A Tyranny of Petticoats (14 page)

The quality of light began to shift as she neared the edge of the Coven’s section. In another few moments she’d emerge from beneath the block of seats and into the walkway that separated the Coven and the sidhe.

Where had the stranger disappeared to?

Klio didn’t know whether to wait for another sign of movement or continue on to the space below the sidhe. She slowed. When she drew her next breath, she tasted ash.

“Whitby?” Had she been tracking her own partner? She’d never made such a foolish mistake in the past.

The crowd erupted into a chaos of sound. Someone had played an astonishing hand or pulled off an incredible bluff. The sound was so great, Klio almost missed the rustling above her.

The heavy weight of a hard masculine body dropped onto her shoulders, knocking her to the ground. Pain flashed through her right shoulder when she fell against a beam, its corner biting into her flesh. Her adversary had the advantage of surprise, but he’d given up control by choosing to fall onto her. Klio seized the opportunity to push off the beam and throw her weight against her attacker, taking them both to the ground.

She pinned her opponent, digging her knees into his chest and stretching her arms toward his throat. Heat radiated from his body, discomfort that promised to become pain. Despite the threat of imminent injury, Klio went still. Cold flooded her limbs even as she felt heat scorching through the satin of her skirt.

Only one creature had this defense.

Silver flashed at Klio in the dark. Silver eyes.

“Whitby.” Klio choked out his name.

“I’m sorry, Klio.” Whitby’s voice, so seldom used, rasped like desert wind. “I can’t fight it.”

Klio rolled off her friend, ignoring the way her skirts smoked. “What are you talking about? Fight what?”

To Klio’s alarm, Whitby jumped up, looming over her.

His voice was like a crack of thunder. “I didn’t think it could be done. I thought the magics long lost.”

“Tell me what you mean.” Klio stood, though she felt tremulous and childlike in comparison to Whitby’s menacing stance — something she’d never seen directed at her before.

“He found, he made.” Silver tears gleamed on Whitby’s cheeks. “I must obey.”

He lifted his hands. Cracks ran over them, up and down his arms, gold and scarlet dancing beneath his flesh.

“Whitby, don’t!” Klio took several steps back until she came up against a beam. “Stop this.”

“I can’t, Klio.” He still wept, even as he advanced on her. “Forgive me and do me one last honor.”

“Whitby . . .” Klio was shaking. She understood none of this, only her terror and the sorrow of betrayal.

“Honor me, dear friend.” Whitby was terribly close. “Take my life, so that I cannot take yours.”

“No.”

“I beg you.” Flames rippled along his fingertips. “Do not make me serve him. Save yourself.”

Rage had overtaken Klio’s fear. What monster had stolen her friend’s will? Who dared make Whitby a slave?

Whitby stopped mere inches from Klio, and she could see it took immense effort for him to hold off his assault. “I will not harm you.” Whitby’s voice shook from the strain of battling whatever unseen force controlled him. “You are the only solace I’ve found in this world. You must know that.”

Klio choked on her sob. “There has to be something, some other way —”

“You can only free me with death, Klio.” Whitby’s teeth gnashed as he struggled against his unseen master.

Klio knew she couldn’t hesitate. Couldn’t think. Whitby held on to the barest shred of control. Forcing herself into action and banishing all emotion, she dove to Whitby’s right and rolled past him. She paused on the balls of her feet, then pivoted and rose. Standing directly behind him, Klio lashed her arms out, aiming for the back of his neck.

The twin serpents coiled around each of Klio’s arms sprang to life. Four hissing heads lifted and struck, fangs burying themselves in the flesh of Whitby’s neck. With a gasp, Whitby stiffened. The serpents released their prey and drew back. Only when Whitby collapsed, falling face-first to the ground, did the snakes return to their slumber — living, deadly creatures dormant as if they were ink needled into Klio’s skin.

Klio dropped to her knees at Whitby’s side. The searing heat had fled his body. His breath came in dry, shallow rattles. He turned his face toward Klio, offering her a weak smile.

“Thank you, my friend.”

Whitby shuddered as his body began to crumble.

For a long time, Klio sat and wept silently, letting the pile of sand at her side pour through her hands.

Hamilton Stuart entered his cabin, bedecked in the glow of victory. Klio awaited him on the same sofa she’d occupied just hours before.

Stuart paused in the doorway when he saw her.

“Did you hear the good news?” he asked her. He went to the side table to decant himself a drink.

“You won,” Klio replied. “Congratulations to Mr. Cromwell on another century of rule.”

“I wouldn’t congratulate Cromwell just yet.” Stuart took his seat opposite her. “He didn’t win the game. I did.”

“From your tone I gather you expect more than praise for your victory?”

“Indeed.” His gaze traveled over her singed dress, pausing on the brass oil lamp she held in her lap. “I’m sorry to have put you through such an ordeal, but I needed to know just how good you are. You see, I didn’t bring you here to protect me during the gaming.”

“I gathered as much,” Klio said, watching him calmly. This exterior serenity was a boon of her kind. She could keep her most turbulent emotions in check until the appropriate moment to unleash them arrived.

“But I do want to engage your services,” Stuart continued. “Permanently. You belong among those who are likewise the paramount of their kind. The Coven outmatch all the other factions, but many within our ranks believe it’s time for Cromwell to step aside —”

“And you’ve just proven you’re the one to take his place,” Klio finished.

“I know you have long been isolated, but there is much, much more I can offer you. I will lead the Coven into a new era. After this ridiculous war ends, the West will be open and it will be the visionaries, the innovators, who shape the future. Surely you see that.”

“And Whitby? Had he no future, in service to the Coven or otherwise?” Klio’s fingers traced the shape of the brass lamp.

“A creature of his nature could only hold you back,” Stuart said with a disapproving frown. “I’ve had you watched for months now, and while it was clear you needed no one other than yourself to thrive in your work, you chose attachment to one lesser than yourself. I pitted the djinn against you to show you that.”

“I see.”

“And to be perfectly frank”— Stuart smiled, pleased with himself — “it was to indulge my own curiosity. No one has attempted to entrap a djinn in centuries. The magic required to complete the task seemed simple enough, but I didn’t know if it would be possible, particularly on one like your Whitby, who was only part djinn.”

“But you succeeded.” Klio set the lamp beside her on the sofa. “I must confess that your experiment puzzles me. Did you not imply that I would accept this contract because I abhor slavery?”

“I do remember raising that point,” Stuart replied, with a faint crinkling of his brow.

“Yet you chained Whitby with your spell.” Klio tamped down the welling grief that tried to climb from her belly into her throat. “You took his freedom and made his body and his magic subservient.”

“Yes,” Stuart said, still smiling. “You could interpret my actions in that way, but I’d advise you to think of the djinn’s role in this little play of ours as the sacrificial hero. His death elevated you to the station you deserve. While you may grieve the loss of your companion, he was a djinn, and you must know that in the natural order, djinn were meant to serve.”

“I understand.” Klio stood. “You only meant to help me. To show me how I’d misjudged my place, and Whitby’s place.”

She began to pull off her gloves, and Stuart drew in a sharp breath.

“I can kill you before you blink again,” he snapped.

Klio laughed. “I know that, Hamilton. But you wanted to see what I have hidden. That’s all I’m doing. Showing you.”

Stuart relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still sharp, his posture wary.

Klio let her gloves drop to the ground.

“Oh, my.” Stuart forgot his reservation and leaned down, gazing at the twining serpents on Klio’s arms. “Marvelous.”

“Thank you,” Klio said. “They are the primary manifestation of my ancestry, and my weapon of choice.”

“A fine, fine weapon, Klio.” Stuart dared to lift her hand to his lips. “They are almost as beautiful as you are. Almost.”

“You flatter me, Hamilton,” Klio demurred. “Do you know that my ancestors had more than the serpents in their arsenal?”

Stuart tilted his head, regarding her curiously. He still held her hand in his. “I know the history of the gorgons, my dear girl. But it’s been well documented that the other traits of your kind were bred out generations ago. The only lingering evidence of your heritage being the serpentine shape and color of your eyes.”

“Of course you must be right.” Klio gripped his fingers tight and smiled. “Since you understand the true nature of all creatures so very well.”

She lifted her veil.

EVERY AUTUMN, AFTER THE LEAVES have faded from emerald to gold, my grandmother throws the most magnificent ball in Washington. No expense is spared — for Grandmama says that this is the Van Persies’ way — and she opens our coffers to purchase crates of champagne, platters of baked oysters, and bouquets of hothouse flowers so delicate that they wither come morning.

It’s quite the lavish spectacle.

And I’m afraid it’s all a terrible waste.

For over a year, our nation has been torn asunder between North and South, but will a war stop Grandmama from hosting her favorite fete? Certainly not. Because this year she has made
very
special plans.

“Elizabeth, dear,” she has been saying for weeks, “now that your schooling is finished, you must turn your thoughts to marriage. No, no, don’t shake your head at me. I’ve invited the city’s most eligible bachelors to that ball, and I’ll see to it that there’ll be a wedding by Easter.”

“But Grandmama —” I’ve said every time, hoping that she’d put such thoughts out of her mind and that she’d call me Lizzie for once.

“That’s quite enough! Now then, come rub my shoulders.”

I sighed and sighed again, but I did as she asked because Grandmama reigns over our family (and the entire capital for that matter) with a gloved fist. I swallowed my protests too because she’d box my ears if I shared my opinion about a springtime wedding — for I find the idea to be horrifying. I’m only seventeen just! My own mother, may she rest in peace, didn’t wed my father until age twenty-two, which allowed her to finish her schooling, write columns for an abolitionist newspaper, and eventually find a love match. I dream of a similar path for myself.

That’s why I’ve wrung my hands for weeks over Grandmama’s matrimonial plans. A bride by spring? I’d rather parade through the halls of Congress wearing nothing but pantalets. I don’t know how I’ll change my grandmother’s mind, but I do know this: I’ve no intention of catching a fiancé or even a beau at our ball.

Instead, I intend to catch a spy.

A Confederate spy, to be precise.

If Grandmama knew of my plans, she’d lock me in my room until I sprouted gray hair, but I’ve made a promise that I will keep. That I
must
keep.

Even if it means defying Grandmama.

On the evening of the ball, I act the part of the obedient heiress. I sit very still while my maid, Mary, pins my pale hair atop my head and cinches my corset tight. Beyond my window, I see the well-groomed trees of Lafayette Square and the broad road that leads up to our handsome brownstone. Soon the road will be filled with horse-drawn carriages that will deliver our guests to our front steps, from senators and senators’ wives to attorneys and ambassadors, and — if all goes according to plan — the very spy himself.