It’s by that power that our family name morphed from Carren to Carrenwell, and is how we became the ruling family of this walled city in the middle of the Drained Wood. And it’s our ability to see magic that ensured we were prepared for any magic-blessed person we encounter, and, thus, kept us in power all these years.
Once I’m certain that I’ve performed my fake devotion to an acceptable level, I cast a glance back at the guards and rush into another alley on the east side of the square.
At the end of an alley, I pause and listen for thieves that might be waiting for an unsuspecting victim, but there’s nothing but my own breath puffing out in little white clouds, and the distant sounds of merriment from the pub around the corner.
I wonder if there’s a man in that pub sitting up a little straighter tonight, eyes a little more suspicious, hair on the back of his neck standing on edge because he worries that someone is coming for him. It’s unlikely, but I like the idea that men in this city might feel a hint of fear for once.
I was six years old the first time I killed someone. Back then, it was an accident. Unfortunately, my power doesn’t require intention to take a life. It simply came on one day at the least opportune moment, making my eagerness for my magic to show up feel foolish. I should have enjoyed childhood while I could.
As the youngest of the Carrenwells, I’d been dunked in the Blood Well at one month old and in the Family Well once a week since I was born.
The occasions during which I was allowed to interact with children who weren’t my siblings were very infrequent. But several of the women of the high houses had brought their children to a party in my mother’s garden.
Timmy was the son of my mother’s best friend and the one boy Aidia and I knew. Naturally, when Aidia suggested we play wedding, she cast him as the groom, me as the bride, and herself as the officiant. I wore a lace table runner as a veil and walked down the grass covered in flower petals to Timmy. When Aidia lifted her hands and pronounced us married, he kissed me, and in a few gasping breaths, our make-believe happily-ever-after turned into a nightmare.
I was confused and horrified. I braced myself for a punishment that never came. Instead, my parents rejoiced in my “gift,” delighting in the way that it could help solidify our family’s reign.
His parents didn’t attack me or blame my parents. His mother cried quietly over his body and his father stood behind her with a firm hand on her shoulder. I waited for them to rage at me, but they didn’t even meet my eyes.
That was the day that I learned true power is in the silence. The threat was implicit in the power imbalance. Timmy’s parents didn’t bother to fight because they knew they wouldn’t win.
It was a good lesson for me. I couldn’t stop my tears then. Great, wracking sobs shuddered through me, but Aidia stepped up beside me and squeezed my hand. She already had her magic, and she had learned something I didn’t yet understand.
She whispered to me to not let them see me be weak and gripped my hand so tight the bones creaked. There in our family garden, holding on to my sister’s hand and standing over the body of the first boy I ever killed, I learned how to swallow my pain.
I’m not sure I’ve ever really learned how to let it go. Perhaps that’s why I’m plagued by this strange, sporadic agony.
My sister Electra used her magic to erase the memories of Timmy’s family and anyone other than my siblings who had witnessed my kiss. They let his family think he’d been taken by the Drained.
My secret died with Timmy that day, and now it dies with the abusers of Lunameade several nights a week.
I’ve turned my bad luck into other women’s good fortune. This world is plagued with men who only know how to speak with their fists, and I have made myself a monster for them.
Shaking off the thought, I tug my hood up and dash down the adjoining alley, following the path to my secret mailbox.
I pause and bring my fingers to the star pendant on my necklace. This gift from Aidia is imbued with the ability to change my appearance to whatever features I see in my mind’s eye.
Objects like this necklace are the one loophole to seeing auras, because even when I’m borrowing this magic from my sister, my aura doesn’t show it. Magic-infused tokens can be used by anyone, both blessed and unblessed, which makes them especially dangerous.
My parents keep a registry of all magically blessed objects that are created in the city, for the sake of keeping our family safe. I suspect, though, that most people don’t share their creations since there’s no way for us to track them, and it strips our family of an advantage. This gift from Aidia is a good example, because I have no intention of registering it in my parents’ records.
Before we were married off, I used to use it for fun—changing up my hair color for a night or making myself look exactly like Aidia so we could mess with men at bars.
But now I see her too infrequently to waste it. Not when I need it to take out my fury on a nightly basis, so that I don’t take it out on the one untouchable man in this city.
The magic flows through my body. A fierce, tingling itch spreads over every feature I’m changing. The eyes are the worst of it, but they always have to change. While many escorts in the city glamour their eyes violet for men who want something exotic, it’s still an unusual eye color. Even if anyone who sees me assumes I’m a sex worker instead of a Carrenwell, it will draw unwanted attention when I’m trying to be forgettable.
It takes ten deep breaths for the glamour to settle in. I picture my face with ash-blonde hair, slightly rounder cheeks, and dark brown eyes until, finally, the itching abates.
My safety and the safety of the women I’m helping requires this discomfort. It’s the only way we can safely meet face to face, and the easiest way for me to check my mailbox regularly without being found out.
I lift my hair from the shadow of my hood, relieved to see the raven-black locks are now golden. With the glamour in place, I step out of the alley and cross the small square to my mailbox.
Lunameade is not as quiet as I expected it to be, given the attack on Southwest Hold earlier. Perhaps the frequency of the attacks lately is making people more apt to continue business as usual. Then again, there’s only so little living one can do inside these city walls, and there are plenty of citizens who would rather risk life and limb than miss a fun party or a moonlit tryst.
My mailbox—or, rather, the Poison Vixen’s mailbox—hides in plain sight, among a collection of others. I also own several boxes around it to avoid suspicion of always visiting the same one. The trouble with my popularity growing is that I have to be extra careful when checking for messages. If some husband or lover is on to a woman seeking my help, I could just as easily find him waiting in the shadows.
The lock clicks and the door creaks open. I snatch the small piece of parchment inside and hold it up to the light pouring from a nearby bar window.
GX Client Meet.
I frown. That’s odd. I was expecting a location for a target we vetted three days ago, but Bea wants me to come straight to her bar.
Footsteps behind me startle me into action. I slam the mailbox shut and dart down the nearest alley. I follow the twists and turns until the familiar facade of Guardian’s Crossing comes into sight. The watchful painted eyes of a warrior look out over the heads of two men leaning against the wall, smoking. The man in the painting has his sword drawn, like he’s ready to cut down the men for daring to smoke so close to the front door, but for all the painting’s handsome menace, he’s just a folktale for the people of the city. The greater threat to the smokers is the bar owner.
