ARC 7-Cursed Fates-79 (Patreon)

Geneva is first. Unfortunately, she finishes preparing breakfast before my two lovers can progress further than a little heavy petting. The time to push aside and ignore my problems has passed. I don’t like it, but I rouse the two women and escort them to the dining room.

The previous night when we walked into room, almost everyone openly watched as we joined Marcella at her table. Now, only a fraction of the patrons in the room raise their heads as we pass. That doesn’t mean they don’t pay attention. Everyone is paying attention.

I can tell from the way their heart rates spike and their breaths catch. Marcella is trying to keep the exact details of this morning’s fiasco quiet, but they all know my house was involved and people died. It’s as if we’re predators walking through a herd of scared sheep hushing their companions and trying to look smaller so they aren’t the next victims.

Only the hunters, warriors used to facing down death and creatures with sharp teeth, have the guts to look at us. Some even have the audacity to leer at us. However, there is a new caution there. A wariness. They’re also wondering if violence will come again today. I wonder if they know that if it does, that if I go back on the words I spoke to Yulia and decide to tyrannically suppress the guilds, there isn’t a damn thing they could do to stop me. It would explain the tension.

We settle around table without issue. Soon as we do, Geneva comes into the dining room pushing a wooden cart that is otherwise identical to the one the succubi normally use to deliver meals. She garners attention as well though, amusingly, it’s the crowd’s noses that she engages rather than their eyes. Several men of means look at our table enviously as a veritable feast is arranged in front of us.

A particularly arrogant bastard calls over one of the servants lingering about and begins to heatedly, but quietly, berate the poor young man, demanding to know why he was served cold sausage and warm bread as opposed to cuisine that would shame royal chefs. The server patiently explains that the food wasn’t prepared by the hotel but by a guest’s own servant, which does nothing to help him. The man doesn’t care about where the food came from, only that he gets his share.

The crowd’s curiosity about our meal makes for decent amusement until something else steals their attention. Kierra is a lucky woman. The stars must love someone born with a pure physical affinity. And to prove just how much fate coddles her, she arrives during our meal. She ignores the looks she gets and dives right into the food. Naturally, we inform her of everything. Her response is both incredible and entirely expected.

“Only fourteen assassins and none of them named. How insulting.”

She’s upset they didn’t send a greater number of more skillful people to kill us. Of course she is.

“You did well to protect our clan, dedia.”

The praise warms me more than a glass of Herbanacle. After a short, whispered conversation with Talia, the gardener checking on her precious flower, our conversation turns from frivolous banter and catching up to serious matters.

“You know how I feel about this matter,” Kierra says after I relay Marcella’s offer and Yulia’s fears. “My people do not handle our differences with words. Diplomacy is not practiced by anyone, not even between members of the same family. But if you are a being of infinite potential. If you want there to be peaceful discourse, there shall be peaceful discourse,” she says, offering her support. Then her smile stretches into something savage. “Even if we have to slaughter hundreds so our words can reach thousands.”

“Yulia doesn’t know a damn thing,” Alana says bitterly. “The only reason I thought she would be a good negotiator is because I figured she had practice avoiding a fight. Should have known better. When things get tough, Yulia cries for other people to fix her problems.” Talia lays a comforting hand on her shoulder, but it does nothing to soothe Alana’s anger.

So much for their progress.

“Yulianna did raise a good point,” Talia says, enduring Alana’s look of betrayal without flinching. “Negotiation requires incentive. If you are not offering anything, the incentive must be the avoidance of consequence. Before, that consequence was the thought of war with Victory. Now that they do not believe Victory capable of waging that war, if you wish for them to negotiate, you must either provide proof contrary to that belief or present them with another consequence.”

That much I realize. Saints, I figured I’d have to flex our abilities before this apparent tragedy in the north. “As soon as this is over, we can head back there.” Might not be a choice in the matter. We are still in need of a home.

Alana bobs her head. Still playing tough, huh. I know, deep down, she’s worried about her crazy family. Northerners are tough bastards who are more than capable of taking care of themselves. That means anything that can threaten them, to the point that rumors are spreading that they can’t march for war, must be pretty serious.

Maybe I should be more insistent. The last thing I want is Zach’s sorry self showing up on our doorstep to tell her that her father’s dead and her his head is in a box. Fuck, just the thought.

“It’s fine. Before that, we need to go to the capital.” Her eyes meet mine briefly before flicking away. She doesn’t want to say it aloud but the whole table understands the reason we need to go to Summer Spire is to handle my father’s death. Probably should also do something about my uncle, those independent summoners, and the king, but mostly for my father.

“Are you Lourianne Tome?”

Our conversation is interrupted by a self-important voice coming from the side. I merely have to turn to see the source of the distraction, but Alana and Kierra have to turn their chairs. There’s a long moment of silence as we all take in our unexpected visitor.

Not that he’s particularly impressive. He’s the opposite. A completely ordinary man in all measures except perhaps his wallet, evidenced by his scarlet red pants and the elaborate yellow jacket over his white shirt. Can’t say anything for his taste but those kinds of vibrant colors aren’t cheap.

What gives us pause, or at least me, isn’t the quality of his clothes but rather the unexpectedness of his interruption. Powerful people have an aura around them. I know. In the past, nothing made me more nervous than the presence of the powerful. The most successful nobles learn to wield it but even if they never develop it that skill, it has a palpable effect on their surroundings.

Without being arrogant, I’m a powerful person and I no longer make a secret of it. Kierra is far worse. Our combined confidence, combined with Alana’s no-nonsense disposition and Talia’s cool indifference, should be as much of a deterrent to the small fry in this dining room as a physical wall.

What, by the saints blessed beings, gave this pig-looking bastard the audacity to approach us? Especially in such a hostile manner. There is nothing friendly in his tightly clenched jaw and the tilt of his head as he literally looks down on us.

“Well? Are you Lourianne Tome or not?”

I’m so shocked by his nonsensical hostility, he gets fed up with the silence and barks out another challenge. “Who are you?” I ask eventually, tone clearly communicating how dumbfounded I am.

He scoffs. Actually scoffs. “Are you a noblewoman at all? Your tutors did a reprehensible job if you think it’s acceptable to answer a question with another question.”

“…who are you?” I force out through overwhelming incredulity.

“My name is Henson Addams, a proud merchant of Quest. Though I’m sure that name means nothing to you. Not to you, who carelessly allowed your creature to destroy my shop. Many lives were lost that night but what about the lives that were shattered? Livelihoods lost, fortunes destroyed. Your night of careless and rampant destruction ruined people. And I am here to tell you that the good people of this city won’t allow it again.

“We won’t be cowled by the threat of war. Quest was founded to fight against the worst this land could throw at humanity. We won’t be cowled by a bunch of insane barbarians come to suck our livelihoods to finance a pointless war. You’re done, you madwoman. Whether it’s the hunters or the king’s men, you’ll squashed like any other bothersome pest. If you had any intelligence, you’d let that talking beansprout take you back to the land of rainbow freaks and never show your face amongst decent people again.”

What…in the saints-loving, shit-sucking, Cosmo-cursed Abyss is this? Really, what towering mountain of steaming horseshit is this?

Hoover Whatever-the-Fuck stares me down as I slowly rise to my feet. He’s fearless, despite me having a few noticeable inches of height over him and considerably more muscle. He continues to glare at me even as I approach him, though it’s broken when he glances around him. Taking in the eager faces and rapt attention of the crowd.

Is this bastard putting on a show? Using me in some kind of stunt? There’s the tiniest curl of his lips when he notices the attention on us that suggests so.

Does he…does he think he’s safe? That he can do this because I won’t dare attack before all these witnesses, in broad daylight?

I’m going out of my way to spare a donkey’s ass like this?

My father’s dead and I’m not burying him for this?!

My hand twitches as I hold back the first urge to strike him. The second urge is more controlled. Instead of taking off his head, the back of my hand turns his head with enough force to make him spin and stumble, the loud clap of the impact drowning out the more subtle sound of teeth skittering across the wooden floor. I pull my hand back with a curl of my lips as I notice the blood on my skin but before the disgust has a chance to settle, Geneva is at my side, washing the man’s essence from my skin with her magic.

“Ou hit me!” The idiot scrambles to his feet, one hand holding his bruised cheek. “Fucking animal—"

My control slips a little on the next hit. What was meant to be another simple reprimand shatters the man’s jaw. He drops to his knees, muffled groans and screams coming out of his throat as his hands hover around the bloody mess that is his mouth. I grimace as I watch the blood drip from his shattered maw. A healer is going to have a rough time putting that mess back together.

Ah. There it is. When the idiot looks up at me again, there’s fear in his eyes. The fear that should have been there the whole time if he had a drop of common sense in him.

There’s a commotion near the doorway as two burly men wearing white pants and golden vests enter the dining room. Hotel guards. Yet they don’t rush forward, ignoring the expectant eyes of the crowd as they watch the situation with stern glares. Marcella must have warned them about us, proving she is a dozen times smarter than the man who won’t be able to use his tongue properly for weeks, if not the rest of his life, because he wanted to make a scene.

Out of respect for her reputation and the courtesy she is going out of her way to show me, I leave things as they are. I’ve made my point, but I don’t have time for silly games. The rest of the table has already finished breakfast so they join me when I motion that I’m leaving, Geneva staying behind to clean up the mess. The guards watch us as we leave but keep their words and hands to themselves, taking exaggerated steps out of the way as we pass.

Kierra crosses her arms over my shoulders as we walk through the hotel’s halls, leaning into my back. Her satisfaction is thick around us. I swear I can taste it, honey mixed the metal tang of blood. “What now, my love?”

“Now?” I grumble, my mounting frustration evident in my tone. “We end this bad joke. We’re going to find Marcella and she’s going to arrange a meeting with the guilds for tonight. And before that, we’re going to have a talk with the lord of the city.”