I TELL EVERYONE THAT THE WIFE IS WEAK AND DYING SOON, AND THAT THE LORD BRAN DOES NOT WISH TO BE DISTURBED WHILE HE KEEPS HER COMPANY IN HER LAST MOMENTS.
No one doubts me. In fact, people look relieved. No serving lunch and preparing for dinner. No worrying about staying silent or risking a limb or tongue over how the wine was poured.
The silence of a tyrant is always welcome news.
I make myself busy for the rest of the day, making sure to keep everyone away from Bran's room, even the son. He doesn't even question it.
While I have complete faith in my ability to spin tales and tell believable lies -- yet another part of training -- after all these years, I still have a small laugh when I am alone at how gullible mortals are.
No wonder they die so easily, and all the time at that. Even the difficult ones fall prey to lies eventually. It's just a matter of how many I have to tell.
When night comes, I go back to the room to keep up my act. I make sure I fall asleep after a few people, but before others, so they can see that I am asleep. Their testimonies will be useful later.
Then I slip out to the son's room. He's not expecting my company, and looks surprised when he opens the door to find me outside.
"Can I come in?" I say shyly.
He looks even more taken aback at that. It's improper for a woman to invite herself in to man's room, and unthinkable for a servant to do. But what are a few improprieties when he is mere moments away from dying?
I'm sure he won't mind, I think wryly as he waves me in. Because I'm about to make it worth his while.
People think of murder like it is a gruesome thing. And it can be. It is. I do not deny that. Even I can't be blasé about having so much blood on my hands.
But it is also an art.
And if there is anyone who is skilled in the art of the death, it is the Rozi. We are careful, intentional about how we kill and who we kill. We leave no traces of our presence. We let our assignments die in the company of a beautiful woman, whether in the throes of passion or in conversation. Is that not a kind favor? The common gang and mercenary would do no such thing.
He sits on the edge of his bed and hesitantly gestures for me to sit at his desk.
I don't. Instead, I stand in front of him.
He doesn't force it.
"What brings you here?" he says, watching me curiously.
"I lost my mother at a young age," I say. "I know what it feels like to lose a parent. So...I want to help you."
All those years of pain and revenge, boiling down to a half-truth. Albeit a useful one.
"I thought...I thought the gods weren't real. That's what my father said," he says slowly.
I hesitate before I answer. "They're not. But there is magic on this island."
His eyes widen.
"Magic?" There is thirst and hunger in his voice.
"Yes, magic." I give him a sugary smile, so sweet it almost makes me gag. "It's a well-kept secret on this island, but I--I understand loss. And I've...I've discussed it with our island elders and they are willing to give up the secret to help you."
I hope he doesn't know enough about the island to know that there are no island elders. But considering that he didn't know about the myths and gods, there's a very good chance he is ignorant about this as well.
"But why? Before you...you wanted nothing to do with me."
I step just a little closer towards him, replacing my smile with a wrinkled brow and pleading eyes.
"I was troubled. Those of us on the island are very cautious of outsiders. They have hurt us before because they always come to the Fens, searching for secrets we do not have. I have to be careful."
He nods, and his hand lifts up to grab mine. A bolt of disgust shoots up my fingers, which he is gently holding. It travels up my arm and slowly starts to fill my body, burning a hot path the way only hatred can.
I push the feeling away.
Keep going, Rhea, keep going.
Human touch is my hatred, my weakness. I still have not grown used to it after all these years, and perhaps it is because I have spent more time around this one that I find his touch so skin-raising.
But for future assignments, I will need to curb -- no.
I will no longer have future assignments after this. Not after tonight.
"So what changed your mind?" he says, looking up at me, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
I smile and look away. "You were kind to me. I told the elders that you were different. You cared about making your mother better and you promised to protect me and the other servants."
He stands up, now both of his hands wrapped around mine. "Thank you. I--thank you." His eyes swim, but the quickly clears his throat and regains his composure.
"I have to be honest with you now too. The reason I approached you...," he pauses. It's dark in his room, and the moonlight beaming from the windows provides only the faintest silver gleam where we stand. But I can see the blush on his cheeks.
If I could, I would smirk.
But instead, I squeeze his hands, eyes peering his. They spark, like molten silver, in the moonlight. "You stood up to my father by taking care of the person he hurt. No one has ever dared do that. And that is why I came to you for help. I wanted to know what made you so brave. If it was hatred -- it was...so beautiful."
"I'm beautiful?" I say, voice breathy. We are so close now, our noses almost touching.
I wonder what he sees in this dim light. I wonder how dark it must be for human eyes.
"Yes," he breathes, reaching out to brush a piece of hair away from my face before cupping my cheek.
The night is young, and we will be here all night if this disgusting sweet talk continues. I need to leave the manor before dawn.
So I lean in to kiss him.
Our training mistress, Madam Rue, told us before that it is always better to have the upper hand in the bedroom.
"Men like thinking they are powerful, and have power over us," she had said, pacing back and forth in front of us impatiently.
"But!" she yelled. "They are hypocrites. When you are in the bedroom with them, they would have you take command. To them, that is irresistible. Men like women who are like roses: beautiful to look at, dangerous to touch, but rewarding when won."
We had tittered nervously then. But after all these years, Madam Rue's words have served me well.
The son is surprised, but it doesn't take him long to give in to me. I tremble, my body violent in its hatred towards his touch.
But I persist, and it helps that my mind needs to be in another place. I place one hand on the nape of his neck, as if I am about to run my fingers through his hair. The needle I've hidden in the sleeve of my dress slides out, and I prick him, ever so carefully.
Even if he feels it, he might mistake it for the tingles of passion.
He groans into my mouth, and his arms press me against him tighter. They are warm and strong. Stronger than I expected. His touches become more insistent as they trace patterns up and down my spine.
I try to keep my hand stable as he moves against me, careful to inject all of the contents of the vial. Some precious drops will be lost because I can't see it, but this will do for now.
We start moving towards a wall, and he pushes me against it. He traces kisses up my neck and across my collarbones. He bites my lip, asking for a silent invitation.
I give it to him, and more.
His breathing is heavy now, and I match mine to his. He looks down at me, eyes dark heavy. If they looked like molten silver before, now they look like the darkness of a waning moon.
"You are...you are so beautiful," he says. The moonlight is bright in this corner. His eyes trace every detail of my face, wandering over the high arches of my brows and down the hill of nose to the valleys of my lips.
"Wait," I say, panting. "I'll be right back."
He looks confused, but doesn't ask any question.
When I return, I pull him towards me again, and we are like animals in heat.
At some point, we make it towards his bed.
And at another point, I have a knife in my hands.
And when he is screaming in pleasure, I plan to plunge it in his back.
If only he knew how lucky he was to have caressed and whispered sweet nothings in the ear of a godling like I. And if only he knew how every time I moaned and panted into his ear and trembled under his touch, it was because I was rejecting his touch. My body, violent and insistent that I get away from the filth I was associating with.
But my body was no longer a temple. It no longer had a right to demand purity and sanctity. When you work for Death, you become violated.
Beads of sweat slide down the son's face. His eyes, about to glaze over. His breath, fast and low.
It's almost time.
I raise my knife hand behind him.
The moonlight, bouncing off my dagger. Silver and bright.
The moonlight, bouncing off his sweat. Silver and bright.
His moan. My moan.
They all become one as I plunge the dagger down.
At that moment, there's a bloodcurdling scream. Not mine, and not his either, though it won't be far behind.
He wrenches himself from me, barely putting on a shirt and trousers before he's out the door. I pick up my dagger from the floor, where it dropped onto a pile of clothes in the suddenness of his motion.
I put on my clothes, then race after him.
This isn't how I envisioned him dying. I had hoped it would be a quiet and quick affair. I had also hoped it wouldn't get messy.
But it won't matter soon. There is poison on the blade, meant to numb the pain of his death. It will paralyze him and confuse his senses. Pain will become pleasure, cold will become hot. It'll spread from his skin to deep, deep into his bones. His movement will only make it spread through his body faster.
The scream comes from his parents' bedroom. I glance outside the window. It's barely dawn. The barest hint of rosy pink is on the horizon. None of the servants should have been up yet.
No matter. I have planned for everything, even the unlikely.
I almost collide into the son's back. He stands at the foot of his parents' bed, face pale, body shaking.
A maid stands by the bed, hands clapped over her mouth. Tears stream down her face and her eyes are wide with terror.
"I didn't do it, I didn't do it!" she screams over and over. "I just...I just came in because I thought I heard something here. I thought it was Lord Bran needing something and I-I almost didn't come in. Didn't want to anger the Lord but--"
Her words end in a choking sound as her sobs start to violent wrack her body. She runs off towards the bathroom.
I hear the sounds of retching.
The son is still shaking, and his mouth keeps opening and closing. There's terror and sorrow and anger on his face, but there's also another emotion I can't read in his eyes.
I look at the bed. The sheets are completely thrown astray, covered by what looks like fresh blood. Bran's neck is at an odd angle, his tongue lolls from his mouth, and his lips and fingertips are pale blue. His wife has been turned on her back, and her nightgown is almost shredded from the amount of stab wounds she has on her back.
It is nothing like the clean scene I had left in the morning.
I put my hand on the son's back, where blood is blooming through the white of his shirt.
Then I scream as I lift my hand away, in horror.
"There's...there's blood all over you," I say, near hysterical. "Did you do this?"
He looks at me, brows knitted in confusion.
"What? You and I were--how could I have done this?" he manages to splutter out.
But as he looks down, he notices the bloody dagger in his hands and his wet, blood-soaked shirt.
"What?" His voice rises in terror and confusion. "But I-I-how is that possible?"
By now, more servants have gathered at the door, awakened by all the noise and screaming. They stand in a crowd, eyes peering curiously in the room as they hold their candles close to them.
They gasp when they see the bloody scene. Then they turn towards the son, a curious, human mob. He's barely able to fend off the questions and the accusations and defend his innocence.
He won't have much of a problem with them. If anything, the servants would be the most relieved at Bran's death.
But the bigger problem will be the royal guards.
Thankfully, he won't live long enough to have to face them.
The poison in my dagger will kill him. But the poison that I pricked his neck with? The poison on my lips that I planted all over his body, kiss by kiss?
No man can resist the ayahuasca. He was bound to go mad with such a potent dose. Long enough for him to imagine he was entangled in his sheets with me, when he was actually wrestling with the cold and dead corpses of his parents with a knife.
I'm too kind, I think, allowing myself the barest hint of a smile as I slip out during all the confusion.