Release: Davlova: Book One (6 page)

“Kiss me,” he said.

I did. I wrapped my arms around his neck and claimed his mouth with mine. I ravaged him. It felt extraordinary. I rode his cock up and down as the carriage rattled us home. I felt wanton and indecent, and it was the most liberating feeling I’d ever known. I threw my head back and gave myself up to unadulterated lechery. Unbridled lust. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me and my newfound power. My wayward desire. My fucking exotic beauty. I felt like a god. I could bring this man down for Anzhéla, and I would, but first I’d get what I wanted, too, one way or another. I rode him until I was panting, my thighs screaming in protest, the clip-clop of hooves somehow driving me on. He grabbed me and threw me violently onto my back amidst the thick cushions of the carriage seat. He pushed my knees to my shoulders and fucked me more, pumping my cock with one strong hand until we both came so hard, I was sure the driver heard us. We probably scared the horses.

At that moment, I would happily have paid him instead of the other way around.

When it was done, he grabbed my hair and forced me to meet his eyes. “You’re not just a whore anymore,” he whispered. “You’re
my
whore, until the day I release you. Do you understand?”

I didn’t even have to fake my smile. “Perfectly.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The next day, I woke in my tiny room at Talia’s with a headache that threatened to split my skull in two. I put my head in my hands and tried to remember why.

It all came back to me in a rush. La Fontaine. The wine. The food. The upside down sky.

The carriage ride home.

I groaned, embarrassed by my behavior, but partially aroused as well. I’d liked the sex. A
lot
. Lalo had advised me to enjoy it when I could, so why did I feel so dirty for it now?

I dressed, then made my way to the kitchen for breakfast and something to soothe my throbbing head. Talia informed me that Donato had already reserved me again for the evening. I wasn’t sure if my heart began to race out of fear or desire. I opted not to think about it too much.

My street clothes had been returned to me, clean and folded, along with my knives. I put them on and headed out into familiar territory: the streets of Lower Davlova.

A tall white wall separated the upper city from the lower, but even on this side, we had opulence. The buildings closest to the wall were all made of white stone. Here, the well-to-do who weren’t considered pureborn nobles lived and worked: doctors, midwives, barbers, and bookkeepers. In this section, dubbed the white district for obvious reasons, Talia’s whorehouse existed alongside boarding schools and banks. A broad cobblestone avenue, known simply as the Boulevard, separated the white district from the rest of Lower Davlova. It circled the entire upper city. I could have turned west out of Talia’s whorehouse and taken the short way. Most days, I would have. But today, I felt the need to clear my head, and I had plenty of time, so I turned east instead.

Every kid in every clan walked this street at some point, all the way around the upper city, as part of some childish rite of passage. I’d done it a few times in my life. Once, when I was a boy, holding my mother’s hand while she cried for reasons I’d never know. A second time shortly after joining Anzhéla’s clan, when the older boys had dared me. Once with Jimbo, when he was spoiling for a fight. And again today, as I contemplated how it felt to be a whore.

I followed the avenue counterclockwise, east and north as it curved up through the slums that were the fourth quadrant—the slums where I’d grown up—and finally bled into the first quadrant, which held the harbor. Very few people lived in this sector. It was all about commerce and access to the sea. The air was tangy with the smell of salt and fish and the ocean. A fresh breeze tugged at my hair, washing away the smell of Donato’s carriage. The taste of his kiss.

Built out over the uncaring water were rows upon rows of docks. The southernmost ones were for smaller, privately owned ships, and the northernmost ones were reserved for the luxurious yachts of the pureborn. Between them all was the commercial dock, used by the huge freight ships that came across the sea from Deliphine, a city that no doubt existed, but was practically mythical in my mind. I had no idea what it was really like, but I imagined it full of beautiful people Donato would likely have called exotic: pale skin, golden hair, bright-hued eyes. Somewhere beyond that was Aurius, the city of my mother’s birth. The city she’d whispered about as I’d fallen asleep, back when I was too young to wonder why she’d left it. Beyond that, a whole world. One I’d never dared dream of.

I bought a bit of fried fish wrapped in brown paper from one of the vendors. I wondered, as he took my money, if he guessed where it had come from. Did he feel the taint of purchased sex on its dull surface? Did he scoff at it? Or did he envy me my youth and the looks that allowed me to make so much on my back?

I continued on my way, rounding toward the northernmost point of the city, which butted up against the sheer black cliffs of the Erish Mountains. The island that held Davlova wasn’t large, but Anzhéla had taught me this was why the founders of Davlova had chosen this exact spot to build their city—the deep-water port paired with the safety of being bordered on all other sides by either mountains or water. But what had been comfortable borders back then were now a cinch around her bloated middle, squeezing us all.

I stopped at the northern edge to watch the sea crash into the cliffs. The High Priestess herself had died there. Before her death, she’d helped rule the city, sharing the Council with the seven mayors, until convicted of treason. That was the official charge, at any rate, but the truth was, those rich male mayors grew weary of the logic of women. They hated having the morals of the Goddess impeding their laws. And once they learned of the sacraments of the priestesses, the pleasure they saved for themselves, denied to all men, they were driven to rage. They arrested the High Priestess and dragged her up the narrow path to the cliffs. Only the Goddess knew what horrible things they’d done to her before killing her, but it wasn’t hard to guess. They’d flung her, naked and beaten, from the top of the cliffs to be brutalized again by the rocks and waves below. Davlova hadn’t had a High Priestess since. We still had temples and priestesses, but nobody strong enough to question the rule of the mayors. And those seven mayors were the only people in the city with more power than Donato.

It was a sobering thought.

From Priestess Point, the road turned south once again. The third quadrant was mostly residential. This was where the richest residents of the lower city lived—those who weren’t of noble descent, but somehow still had a great deal of money. But the financial crisis in the city had even begun to reach here. Rumor had it that many a servant and gardener had been dismissed in the last year. Still, this was the one quadrant where I felt like the intruder I was. I walked faster, imagining polished people watching me through their windows, telling their butlers to make sure the doors were locked. Did I look like a thief, or like a whore?

Which was worse?

On the other side of the boulevard, there was little space. Buildings were sparse. The mountains rose too quickly. A few people ranged goats in the foothills, but nothing else. Soil here was practically non-existent, having been washed away from the rocky ground long ago, down the hill to the southern half of lower Davlova.

Whether it’s soil or people, shit always flows downhill.

I tossed my now-empty brown wrapper into some rich flat’s yard, just to be spiteful. Ten minutes later, as I headed into the second quadrant, I felt guilty about it. What had that spoiled fool ever done to me? Likely nothing. And it wasn’t as if he’d pick it up himself. He’d have some servant do it.

I sighed and kept walking. Now, I was nearing familiar territory, in the southern half of the city. Here, the opulent white stone of the second quadrant gave way to practicality. Buildings were of grey and brown brick, because it was cheaper and easier to maintain. Yards were smaller, but not without their charm. Here, the honest, hard-working citizens of Davlova thrived. Or, they had at one time. Now they struggled to make ends meet, like everybody else. Dressmakers and tutors, cobblers and tailors. Inns that weren’t extravagant, but were clean and comfortable nonetheless.

To the southeast, the city ended abruptly at a steep, rocky beach, too shallow and jagged for boats, but too unstable for houses. The only good land was to the southwest, a thin strip of the foothills, but people weren’t allowed to build there. It was used instead as grazing land for the cattle that fed Davlova. Not that those of us in the lower city saw much of it. I thought of the food I’d eaten the night before. How much must a meal like that have cost? Looking around me at the spreading squalor, I suddenly felt guilty for allowing myself to enjoy it. Beef and mutton were in high demand, which meant they went up the hill. On a good day, those in the lower city might get liver, or a bit of tongue, but mostly we lived on fish, duck, and eggs. When those couldn’t be found, there were always pigeons and rats. I hadn’t seen a dog or a cat in Davlova in years.

Only two gates allowed access through the wall. One in the first quadrant, near the docks, called Fish Gate, and here, at the southernmost point in the wall, through Plaza Gate, which opened into the large courtyard I’d been working during the festival.

Had it only been three days ago?

Past the plaza, I was officially back in my territory—the fourth quadrant—the slums of Lower Davlova. Bordered by the wall to the north, the city to the west, and the sea on every other side, there was no room for the rest of us. Here, buildings had started out beautiful and ornate, like Anzhéla’s theatre, deep red brick, topped with broad-winged gargoyles, but as the population of Lower Davlova grew, so did the squalor. Ramshackle huts were crammed between the buildings, built of stick and mud and paper. Every year, the ocean ate a bit more of the southern coast, and yet we struggled to maintain a sense of normalcy even as the wall swallowed the sky, and the reek of the piss and fish and horseshit cut off our air.

These were the trenches.

I’d lived my entire life in this part of the city. The first ten years had been at a series of inns where my mom worked as a maid, promising me that someday we’d go home to Aurius, until the day a tenant from overseas dragged her into his room. The next day she was dead, and I was out on the streets. It was Anzhéla who’d taken me in, given me a home and taught me a trade. Not an honest trade, but one that put clothes on my back and food in my mouth. One that helped feed all of Anzhéla’s clan.

I made my way across the plaza. A few vendors were trying to sell their wares, but nobody was buying. A few whores lingered on street corners, but I saw no customers in sight. I felt the eyes of uncounted wretches watching me from the alleys. On one edge of the plaza, a masked man in a yellow robe held court. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I didn’t need to. He was promoting revolution, and he had a rapt audience. Nobody knew exactly who these men were. Some said they were connected to the priests of the Duo from Deliphine. Other said they were servants of the Guild, the group of surgeons across the sea who specialized in neural implants. Those who believed this theory claimed the men wore their yellow hoods to hide the scars that belied their implants. But Anzhéla scoffed at both notions, and I had a feeling she knew more than most.

A new batch of yellow leaflets littered the ground. There was a lot of speculation as to who printed the fliers, and how. Clearly they were associated with the preachers in their yellow robes, but how were they doing it? Did they use electricity to print their propaganda, or a simple printing press? Either way, it was a crime worthy of death. I would have bet every coin I owned that Anzhéla was involved, but I kept my suspicions to myself.

I picked one up. The news was brief but dark. Two young girls from the third quadrant raped on festival day by members of the city guard. One was dead. Two children of the fourth quadrant had been run over by some rich bastard’s carriage. The driver didn’t even stop. There was no accurate count of how many had been arrested during the festival, but it was a safe bet there had been more than the usual number. Whether their crimes were real or imagined, only Donato would ever know.

When, the leaflet asked, would the tattooed bastards on the hill be made to answer for their crimes?

I didn’t know the answer. I didn’t dare wonder if me fucking Donato would somehow help. I dropped the paper and moved on.

I entered our quarters through the entrance under the gate and was admitted through the trapdoor into the theatre by one of my clanmates. Anzhéla wasn’t in her office, but Frey was.

“Sit tight,” he said, closing the door behind me. “She’s been waiting for you. Thought you’d be here hours ago.”

“It was a late night.”

I opted not to add the part about drinking a stupid amount of wine, but the look Frey gave made me wonder if he knew anyway.

He sat behind the second desk in the office—his desk—which was actually nothing more than a long wooden table strewn with gears and bits of wire and electronics. Frey was a good twenty-five years older than I was. He remembered the days before the ban. I’d seen him take broken watches apart and reassemble them into a working piece. He’d once made a hand-cranked phonograph work, and had even shown me years before how the projector was supposed to work, although without an electric bulb, the demonstration had been less than thrilling. I’d never seen him use electricity, but I knew he longed for the day when he could use its power to make things function in their proper way again.