When the fort fell, the visiting traders that used to come biweekly dwindled, their visits stretching longer and longer, until finally they stopped because of the lack of shelter and the growing number of Drained.

Bea brushes her dark hair behind her ear, her brow pinched with concern. “But why marry you to their heir? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

I laugh bitterly. “It’s less punishment than bad luck. I’m the last Carrenwell available to marry off. Offering a wife from one of the other magical families would have been an insult. Plus, Kellan thinks my parents want me to spy on the Havenwoods. It’s suspicious that they haven’t made contact for ten years and the first thing they ask for is a wife for their son.”

“You’re not a spy.” Bea shakes her head. “They can’t do this. Haven’t they learned after Aidia?”

Aidia’s bruised face pops into my head, and I fight the urge to tell Bea about the latest injury. It’s not the first time I’ve lamented this to her. She started helping me vet clients a year ago when I first found out about what Aidia was going through. I can’t help my sister, but I can help the client in similar circumstances who’s probably already sitting in the curtained-off booth in the back of this bar.

“I can take care of myself,” I say.

Bea’s eyes narrow, her cheeks flushing a dark berry color. She rounds the bar, drags me into the back room, and shoves me up against the wall.

The storage room had once seemed dark and romantic, but now it just seems dingy. A water spot stains the plaster ceiling, and the scent of stale beer hangs in the air. The room is dim, but I can still see the fury in her eyes.

I bite back a startled laugh. “This is familiar, but I thought you and Josie were exclusive now.”

Bea scowls, but her gaze drops to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. “Just because you and I are not together anymore doesn’t mean I don’t care.” She swallows thickly. “You’re my best friend.”

Bea’s tough bartender exterior is completely gone, and seeing the raw concern in her eyes is too much. I shouldn’t tease her. It’s not her fault that she couldn’t do without the intimacy of being kissed. I wouldn’t choose it myself if I could help it.

I cross my arms. “I’m not here about that, and I didn’t anticipate you being so sentimental about it. You left a note in the box. There’s a client here and my days are numbered in town.”

Bea dries her already dry hands on her apron. “When do you meet your betrothed?”

“Tomorrow, when our families sign the contract and share our blessings. Tonight might be my last chance to help, so I want to do what I can. Is there anything else before I get going?”

Bea rubs the back of her neck. “Another woman in the pleasure district went missing. A friend of one of Josie’s old friends. Morgan something. I don’t know her personally, but Josie’s friend seemed confident that she’s not the type to disappear on her own, and that’s the ninth woman in the last two months.”

The sheer volume of violence in the city is exhausting. Some days it feels like, for all our efforts, we’re barely making a dent in the problem.

“I’ll talk to Kellan, see if he knows anything about it—but let me know if she turns up in the meantime. Or if anyone else goes missing,” I say.

It’s hard to make someone disappear in a city this size. Bodies show up eventually. But all of the women who have gone missing have left no trace, and we haven’t recovered any remains. It’s a disquieting mystery, but one I can’t solve at this moment.

She grabs my hand. “Wait. There’s more. The client—I have a bad feeling about this one.”

“Of course you do. She’s being abused.”

“You made the rule about rush jobs,” Bea says. “If we’re going to be both judge and executioner, we take time to vet the client’s story and location.”

Normally, our process starts with a letter in a mailbox that requires the client to give us their address so we can observe them. Once we’ve validated that there’s ongoing abuse, we invite them in for an interview confirmation. Usually, Bea takes care of this for me. Then, once she’s confirmed the woman’s story and where to find the abuser and we have enough time to track his movements and vet locations, I go to work.

I nod. “I know. I’m going to see what she has to say, but I’m also more concerned with doing what good I can while I can. I’ll make an exception.”

Bea’s lips press into a thin line, but she lets me go. I cut through the crowd toward the back of the room.

The bar is loud, hectic, the air stuffy with perfume, beer, and a hint of sweat. Barmaids flirt in the laps of wealthy patrons. Fiddlers play by the fire as couples dance, the percussive beat of their boots loud on the old wood floors.

Women bustle about the room, silken hems swishing against the floorboards as they bat their lashes at suitors.

They all murmur about being loved, but they really mean being wanted. When I was younger, I was just like them.

Being wanted is the way out, a ticket that will carry them beyond their family home to a house they run, their own haven in a bustling, walled-off city. They don’t know the way want sours into control. They’ve not seen how men use wanting to excuse their violence. They haven’t seen the things I have.

I don’t dream of being wanted anymore. I’d rather be feared.

I want eyes wide and full of terror as I whisper the name of the woman who sentenced them to death for their crimes. There’s always a moment of shock as the poison spreads through their bodies, but it quickly turns to a bargaining, choked “I’m sorry.”

They never mean it. Sorry is a thing people feel in their hearts—a regret born of realizing a wrong and wanting to repent.

They’re not sorry for the harm they’ve done. They’re sorry they’ve been caught.

I duck behind the curtain at the back of the bar, and the woman at the table jumps. I sit down across from her.

From what I can see under her hood, she’s young and pretty, with dark eyes and smooth brown skin complemented by a light blue cloak. One look at the hunch of her shoulders and I know she’s my client even without the purple ribbon on her wrist and Bea’s confirmation.

For a moment, she just stares at me, her eyes wide in fear and doubt.

“Miss…Vixen?”

None of these women suspect that the person helping them is the youngest Carrenwell daughter, but they like to have something to call me. They’ve nicknamed me the Poison Vixen on account of the almost-empty vials I leave at every scene wrapped in a small purple ribbon. The clues have become my signature, and I’ve left a trace of a different poison in each one to throw Kellan off my trail, since he and the rest of my family think I only have access to a singular poison.

“No names, please, except your intended target,” I say.

The woman withers, nodding in the shrinking way that only women who have taken regular beatings do. I can practically feel the poison pulse beneath my skin as my anger rises. I take a long pull of ale, hoping to calm the burning in my lips.

“Go on, tell me your story,” I continue.

Her eyes dart around the bar before she tips her hood back slightly. Without the shadow of her hood, I can see a bruise around her right eye and an older fading one along her jaw. She shifts the clasp of her cloak so I can see dark blue fingerprints dotting her throat.

“It’s getting worse,” she says in a harsh whisper. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt, but last week when he did this,” she gestures to her neck, “my vision went so dim I thought he was going to kill me. And my oldest jumped in and Ron put a beating on him too. I cannot watch the pattern repeat with them. I have three children, miss. Please.”

I study her closely. There’s a natural cadence that most victims have, a line they go up to where the words don’t seem to come and I can hear what’s unsaid in the silence. The fear is bigger than words, and that’s something I understand.