BLUEMANTLE, Karen Langston [best classic romance novels TXT] 📗

was trumped only by his feelings towards Blix. She had heard him vouch for Lore, had let him forge a trust built on a deception so vile and self-serving. She treated me like a fucking idiot and made me into a fool, he thought. Well, that’s her mistake. Right there. I won’t ever let her forget. No one makes a fool out of me.

This rage had ignited a determination to right the wrong. To set the record straight. I ain’t no fucking fool. And I’ll prove it.

There would be no interference from Governor Blix; he had made sure of that. He had elaborated on the accusations that he had put before the Chief of Staff. Their severity warranted a declaration of temporary martial law until a full investigation into the charges could be carried out. Wulfwin had insisted that this process be postponed until the more urgent matter of the Music Makers was resolved.

Meanwhile, Blix had been placed under arrest. She was detained in her private quarters, with an armed guard to ensure she remain there.

Wulfwin had free reign.

First step: doping the city. Once the Music Makers were destroyed, the dose would gradually be reduced, weaning the citizens off the drug over time so that they remained oblivious. Wulfwin thought his plan was simple; the challenge was how to implement it without raising suspicion. Significant quantities of the drug would be required, ideally in liquid form. It would need to be transported up to the Project Alpha site, in the northern range of the Nanso Heights, unhelpfully close to the operation to gas the caves.

Yet his mind was set; it would be done.

Wulfwin turned to the Chief of Staff and handed him the loudhailer. “Take this,” he said. “Stay here and try to look like you’re in charge. Aside from that, don’t do or say a fucking thing.”

The Chief of Staff held the device like a dead man’s hand. “Where are you going?”

“None of your business.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Ursel had decided to die.

She had chosen an end for herself. Without this, she knew the torture could continue forever. They kept leaving her to rest so that her body could recover sufficient strength to survive another round. She knew they’d keep it up, falsely believing that, eventually, they’d do something that would make her break. She saw an arrogance in their assumption and detested them all the more for it.

Before the man had come into her cell, she’d already decided. The next time, I die. It wasn’t a case of giving up; it was simply drawing a line. With the decision made, she felt empowered and unafraid. A wilful intervention, rather than helpless submission. So, when the man appeared, in body and spirit, she let go.

It wasn’t the usual man, the one with the coat. But he was still A and she’d seen him before. That time, he had watched, staring through her, effacing her with his cold, glazed eyes.

This time, he was different. His expression was wrought with urgency. His lips kept moving, as if mouthing hallowed incantation. She couldn’t hear a word. But she knew he kept on and on, even when she had decided to close her eyes for the last time. She felt the faint touch of his breath as his words brushed over her skin, a buried vibration in his chest, which she could feel when he carried her over his shoulder and when he held her tight against him on the horse.

He was speaking to her, but she cared not what he said. She let her limbs hang limp in an attitude of closure. Her thoughts ceased as her awareness of her surroundings dimmed and died. Her mind became immersed in introversion. The shutters fell, outward consciousness extinguished.

Death would come.

At times, she thought it had. There were moments on the horse, if the jolting roused her into consciousness, when she believed death had already taken her. The end was protracted, yet painless, oscillating in and out of oblivion. With each hazy surfacing, she believed her body had already passed; it was only her spirit holding on. Stubborn to the last.

And still the warm touch of silent words brushed her broken flesh.

–

“Will she pull through?” whispered Chief. She stood before a makeshift tent in the Troubadours’ temporary camp. Night had fallen.

The woman with whom she spoke had been a doctor in her life overground. “Yes. She has regained consciousness and is now sleeping. Her wounds are severe and the infection advanced, but not life-threatening.” Her eyes darkened. “By the way, you don’t need to whisper. She can’t hear you. Those sick bastards have made sure of that.” She described the trauma to Ursel’s ears and speculated on the likely cause.

Chief paled. “That’s… That’s monstrous. How can they get away with it?”

“You have been underground for many years. In that time, the A have embellished autocracy with the power of impunity. They’ve been getting away with this kind of brutality for decades. No one will stand up to them.” She sighed, shaking her head. “No one even tries.”

“I hadn’t realised they had stooped to such depravity. And against their own people? It’s different for us Troubadours; we’ve known they’ve been after our blood since that tragic festival. But such barbarity against a citizen, whose only crime is participating in an innocent, harmless pleasure?” She raised her chin, face flushed. “No one even tries to stand up to them, you say?”

The woman shook her head.

Chief turned and strode into the heart of the camp, to a clearing lit by small fires and filled with silent, waiting stares. She stopped in the centre, her arms crossed, cobalt eyes gleaming with fury.

Bend Sinister and Pale Dexter rose and approached. “What is it? Will she not survive?” said Bend Sinister.

“Ursel will live.” A murmur of relieved sighs rippled through the troupe. One of the followers, a young man with a mohawk, held his hands to his face, his body shaking. “There’s more,” said Chief, cutting short their relief. She described the most