them?"

"In bed in workroom."

Carissa shook her head. This woman was crazy. These were probably some sort of new gems rich men decorated their clothes with, and they'd likely slipped off during the night. "Thank you for your time, Rinka. I should be going." She turned and twisted the doorknob.

The woman harrumphed. "You don't believe?"

Her hand slipped from the knob. "I don't mean to be disrespectful, Rinka, but how do you know? They're likely just jewels."

Rinka fell silent for so long Carissa searched for her outline in the darkness to ensure she was still there. "Not my first sight of these."

"You've seen them before? Where?"

Rinka's chest heaved as her breathing became audible. "If I tell, you mustn't share."

"I promise."

Rinka glanced up, her dark eyes gleaming with the red light. "I'm from... other side."

Other side? The other side of what? A chill crawled over her skin. "You're from Esmeray."

Rinka bobbed her head.

The tremors started at her knees and worked their way up. Surely Esmerians were just like Nysians—ordinary people struggling through life's hardships. But could someone from a land of such darkness truly be untainted by it?

"Remember promise."

"I will." Well, Rinka hadn't done anything to harm her yet—aside from nearly frightening the life out of her. What could be the harm in speaking to her? "Does Akar know?"

"Yes. He bought me as slave from there."

Carissa pressed her hand to her mouth. Slavery? No wonder Esmeray was such a dark, horrid country. "That's terrible. I'm sure you're thankful there's no slavery here."

Rinka snorted. "Slavery not allowed, but is still here."

Carissa hadn't seen any, but perhaps Rinka was right. "So you've seen these in Esmeray?"

She nodded.

"But... you said Reapers do this. Reapers are assassins from Esmeray. Why would they hurt their own people?"

She lifted her dark shoulders. "They do what pleases and follow Reaper King's commands."

Carissa's heart thrummed furiously against her chest. The Reaper King? She'd once asked her parents about him after a little girl had told her that if she looked at her reflection in the pond and said "Reaper King" three times, the Reaper King would rip her face off and drown her. Her parents had hushed her inquiries, as if speaking of him would summon the Reaper King himself. "So they take the souls of their own people?"

"More slaves than people, but yes."

"And the Reaper King wants them to do this?"

"Yes. Without souls, Reaper King starves."

"But that's the King—what about a single Reaper? How can I stop it?"

Rinka began trembling. At first, Carissa thought she'd frightened her, but then a terrifically unladylike snort sounded from her, followed by a string of surprisingly deep, husky chuckles. She finally sighed. "That is why you come? To stop Reaper?"

Carissa straightened. "Our King is too weak and cowardly, so I must. If I don't, the city will be on lockdown forever, and we'll all die."

Rinka's sigh was so deep and melancholy that it seemed to pour out of her very being. "Oh, little doe." She lifted the two crimson beads higher, bathing her face in the sunset-colored light. Rinka clasped Carissa's shoulder with her free hand. "Know this. Never have I seen Reaper defeated or die. They are eternal and soul-thirsty. Even if no lockdown, Reapers eventually would come. They are darkness hunting down last light of day." She paused for three heartbeats, and when she resumed speaking, her voice was clearer than Carissa had ever heard it. "You were sentenced to death before you were even born."

***

Carissa slammed the door shut behind her and pressed her back into the wood.

Rinka was wrong. She'd been so long bathed in the darkness of Iver that she could no longer see the light.

But Carissa could. She would hunt down the Reaper until she breathed her last. But how many breaths did she have left?

She hobbled down the hallway to her room. She'd best get rest before tonight. She'd done enough investigating for one day, but tomorrow she'd search for those little red beads and signs of a Reaper in Iver.

Her foot kicked a rag, and it slid across the floor. She stopped over it and squinted. No, not a rag. A doll.

Its black threaded eyes were slightly crooked. A little pinch in the fabric indicated a nose, and a strand of red for a smile. Though the fabric was stained and crinkled, she could see it once had been fine. She guessed the fabric had been purchased used, and—judging from the uneven sewing—a nightwoman had stitched it together.

She glanced around for the doll's owner. There weren't too many little girls in Iver. Whoever this girl's mother was had either been sloppy in preventing pregnancy or refused to dispose of the baby. Or perhaps the nightwoman had intentionally birthed a child for companionship. Though it was nearly cruel to bring a child into the world under such circumstances, Carissa would probably do the same without Aleck.

She began to bend to pick up the doll, but a fresh wave of pain crashed over her chest. Curving her torso stretched the skin in her back, aggravating her whip wounds. She remained squatted for so long, trying to force herself past the pain, that her legs quivered like wind-buffeted branches. Finally, she straightened and leaned against a wall to catch her breath.

She pressed her forehead to the stone, chest, heart, and throat constricting. But she wouldn't—couldn't—cry. She musn't allow a single tear to fall or it would only be the harbinger of many to come. She sniffed hard and staggered to her room.

How many breaths did she have left? Enough for the rest of the day? For the night? For a week? A year?

She pushed the door open. Her gaze landed on the cot, and the tenseness in her shoulders melted, as if her body was already preparing for rest.

Aleck stared out of the wooden shutters, his fist planted against his cheek.

"Hello, Aleck."

He turned. "Carissa, I don't want to stay here anymore."

She summoned her remaining strength the smooth her lips into a smile. "I know, Aleck. We'll just save some money, and then we'll be off." Correction: she would work until she died, and he would be off with whatever she had managed to save.

He frowned. "The people here are bad."

"Has anyone hurt you?"

"No, but I can see that they're bad, and I don't like thinking about those men touching you."

Flames shot up her neck. How did Aleck know? She'd been careful to keep the details of her employment to herself. "How did you—"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm eight, Carissa; not stupid. I know these things."

An earlier version of herself might have snorted, but amusement was a distant memory. "It's not forever, Aleck."

He shrugged. "But if you really cared about me, you wouldn't allow us to be here."

His words were a flash of ice water against her skin—so cold she could swear goose bumps puckered her flesh. "I'm sorry, Aleck, but this is how things have to be." She seated herself at the cot. She should be furious that he was so insolent, and after all she'd done, but exhaustion and hurt sapped away her strength.

"Is it?" He peered over his shoulder at her, dark brows high.

She rubbed her gritty eyes. "Yes."

"You could go to the King."

Her muscles turned to wood. Did he know of her betrothal?

"He has pubs set up all across the city to give food to people."

Ah. The tension within her uncoiled. So he was talking about recieving food from the King—not matrimonial vows. "Aleck, I'm sorry, but I can't risk being identified."

"Why?" His gaze was too sharp, threatening to slice through flesh and bone to find the truth.

Time for a diversion: "Why don't you go to get food from him?"

The effect was instantaneous. His eyes flared wide, then his expression curtained, and his chin dropped.

She ducked down to catch his gaze. "Aleck?"

"I can't."

"Then why did you expect me to?"

"I have reasons."

"Like what?"

"If they identify me, they'll want to take me back to my uncle."

Carissa blinked. "You still have a relative? Then why don't you live with him?"

"Because he sold me."

Her eyes were so wide she could feel her lashes dust just beneath her brows. "He... what?" So first Aleck's parents died, then he was sold into slavery?

Aleck's chest heaved with a sigh. Though he often remained shirtless in their room, since he was accustomed to being half-clothed, his ribs were no longer visible—unless he took a deep breath as he just had. "After mother and father died, I ran into Zonah alone. I was scared. Then a lady found me, and she took me to her family. They fed me and cared for me."

His lips squirmed into a tight line. "I was so grateful, because I thought they had to be the most generous people in the world. Then they asked about my nearest relation, my uncle. He was charged with caring for me should something happen to my parents.

"Uncle gave them lots of money for caring for me, and then he left. He abandoned me with them, because he didn't want a child not his own. As soon as my new family had the money, they treated me like a slave." His jaw firmed. "They took the fine clothes they had dressed me in, they fed me watered gruel, and they refused to let their children talk to me anymore. They used me. Their kindness was a trick. Eventually, I ran away."

Which was why Aleck had thought her kindness had been a trick as well. She cupped his shoulder, and he shrugged her touch off.

"Now you know why I can't go. I would be taken to my uncle, and I refuse to be the charge of a man who abandoned me."

"Perhaps he thought they were kind people."

Aleck folded his arms. "He should have returned."

"Perhaps he did, but you were gone by then."

A flicker of doubt softened Aleck's face before dissipating. "No. I won't ever depend on him again. So why can't you go?"

"I have reasons, just as you do."

He cocked an eyebrow, waited. When a response wasn't forthcoming, he huffed. "Why, Carissa? Would you be arrested?"

"Perhaps."

He stared at her for three heartbeats. "You're afraid of the King."

"I am not." Everything she'd done was for that pusillanimous man—or to get away from him, rather. She'd sacrificed much in order to escape his grasp, and she wasn't about to retreat now.

His stare was longer this time. "Why don't you like the King? What has he done?"

She clenched her skirt. "He's done all of this, Aleck. He is responsible for all the suffering you see."

"How? I don't see him ordering knights to hurt people."

"He has the power of foresight, Aleck—foresight. He knows everything that will happen before it does, and he doesn't even try to prevent it. He may not commit the atrocities himself, but he stands by as they happen. His worst crime is simply not caring."

Aleck studied the floor beneath his feet. "But what's wrong with taking food from him? And surely he wouldn't be offering food if he didn't care."

She wasn't going to risk identification. "That's not an option."

"Carissa, the people here are evil. I can feel it in their eyes. Eventually, something bad will happen to you."

She shrugged. "Lots of bad things have been happening to me recently. I was wounded, then the man I loved threw me out—"

Aleck snorted. "That's not necessarily a bad thing. I didn't like him anyhow. He deserves to... to have his house burnt down." He gazed up thoughtfully.

"Aleck. No. We don't burn down people's houses. And as I was saying, if something bad happens to me, that's alright. It's you I worry about."

"But if something bad happens to you, then what happens to me? I'd likely be kept as an indentured servant at best. Or perhaps they'd make me pay off your debt."

He knew about the debt?

He huffed. "Carissa, I know all your money is going somewhere, and it's certainly not into buying nicer food."

Carissa shook her head. "I'll pay off the debt."

The light in his eyes seemed to dim. "We'd both be safer if you weren't working here—and you know it. But you won't quit, will you? All because of pride."

Her spine straightened. She'd had enough of this. "Al—"

"Remember when you were upset that Viltus wouldn't get food because of his pride?"

"This is different."

"I don't think so. You don't care about me—not as much as you care about yourself."

You don't love me—not as much as you love yourself.

A sense of déjà vu swept over her, so strong she was nearly dizzy. His words were so familiar—but this time, she was Viltus. She shook her head. No, she wasn't. She had good reason to give the King a wide berth. "Aleck, I don't care about myself."

"Then you care about your pride, and that's even worse." He pivoted on his heel and strode towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Away from Iver. I don't want to be an excuse for you to remain here. If you are going to stay here, you might as stop deceiving yourself and finally realize why. And it's not because of me." In the span of a single breath, standing in front of the doorway, he suddenly seemed older.

Before she could summon the breath to call him back, the door shut behind him. He was gone.

She stared. And stared. Then she laid down on the cot, promising herself she wouldn't cry. As a little girl, she often threatened to run away when she was distraught. Aleck would return; he had to.

Though she closed her eyes, an image lurked in her mind, so vivid it was as if her eyes were still open. There was the doll—its yellow hair peeking beneath its white cap like a glimmer of sunlight on the horizon, its blood-red smile curved like the underbelly of the moon, its white apron dotted with holes and stains like stars spackling a sky.

Neglected. Abandoned. Damaged.

They were alike—the doll and she. And it was only a matter of time before they both began ripping at the seams.

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