The Lost of New Bristol (Lila Randolph Book 2) Page 7

  Dixon avoided her eyes and trundled toward his room, yawning, ready for bed. It was a place he’d likely been for half the day.

  Lila glanced at Tristan, not ready to leave. She hadn’t come just to talk about their failure at LeBeau’s. She’d come to talk with him about the gunman, about how she’d felt when she thought she’d killed him.

  He’d be one of the few people who would understand.

  But now that she was with him, she didn’t know how to begin the conversation.

  Instead, she kept silent. She didn’t share the message she’d received, either. It wasn’t like Tristan could do anything about it, and it was all a little too much, too suddenly. She needed to get back home and work on it, to trace it back to the source.

  She stood up to go.

  Predictably, Tristan tugged on her hand before she could step away. They had done the same dance for nearly a week.

  Lila didn’t say a word.

  Neither did he.

  She let Tristan guide her into his bedroom and close the door. A string of bottle caps swayed in the window as he cracked it open, the metal rattling like bells as it shook back and forth on a warm breeze. The crossbows and knives and mace on the walls glinted as he turned off the lights. Papers peeked from an open door on the filing cabinet in the corner.

  She’d spend one more night curled around him, their fingers touching nothing but sheets, their lips unused.

  She couldn’t keep doing this to herself, being so close to him without skin and motion and whispers and more.

  But she couldn’t leave, either.

  Chapter 5

  Lila yawned and crept up the stairs of the great house well before dawn, careful on the third and ninth steps to avoid squeaky boards. The show of it annoyed her. The fact that she had to pretend to sneak back into her own house at six o’clock in the morning—somewhat badly—just to give her mother’s spies something to report back to the chairwoman, just so that they all thought they could still catch her if she was up to something.

  Lila wasn’t sure why she even bothered. For fuck’s sake, she was the chief of Randolph security. She could do better than this. Her mother should expect more.

  As she turned to slink down the hall toward her room, her younger brother Pax hopped up from the floor, a questioning look in his eyes.

  Busted.

  And not by whom she wanted.

  “You were out all night again,” he whispered, his loose brown waves falling over his eyes. He fidgeted with the drawstring of his pajama bottoms. His t-shirt stretched across his chest, already tight even though he’d just gone up a size. At sixteen, his body was already too large for his age. He’d grown clumsier and clumsier, too, as though a mouse lived inside him, working the levers.

  A perpetually inebriated mouse.

  But a happy one. Pax had always been joyful and sweet, even as a toddler. That joy had changed to sorrow several months before, the night his best friend had died, a best friend that Lila knew wasn’t a best friend at all, not that Pax likely understood his own feelings.

  Unfortunately, most of his mirth had perished along with his friend.

  Lila shrugged under his scrutiny, feeling guilty that she’d spent time with Tristan while Pax mourned his loss alone. After Dixon had nearly died in front of her, she promised herself that she’d spend more time with Pax. She had followed through, but it didn’t feel like enough.

  “I had work. We just took over another family’s compound, remember?”

  “Work? Lie all you want, Lila Randolph, but I’m onto you.” Pax circled her, brow raised. “Work hasn’t kept you away the last few nights. I know how you look when you don’t sleep.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. When you’re really busy, you get these heavy, dark circles under your eyes.” He pointed at her face. “The ones you have now are just a little dark, which means you’re still sleeping some. Besides, you’re not nearly cranky enough.”

  “I’m taking naps at the office. I have my own apartment there,” she reminded him, annoyed that she couldn’t reside in the security office all the time. It was the rare chief of security who lived in her chairwoman’s great house, though. Most would jump at her arrangement, but those chiefs didn’t have to deal with a network of spies always peeking into her life. It didn’t matter that they were rarely successful. It was the fact that her mother believed that Lila’s business was her business, too. She also seemed to believe that if she kept Lila safe and close, then her daughter might one day decide to toss her career away and become the prime heir.

  Her mother had the patience of a tortoise.

  “Naps in your office? I don’t believe you. I suspect you’re up to something more than work, and I think it’s about time.”

  Pax tried to smile, his own private tragedy scrawled all over his face. It made it worse that he was trying so hard to be happy for her. This young boy who’d lost his best friend and his first love all at once, making such an effort because he cared so much about her.

  Gods, she was a horrible sister.

  Lila put her arms around her brother, squeezing him as tightly as she could. “Come visit with me.”

  “No. I have to get ready.” He pulled away and dug his thumb into his doorjamb.

  She doubted Pax needed to be ready for anything. He just wasn’t up to talking this morning. She could see his eyes turning a bit red, and knew he’d be gone in a few minutes.

  Alone. Lying on his bed. Staring at the wall. Trying not to cry.

  “You can always knock on my door for a chat, Pax. I’ll never be too busy for you.”

  “I know, but you have places to be, just like I do.” Pax smiled softly. “Life goes on and all that. Breakfast and work come around each morning, and they’ll come around tomorrow, just like the next day and the next day after that.”

  “Pax—”

  “That man died yesterday.”

  Lila nodded.

  “You saved that boy. Perhaps Mother too, and the prime minster. You could have died.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You got hurt.” He jutted his chin at the purple bruise on her jaw.

  “It looks far worse than it is.”

  “That’s what you said about your hands. You have to go around in gloves now. I’m glad you can’t ride your Firefly for a while. You go too fast on it.”

  “I’m careful.” Lila grabbed his chin. “Everyone is okay, Pax. Did you sleep?”

  The boy shrugged.

  Ah, it would be one of those days. A day when Pax just went through the motions. She’d get nothing out of him.

  “Are you going to the hospital?”

  Pax nodded. “I’m observing an appendectomy today, but first Ms. Beaumont is coming by for more drilling of pointless subjects.”

  Lila hoped he’d take a shower and change out of his pajamas before his tutor arrived. She’d rousted him out of bed for the first month after Trevor died, standing in his room and making herself an unavoidable nuisance until he took care of himself.

  Was he backsliding now?

  “I’m going to take a shower. Don’t give me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That look. Like you’re about to drop a bucket of ice water on my head.”

  “I don’t have a look,” she said, knowing she did. Pax was one of the few who could recognize it. “You pay attention to Ms. Beaumont. You have to study hard if you want to become a doctor.”

  Lila straightened his hair and squeezed his shoulder. She wanted to ask when he would return to boarding school, but she knew that he’d only shut down. The halls of his school reminded him too much of Trevor, and he couldn’t bear the thought of going back without him.

  She wouldn’t push. Not yet.

  “Geography and grammar and art? I don’t need to know any of tha
t to be a trauma surgeon.”

  “Oh really? I wouldn’t want someone working on my body who sounded like an ignorant fool or who couldn’t read a map of my innards.”

  “You wouldn’t want anyone working on your body anyway.” He grinned, a sliver of the old Pax showing through. “Except for the person working on it last night. Who was that again?”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “Are you sure? I know a lot of people.”

  “I know where I can find a pot of cold water.”

  His lips twitched. “On that note, I should get ready for Ms. Beaumont.”

  “A shower—”

  “And clothes, I know. Geesh, you can be so annoying sometimes,” he muttered as he slid back into his room.

  Lila turned back to hers, glimpsing a flash of white and black at the end of the hallway. Alex had ironed her skirt and blouse perfectly, and she’d fashioned her hair into a bun without a hair out of place. She always looked put together, no matter what time you looked in on her. Lila had never learned her secret.

  The slave nearly dropped her duster, and her mouth opened in surprise. Her eyes dipped, roving over Lila’s lack of pajamas. She cocked her head to the side, curiosity flashing for one brief second.

  Then it was gone.

  A week ago, Alex would have grinned immediately. She would have grabbed Lila’s hand and dragged her into her room, instantly peppering her with question after question after question. Where had she been? What had she done?

  More importantly, who had she done?

  Lila might have shared a few details, venting about her partner’s disinterest, even if Lila kept his identity to herself. They’d laugh about things. They’d have hot chocolate. Lila would share her feelings about shooting the gunman, even though she hadn’t killed him after all. They’d finally talk about Alex’s mother and brother, and Alex would forgive her. She’d cry on Lila’s shoulder about poor, wayward Patrick. They’d wonder how they’d never seen his true nature before.

  But that would never happen now. They weren’t best friends anymore. Perhaps they hadn’t been for a very long time. Tristan had said once that they were on a different level now, that a slave and a highborn couldn’t be friends, not when one owned the other.

  Alex’s eyes grew hard as Lila stepped forward. “Alex, I—”

  “Ms. Wilson,” she reminded Lila, the first words she’d spoken since the argument in Lila’s room, the night of the Wilson riot. She gripped her duster and forced her lips into a smile, her eyes narrowing with every passing second. “I saw the news. You’ve moved on, haven’t you? You’re killing them yourself these days, in front of audiences, rather than letting Bullstow do your dirty work. I heard they clapped afterward.”

  “Ale— Ms. Wilson, I—”

  Alex didn’t stay. She turned on her heel and click-clacked downstairs, leaving the railing undusted.

  Leaving Lila with her thoughts.

  That’s how it was with Alex now. Anger and betrayal etched all over her face.

  Lila deserved such treatment, though, didn’t she? She hadn’t just been a part of the investigation that had netted her friend’s mother and brother. She’d been behind it, had spurred it on.

  Lila stepped inside her bedroom and checked for bugs, then opened her snoop programs.

  They’d netted no results.

  Sighing, she plopped down in her desk chair and pulled off her gloves and boots. She spent nearly two hours altering the program and setting it to run again. Sliding back the panel to the secret compartment in the closet, she hid her clothes in a canvas sports bag. Then she shuffled to the bathroom, stretching her slashed fingers, wincing as she opened and closed her palms.

  A long, hot shower washed the sweat from her skin. Tristan’s open window had only done so much to combat the heat from his body and the lack of air conditioning—air conditioning that Tristan would not turn on because of Dixon.

  Lila drained the tub and wrapped her hair in a towel, searching for something casual to wear to breakfast with her father, stitched with her family’s coat of arms on the right breast. It would look too official if she wore her blackcoat to Bullstow this morning, and odd if she wore unmarked clothes. She only did that when meeting with spies or Tristan’s organization.

  She only wore them when she needed to be anonymous.

  She only hid them so her mother wouldn’t send in a slave to burn them.

  After settling on a crimson blouse and a pair of black trousers, Lila slipped on a pair of knee-high boots while her computer read out the latest article from Alexandre Bouchard. Tristan used the pen name, as well as a second, to write for the New Bristol Times. It was his attempt to subvert the conversation, to warp public opinion on many issues important to the workborn by using two writers on opposite sides of the same issues, one just a bit more reasoned and persuasive than the other. He did a damn fine job of it, too. Not only could he live well off his salaries, but Mael Faucheux and Alexendre Bouchard were frequently quoted throughout Saxony. It was quite a feat for the son of a slave and a highborn father, a father who had never acknowledged him but had provided for his education.

  Tristan had used it well.

  After drying her hair, she put her daily coating of ointment on her hands, bandaged them, and slipped on her black gloves, all to keep dirt and germs from her wounds. Then she stared at the ugly purple bruise on her jaw. Concealer had only muted it.

  There was a timid knock at the door before it burst open.

  Lila peeked out from the bathroom as Isabel entered with a pile of fresh linens. Her red hair had been pulled into a bun, and the white blouse and black skirt she wore fit a bit loosely. The young woman enjoyed Chef’s cooking far too much to miss meals. Alex’s recent attitude had forced her to work harder, to pick up the slack.

  “I’m sorry, madam.” Isabel gasped and bowed, desperately backing out of the room. “I thought you’d gone already to Falcon Home.”

  “I’m running a bit late. Will you stay for a moment, please? I need a word.”

  Isabel fumbled with the linens uncertainly.

  “If you need to work while we talk, do so. I know you’re busy lately.”

  Busy and too shy to sit down and have a relaxed conversation with the chief of security and former prime. Lila was never sure which title made Isabel more nervous.

  Isabel had come into the compound at eighteen, convicted of stealing from a Randolph department store. Bullstow had turned the girl over to the Randolph militia after sentencing, and Lila had nearly signed the paperwork to send her to the auction house.

  Chef had vouched for her, had vowed to supervise the girl and take responsibility if the family would retain the girl’s mark. She didn’t give Lila any more information than that.

  Predictably, Lila had dug a little deeper.

  It turned out the girl had stolen for her little brother and sister, both on the cusp of attending school. Isabel had been raising the pair all alone, or alone in principle, as their father was a useless drunk. The man rarely crawled from their shared apartment, and lately, the money from their inheritance had begun to run out sooner and sooner at the end of every month.

  Since the family didn’t have money for school supplies and uniforms, Isabel had tried to steal them. She’d managed the supplies but hadn’t quite gotten away with stealing the clothes. She’d been caught, and only a few days later, her sister and brother had gone into foster care. The neighbors had found them roaming the halls with soiled clothes and empty bellies, crying for their big sister. They still didn’t understand why she’d been taken. Their father hadn’t bothered to explain it, and he’d been too drunk to notice that the children had slipped out.

  After meeting Isabel, it became obvious that she was far too dreamy and nervous to spy for another family. Lila had set up a frightening meeting with the chairwoman, and because Isabel was do
cile and sweet and pretty, she’d been assigned to the great house. The chairwoman had even pulled a few strings with New Bristol’s Family Protection Services. Isabel’s siblings were put in her care while she served her year-long sentence for theft.

  It might not have happened at all if Chef hadn’t agreed to sponsor the young family, peeking in and writing the necessary reports, vowing she’d ensure the children got to school, and ensuring that Isabel would work through her online parenting courses.

  Isabel was so appreciative that she’d signed a servant’s contract right after her slave’s term ended. It was a damn good job for someone like her, finding herself in the great house of Randolphs despite her poor education, making plenty of money to care for her young family. Plus she was fond of Chef’s food. In fact, that was pretty much all Isabel would talk about if pressed. Books and food.

  Lila and Chef saw to it that she had plenty.

  “I saw Ms. Wilson today,” Lila said as Isabel removed the comforter from the bed, a comforter she hadn’t slept under much recently.

  “Yes, madam. Ms. O’Malley asked her to dust the stairs. She asked me to do it for her, but I was fetching the laundry.” Isabel frowned, her face paling. “Should I have done the dusting?”

  Isabel looked so tired. She’d likely been up early, getting her brother and sister ready for school. Lila remembered poking at Pax often when she began her militia training, for he refused to get out of bed for anyone else. Likely because she’d had never asked nicely. She’d once pulled him out of bed by an ankle and dunked him into a bathtub filled with cold water. After that, he’d always gotten out of bed the moment she knocked.

  At least until he’d become a teenager. When he decided she was too small to pull him to the bath, he’d tested it. She’d ripped off his blankets and dumped a pitcher of ice water over his head, promising to call for more if he didn’t get his ass out of bed.

  He’d gotten up immediately and never tried it again.

  “Isabel, don’t take on Ms. Wilson’s work because of me. I don’t mind seeing her in the corridor. Where has she been working lately?”