Page 143 of The Poison Daughter
“Abusers. That’s who she’s killing,” I say. “It’s not a hobby so much as a calling. She kills men who abuse their wives and children in Lunameade.”
The distraction works. Carter sits up straighter. “Wait—Harlow is the Poison Vixen?”
I stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“A couple of men were gossiping about it—city guards.”
“Kellan’s men?” I ask.
He nods. “They’ve been trying to catch her for months. They were convinced the Poison Vixen is just one woman, but apparently Kellanbelieves it’s a network of women doing it and the name is just to give a sense of mystery and because it makes for a better story. Apparently, the men’s wives always have alibis, but when they questioned neighbors and friends after the fact, the city guards discovered all of the Vixen’s victims were stepping out on their wives—and also that many of the wives had seen healers for treatment of mysterious bruises and broken bones. There seems to be some suspicion that it wasn’t just adulterers but any man who did something wrong.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this?” I ask.
Carter waves a dismissive hand. “Those men are bored. They haven’t seen real action in years. I thought they just needed the myth to feel a sense of purpose. I didn’t put it together because the Vixen always leaves a vial of poison behind, and also because every witness has described her appearance differently. It sounded like it was a network of women, not just one woman.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “They might get suspicious now that the killing will stop.”
They both lean back in their chairs, considering it as they drink.
Bryce runs a hand through his copper hair, tucking it behind his ears. “Why, though? Why does a pretty, rich girl care about the plight of women in her city?”
I take a long swig of my ale. “Rafe Mattingly.”
“The mayor?” Carter asks.
“He’s married to her sister, and he’s hurting her,” I say.
Recognition tears over Carter’s face. “He’s too much of a public figure for her to take out?”
I nod.
“So she takes out everyone else,” Bryce says.
I take a sip of my ale. “So she says. She told me in communion, but it just feels too?—”
“Understandable?”
“No,” I snap. “It feels a little too convenient. Harlow claims someone gave her my description and told her what line I’d say the night we met. I was supposed to be meeting someone who had valuable information about passageways in the Carrenwell residence. My father wrote to us with the specific line to say in order to let the contact I was meeting know I was who they were looking for. They told me she would be abeautiful young woman, but they didn’t give me a description of what she would look like. They just said she’d show an interest in me, and I should use that line.”
“But what purpose would her family have to start an all-out war before they knew what you wanted?” Carter asks.
That’s the problem with my theory. If her family wanted to kill me, they obviously wouldn’t anticipate me being unsusceptible to poison, but it would be stupid of them to kill me as soon as I got to the city. They’re more strategic than to murder a lead without using them for information first.
“I think it was the rebels,” Bryce says. “They have a great reason to want us all fighting each other. What better way to get us to take each other out? The more chaos, the better for them.”
That does make a lot more sense, but I don’t want to surrender my suspicion of Harlow. If this is purely a thing she does out of the relentless drive to see some sort of justice where she can have none—if she’s really watching her sister suffer slowly from afar—it transforms her from a cruel serial killer using her magic to pick off unblessed men into someone who uses her power to protect people who can’t protect themselves.
“I’m sorry that you have to face the possibility that your wife might have some redeeming qualities,” Carter says with a sardonic smile. “You know who would love this? Holly.”
As soon as he says it, I know it’s true. It’s the kind of thing Holly would respect. It’s the kind of thing she would do if we hadn’t always been so vigilant about domestic violence in our community.
I can practically hear her laughing at me from beyond the veil. I take a long drink to try to chase away the tightness in my chest.
This grief is old, but some days it feels so close. Perhaps my mother’s devotion to Asher makes it feel so, or perhaps it’s because, despite his gift of returning, the Divine of Endings still has claim over me.
Sometimes I wonder if Bryce and Carter feel it too—this strange sensation of being slightly out of time with the rhythm of life—but I don’t know how to ask. We never talk about it because no words ever feel quite right to describe what it is to die and then come back.
A quick shift in the crowded bar has me immediately on edge.Someone is cutting through the room with purpose. Carter and Bryce turn to face the hooded man approaching us.
