Page 12 of The Poison Daughter
“The truest monsters are always the most at ease,” I say. I take her hands across the table and give them a squeeze.
“Thank you,” she gushes, taking my hand between both of hers. She blinks back tears. “I promise I’ve learned my lesson, and without him gambling and drinking our money away, I’ll be able to take better care of the children. I can’t tell you what this means.”
I nod, pulling my hood farther forward. “Now do me a favor and go have a drink at the bar. Strike up a conversation with both the bartender and the person next to you, and make sure they both know your name. Then, leave in an hour and make your way home. Stay with your friend who is watching the children until ten bells, and then take them to bed.”
“Why?” she asks.
“So you have an alibi when the watchmen come.”
She swallows hard and nods as I hand her back a few coins.
“Good luck,” I say.
I rise from the table and head to the Heartless Haven Pub and what might be the Poison Vixen’s final victim.
3
HARLOW
Inormally change my glamour between meeting the client and the victim so I’m harder to identify if anyone spots me, but my necklace has limited uses, and the power went out when I was a few blocks from the bar. It’s a common occurrence this time of year. If the sunstone network along the walls doesn’t get enough light during the cloudy winter days, all nonessential power is shut down in the evening.
A candlelit bar will be too dark for anyone to notice my eyes.
Unlike when I put on my glamour—by focusing on how I want to look while pulling power from my necklace—to go back to my base appearance, I only need to take it off.
I remove the necklace, brushing my fingers over the delicate star that hangs from the chain, and tuck it into my cloak pocket before turning the corner and pushing open the heavy wooden door of Heartless Haven Pub.
I’ve never met a mark here, but I’ve snuck in a few times for the music.
I’m met with a wave of humid, ale-scented air and boisterous fiddle song as I step inside.
From the threshold, I glance around the room, searching for my mark. There’s a man in a navy coat sitting by the fireplace with abarmaid in his lap, but he’s pushing fifty and, upon closer inspection, his coat doesn’t have any embroidery.
I tug my hood a little farther over my forehead, scanning the crowd, until I see another man in a navy coat with gold embroidery on the far side of the room. I walk toward him, skirting the edge of the room.
My mark leans an elbow on the raw wood bar and laughs with a friend. I move deeper into the crowd, keeping a peripheral eye on him.
He’s younger than I expected. Only a year or two older than me, and, even from a distance, I can see how handsome he is. He has a dusting of stubble over a strong jawline. His dark hair is a little longer than most men in Lunameade wear theirs, but it’s styled neatly into perfect waves. If it wasn’t for his faint sun kissed tan, I might believe he was a wealthy merchant trapped in a shop all day. But I can tell he’s a laborer simply playing the part in his fancy clothes.
He looks handsome and at ease. Then again, the prettiest faces can hide the most vicious violence, and I’ve been fooled before. I ended up with a black eye and broken wrist for my doubts.
I walk farther into the room, sitting down at a table in a darker corner of the pub, right in his sight line. His copper-haired friend grins and claps a hand on his shoulder, then shuffles around the bar and down the hall toward the washroom. My mark’s gaze passes over the crowd.
I choose that moment to tip my hood back and unbutton my cloak. My red silk dress is like a beacon. I feel his gaze immediately, but I force myself to look as if I’m fussing with my cloak before I finally meet his eyes. Smiling softly, I wait for him to take in the truly absurd amount of cleavage I’ve put on display.
In my experience, men never suspect someone lovely could hurt them. The simplest enticements can get them into a room alone with me.
Men like a story of a woman humbled, so I play that part—dazzled by their charm, disarmed by their attention—a lamb stumbling dumbly to the slaughter. A girl wandering a wooded path, unaware of the wolves.
A year ago, before I started doing this secret work, I tried to get Kellan or the city watch to do more to help the women in our community. Both my brother and his guards were content to let women’s worries be women’s work.
But quietly accepting men’s violence was not the women’s work I wanted.
In the absence of a conscience, men need something to fear. I’ve made myself their monster.
I’m not searching for men who need mending. I don’t care for their penance—only their last gasping breaths.
Still, they have the nerve to look betrayed when the burn of poison hits them—outraged that they’ve been caught and bested by someone they expected to be weak. They may only ever be sorry that they underestimated me, but that’s something.
