Chapter One
I am a monster.
Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the pencil. She had snapped the sharpened tip several times already. Now she was scratching at the paper with blunted lead and pointed bits of wood. It barely left a mark on the page of the notebook in her lap.
She stared down at her hand—is this mine?—that was attached to a wrist she didn’t recognize. To a forearm that wasn’t hers. To an elbow that wasn’t hers. She was shivering. She felt numb. She knew it was from the painkillers he had injected her with. But the painkillers were better than the pain that had woken her up, the sound of a scream ripping from her throat.
A scream she hadn’t recognized.
A scream that hadn’t been human.
The pencil slipped from her fingers—through the white and black fur that covered her digits. With a low whine in her throat, she tried to pick it up again. She didn’t feel in control. These weren’t really her hands. She didn’t have fur.
She didn’t have claws.
“It’s all right. Try again.”
She didn’t look up at the soft voice that was gently trying to coach her through the action. She pressed harder against the wood wall at her back, feeling the edges of the plank digging into her.
She felt numb.
But somehow, she still felt too much at the same time. Every movement of the air. Every ridge of the wood floor. Every light was too bright. Every sound was too loud.
And these were not her hands.
“Try again, sweetheart…it’s going to be okay.” The man didn’t come closer from where he crouched on the floor some ten feet away. He had tried to. She had also tried to tear open his face because of it.
She reached for the pencil with trembling hands she still insisted weren’t hers. This time it stayed in between the grayscale fur on her fingers. White and black stripes ran over the back of her hand and up her arm to just past her elbow had no business being there.
Shouldn’t have fur. Should have been pink skin. Should have been normal. Her nails should not have been pointed claws.
She put the blunted pencil to the paper and began to scratch out words.
“It’s good to keep a journal. Especially now that so much has changed. It will help you sort out your thoughts and feelings.”
She was shivering again. She was altogether too hot and too cold at once. She refused to look up at the man. She didn’t know what she would do if she saw his face.
Scream?
Try to kill him?
Cry?
She focused on the paper. And she wrote the words.
My name is Opal.
I am a monster.
***
Four months earlier
Opal watched the sun rise onto rows of white linen hospital beds. The nurses and doctors all wore the same color of perfect, pure fabric. She wondered how it was possible to keep everything so tidy in their line of work.
Spares, she assumed. And bleach.
Lots, and lots, of bleach.
There were at least a hundred cots in this one room alone, arranged in two long rows with their headboards up against the walls. Windows high overhead provided a glimpse of sunlight or, as was more common in Britannia, dreary gray clouds. It was early morning, and just a bit of that elusive blue sky was visible through a few of the panes.
The ward didn’t have much of a view. It wasn’t designed for that.
It was designed for the dying.
She had tuberculosis. “Consumption” was what her friends and colleagues called it. It was a common enough of a fate in her line of work, after all. She fought a cough, fought the blood that wanted to bubble up and fill her mouth. She could taste it in the back of her throat—coppery and bitter. She scooched up on the bed, sitting a little straighter and placing her shoulders against the brass tubes of the headboard. Maybe a better angle would help her breathe.
Nope. It didn’t.
She sighed, coughed, and grimaced at the taste. She wiped her lips with the scrap of cloth they gave her. Her hands trembled and shook as she did. She had become so weak over the past few months.
It wouldn’t be long now, they said. She had a month at most. But illnesses like hers could escalate without warning.
Opal was going to die.
At least they kept her on painkillers when she was here in the hospital. She could go home, but they wouldn’t let her leave with any of the opium that helped take the sting away from her burning lungs or aching limbs. She was certain rich families were allowed to leave the hospital with a lifetime supply.
But not someone like her.
Not someone in her line of work.
She was likely to give it away to some lowlife or addict. She couldn’t be trusted. She was a degenerate, after all.
She was an escort.
She shut her eyes.
She was a prostitute.
There was no point to nicer words and indignation anymore. When they had diagnosed her disease, she could see the glances the doctors gave each other. A pretty young girl who could pay in cash? Who lived by herself in an expensive flat? One who had no prestigious family name, and who came to the hospital with no whimpering fiancé or loved ones at her side?
Not to mention, one who refused to tell them what she did for a living?
There was only one other option.
It wasn’t until they told her that she was dying that the doctor finally flat out asked her if she was a whore.
And it was then that she decided there was no use lying about it. She could pay for hospice herself. She wouldn’t be a “burden on society.” They couldn’t kick her out. So why not tell the truth?
Then she had remembered. Because the nurses never looked at her the same way again once she told them. Their smiles were no longer kind but filled with righteousness. Because they looked at her as if to say “yes, you slut, this is what you deserve.”
Slut, harlot, slapper, slag, tramp, hooker, floozy, hussy, whore. She knew them all, and several more in a dozen languages.
There really were a lot of words for a “loose woman.”
Opal had heard them ever since she had gone into her line of work. They had been spat at her as insults, whispered between jealous rivals, and grunted at her in darkened rooms by her patrons.
It hurt her feelings at first. It still did, if she were honest. But like all things, she developed armor to it over the years. Especially because she was successful. She had a regular list of high-paying, very bourgeoisie clientele. She was—had been—one of the most sought-after escorts in high society. Not only because she knew what to do after a dinner ended, but because she knew what to do during one.
For every second son of a rich family, for every poor gay descendent of some fancy well-to-do businessman, she was the best of the best. With her long, perfect blonde hair, hourglass figure, and flawless smile, she knew how to win over a room. She knew how to laugh like a vapid idiot. She knew how to keep her conversations short, pithy, and devoid of meaningful content.
She was there to make her patron look impressive. Not to be a real person on her own.
And then, after dinner was over, she would do whatever it was the gentlemen required of her. Either to simply kill time with them and play cards—she really did love her nights with Sean, that poor closeted boy—or to fulfill whatever wishes they could dream of with a lady.
And boy, some of her clients had strange dreams. But she smiled, laughed, and found the pleasure in it all.
She was good at her job. Damn good. And what was the saying? If you love your work, it isn’t work at all? She had taken pride at how booked her nights were. At how many times one gentleman would call her for her services only to find she was already spoken for. Not only for that evening, but oftentimes she was already booked to attend the same gala with a different gentleman. She loved the parties. She loved the dresses. She loved being desired.
But more than that, she loved…well, love. In all its forms.
Even if it was the reason she was now on her deathbed.
She looked down at the stained piece of fabric in her hand. She could almost hear her mother scolding her for it. She was always getting into trouble as a little girl. But there was little else to do as a workhouse rat.
Maybe she should have sewn fabric like her mother. Maybe she should have worked the switchboards and become a phone operator. Maybe she should have done a lot of things. Is this what it’s like to die? Being presented with a list of all the things I could have done over the years? Maybe this, and maybe that? She sighed. I hate dying.
But she’d done exactly none of those things. She had decided instead to pursue her passion. Which was, coincidently, passion.
Maybe that made the philistines right about what they said about her. Maybe that made her a slut and a harlot. Maybe that made her a terrible, sinful creature. But what was so wrong about two—ish—consenting adults enjoying each other? Why was that sin? Why was that kind of “lust” worthy of the gates of Hades?
She should have been born in the South Wind Dominion. They weren’t so strict with their social rules. But in the West Wind, things were decidedly more rigid. More austere. More judgmental. The East Wind was a hard no-go for her. The North…eh…she hated the cold. Even if she did hear that the fires of the camps were plenty warm and welcoming.
It didn’t matter anymore. This was the last place she would ever see. The cold, rigid, austere hospital beds of a society that piled its dying souls into one room to better serve their end-of-life needs.
And so they could watch each other die.
She had seen seven people go in the three days she had been there so far. Each time it happened she couldn’t help but stare. Sometimes she wondered how long the person had been there under their sheets as a corpse with no one knowing.
How long would she lie here before anyone noticed she had died?
After a lifetime of warm hands holding hers under the table, all the drinks, and laughter, and stolen kisses, and private nights…it had been reduced to this. Wondering how long she would be a lifeless corpse—one among many—in a room of the dying.
All together.
And entirely alone.
A coughing fit rose in her lungs without warning. She wheezed, doubled over, cringing in pain as a thick, viscous liquid filled her mouth. She swallowed some of it. Bitter, copper, and poisoned.
She blotted at her lips and looked down at the rag in her hands. Red. She fought the tears and won. She was done crying. She was done feeling sorry for herself. She had lived her life. It had been short—but it had been glorious.
She wondered if Sean would cry when he found out she was dead. He was the third son of a politician and had little else to look forward to. He was expected to appear at public events, be seen with a beautiful woman who was unnoteworthy, and live an otherwise quiet, scandal-free life. He was not his own individual, after all. He was his father’s son.
If others learned that he preferred the company of men…well, that would reflect poorly on his father. And such things could not be tolerated.
And so she was there at his side. Giggling at his jokes, listening eagerly to his stories, and kissing him in the garden when she knew a photographer was around. Some scandals were the right kind of scandals. And poor Sean needed help fighting the rumors.
After hours, they drank scotch and played cards and laughed together. He was a very funny man. She had considered him a close friend. He had proposed to her. Asked her to make him an “honest man.” But that would have been a terrible lie for both of them to live.
The irony hadn’t been lost on him.
She hoped Sean didn’t cry too much when she died.
But it did feel nice to think she might be missed. Even just a little.
I don’t like this whole dying bullshit. I don’t like it at all.
She looked up at the sound of the doors to the hospice ward opening. It was pretty early for the lunch rounds. She furrowed her brow in curiosity. Three figures stood by the door, caught in the shadows and too obscured for her to make sense of them. One of them was very large. One of them was very short. And the third looked human.
It was only in comparison to the third one that she realized that the other two weren’t shaped right. Not at all.
She swallowed some of the glop in her throat and sat up a little straighter. The Dominions were all prone to rumor and twisted stories of the power that propelled them. The East Wind with their whispers of lightning and robotic armies. The South Wind with their fire and—recently abolished—slavery. The North Wind had its stories of ice, of rock, and…armies of the dead.
The West Wind Dominion was not without its rumors. Of typhoons that rose at the will of its Cardinal. And of monsters who answered his command. Monsters of his making.
A man walked out of the shadows, leaving the hulking shape and the smaller creature lurking in the doorway. As he drew closer, she smiled. He was…all right, he was adorable. He was dressed in a houndstooth suit, a bowler hat perched on top of a brown head of hair that was just a little too long. A little scruffy. His outfit was expensive, but just a teensy bit ill-kept. The urge to fix his tie or straighten out his pocket square was overwhelming. She had been the arm candy of too many rich men who didn’t know how to dress themselves, after all.
His dress shoes clicked on the wood plank floors of the hospital as he walked between the beds, his eyes scanning those who lay in the cots. He was searching for something. As he drew closer, she recognized him from the papers. The photos really hadn’t done him any justice.
He was handsome, with cut features, and fiercely intelligent brown eyes. It was halfway down the aisle of beds that he pulled his bowler hat from his head and smoothed his hand over his neglected-length hair.
The scientist. The monster-maker.
Hugo Finch, the Cardinal of the West Wind Dominion.
But why was he here? In a hospice ward for those without the clout to warrant their own private rooms? She had heard the rumors—but they were only just that. Rumors.
His eyes settled on her, and she froze. He approached her cot, and she fought the urge to shrink away. Not because she was afraid of him, or the rumors that circulated about him, but because he was…well…the Cardinal.
With no introduction, no more than just that simple, slightly lopsided smile, he walked up and sat on the edge of her bed. That was the bearing of a man who knew he was in charge of everything around him.
Or was at least too socially unaware to care.
Either one.
She watched him, scrutinizing his every movement. Was this a publicity event? Was this about a photoshoot for the papers? Cardinal of the West Wind visits dying whore, pats her on the head, story at eleven?
She tried not to laugh at the absurdity of it. If she laughed, she’d probably cough blood everywhere, and that was probably rude.
He smiled again at her. Sheepishly this time. And then she realized something…
The pretty, and adorable, and just-slightly-unkempt Cardinal was shy.
Oh, goodness. Mother above. If she weren’t dying.
She really did have a type—well, okay, everyone was her type. That was probably part of what had gotten her into this mess. But she did really like the awkward ones.
And Hugo Finch, the Cardinal of the West Wind Dominion…looked painfully that.
“Hello,” she greeted him. She hated how small her voice sounded. How weak and scratchy. It didn’t sound like her at all. “Cardinal.”
There was palpable relief on his face, as if she had saved him a great deal of lengthy introduction. And then he reached his hand out to her, palm up. He wasn’t afraid of her illness. He probably knew well enough that she wasn’t contagious to him. Not from a simple touch of hands. He was a doctor, after all.
She placed her hand in his without hesitating. Why not? What did she have to lose?
“Call me Hugo.” He glanced down at her lap, and then turned his eyes back up to her. They were a wonderful shade of chestnut brown. Warm and friendly. “What’s your name?”
Oh, Cardinal. If I weren’t dying, I think I’d take you to bed right here and right now. Everyone could watch. Or join in. I don’t care. She spared him all the scandalous preamble. “Opal.”
“Well, Opal…” He placed his other hand gently atop the one he held in his palm. His touch was warm. Gentle. Soft, but calloused at the pads. A man who had never done hard labor but was no stranger to other kinds of work. “I have an offer for you.”
She tilted her head to the side slightly. “Sir…I’m dying.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.” His hand tightened just a little on hers. Not threateningly—at least she didn’t think it was. “What if I told you I could save your life?”
She rested her head back against the brass tubes of the headboard. She watched him, carefully contemplating his words. Replaying over in her head every article she’d read, every whispered rumor. “Forgive me for my directness, Dr. Finch…”
“Hugo. And please—be direct with me as much as you’d like. I hate niceties. I despise them.”
“Hugo.” She smiled faintly and then let it fade. If you hate niceties, you’re gonna love me, buddy. “What’ll it cost me?”
He glanced toward the doorway and at the two misshapen figures who lurked in the darkness there. When he looked back to her, his expression had lost its bashful, apprehensive nature. It was colder. Far colder. His words were toned to match.
“I think you know, Opal. I think you know.”