Carnival of Lies
Author: Melissa Marr
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Young Adult; Romance; Magic; Novella; Witches; Short Stories; Paranormal; Demons; High Fantasy
Description: A digital original novella set in the twisted world of the Untamed City created by Melissa Marr Carnival of Secrets fans will be thrilled for this never-before-seen moment between Aya and Belias, set in the Untamed City universe.
Publisher: HarperCollins
Rights: All rights reserved

CONTENTS

Begin Reading

Excerpt from Carnival of Secrets

Back Ads

About the Author

Books by Melissa Marr

Copyright

About the Publisher

BEGIN READING

AYA BROUGHT HER KNEE up as hard as she could while simultaneously pulling Belias’ body downward. It was a solid hit to his chest. As he started to fall farther forward, she brought her elbow down on the back of his neck.

He grunted at impact and bent double, but didn’t go to the ground. “Good,” he said. “Harder though, especially if it’s not me you’re fighting.”

He grabbed her calf and jerked her legs out from under her.

“And don’t let words distract you,” he half teased as she hit the floor of the fight room they’d reserved for the morning.

She stayed on the floor, staring up, holding Belias’ gaze. He was smiling, happy, and relaxed when it was just the two of them. In The City, he had a role to fill, a duty he took far more seriously than most daimons of their age, but Belias’ father had died when he was young, so he’d always had a somberness to him. It was one of the things she’d decided she liked when she was told he’d be her spouse: he seemed more like a man than most daimons of their caste.

As she rolled to her side and came to her feet, she asked, “Have you ever thought about Marchosias’ Competition?”

He frowned. “No.”

“Enrollment is coming up soon.” She paced away from him to grab a rag to wipe the sweat from her face. The bin of scraps was at the edge of the fight area so they had conveniently located material. Typically, the cloths were used to staunch blood or bind wounds, but she had no need for that with Belias. Other than bruises and sore muscles, she was, once again, uninjured. Sometimes Belias was willing to train with weapons, but the older they became, the less often he was willing to fight all-out with her.

“Ruling-caste daimons are talking about entering. Sol is, and I think Nicco too,” she said.

Belias followed her. “Why would I need to do that? The prize is something we already have.”

He curled one hand around her hip, gently pulling her toward him. She wasn’t surprised. They ended most of their fights with sex, but right now, she wanted to talk. She’d been thinking about the competition more and more, but it was a difficult subject to broach. It would be far easier to let the subject drop, more satisfying too. It didn’t take much for her body to scream yes to his advances. She liked to think it had been easier to say no before their first night together, but she knew that was a lie. If he’d have pressured her, truly used his charms, she’d have been in his bed—or any other nearby flat surface—the first time he kissed her. As it was, it had been a matter of days between his decision to be intimate and her acquiescence. There was no reason to deny him: they’d been betrothed since her birth. He was hers, the daimon selected for her, the one who would have control over most of her choices until one of them died.

She turned toward him, enjoying the way his hand slid across her body as she moved. Sometimes she thought that their intimacies weren’t so different from their fights. In both, he was more experienced, and she was determined to impress him enough that he forgot everyone before her. She wanted him to be unable to even consider looking at anyone else—even though she knew that most daimons took mistresses or made use of the red-masked pleasure vendors in the carnival. All of the men—and more than a few women—in their caste did so. Some weren’t discreet about it, flaunting their bedmates with no regard for the feelings of their betrothed or even for their wives. Belias, however, wasn’t crass. He’d always been discreet in his encounters, even before she was old enough to know what he did with those women.

“So you aren’t going to enter the competition and show off your prowess?” she prompted.

“If you want to watch me fight, you can watch me when I train.” He frowned a little. “If you want to watch other fighters, I can buy front-row seats to as many fights as you want. I’m not interested in killing for something I already have. The competition isn’t for me.”

“What if it was something for me?” She nuzzled his throat, dragging her teeth over the skin after a few kisses. She was lucky; everyone said so. Belias’ family was one of the highest ranked, and he was both fit and fierce. She bit gently, and his arms came around her.

“We can watch as many matches as you want. I can even give you a betting allowance if you want,” Belias offered. “We’ll be wed by then, but you know I won’t deny you spending money any more than your father did when you were a child.” He paused and glanced down at her flat stomach. “You might even have our first child growing inside you.”

Aya repressed a shudder. The thought of carrying a child filled her with a terror she couldn’t speak. The weight of that fear reaffirmed her belief that this was the right path. She didn’t address his comments. Instead, she steeled herself and said, “The prize in Marchosias’ Competition isn’t something I have, Bel.”

He laughed. “The prize is joining the ruling caste, little bird. You’re ruling caste already, and you’ll be the wife of one of Marchosias’ generals. Of course, you already have that,” he murmured. His fingers trailed down her spine, tracing her body as if he didn’t already know every bone and muscle, every nerve and pulse of her. “Unless . . . Are you pretending to be someone else?”

Aya almost smiled at the odd sound in his voice. She wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of pretending or if he was uncomfortable with it.

“The winner also gets a job,” Aya said mildly, even though her heart raced in fear of Belias’ reaction. He wasn’t her husband yet, so he couldn’t order her not to enroll in the fights. He would be her spouse before the competition started though; then, her every action would be subject to his approval—or require her to lie.

She caressed his chest as she spoke. “I could be something more than a breeder if I won.”

“You’ll be my wife, little bird. Mother to my heirs. Fierce enough to keep our young alive. Why would you want anything else?” Belias pulled back from her then and looked down into her eyes. His brow was furrowed, confusion clear in his expression.

Aya shook her head. Belias might be more thoughtful than a lot of daimons in The City, but he was still unable to see how her lack of options wasn’t for the good. She withdrew from his embrace and walked back to the center of the fight space.

“I want to fight in the competition,” she announced.

Her betrothed, the daimon she loved and would soon marry, walked over to face her.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes. Gone was the daimon who teased and smiled. Instead, he looked every bit the stern soldier he appeared when they walked through the carnival together. She knew that he finally understood that she was serious, and a part of her wished that she’d kept her silence a bit longer. They could’ve had at least a few more months together.

He held her gaze. “I forbid you, Aya.”

“We are not wed yet,” she reminded him. “You don’t have the authority.”

“By the time Marchosias’ Competition starts, we will be.” He lifted his fists in a boxer’s stance. “If you want to fight more, I’ll fight you, but I won’t allow my wife to grapple in the street like a cur.”

Aya lifted her own fists.

“Do you understand me?” he prompted.

She swung, missed, and dodged his first punch before saying, “I understand.”

AYA WALKED THROUGH THE carnival with the comfort that came from both class and competence. Those who abided by the rules wouldn’t accost her, and those who weren’t swayed by law were typically daimons she could dispatch if need be. Her mother would still be appalled to know that she’d walked through the carnival without guard or betrothed at her side. Aya felt a flash of guilt at the thought; ever since she’d learned that the woman she’d thought of as her mother all of these years wasn’t any blood relation to her, she’d been a model daughter. There was something heartbreaking in knowing the secret that her mother didn’t.

“Watcher’s blood, given freely,” a hawker called from a booth she was passing.

The vendor next to him waved a beautiful blue mask in the air. “To protect your privacy.”

The conventions of privacy were essential: customers wore the blue mask so they could hire work without anyone knowing who they were. Aya had several blue masks to wear should she need to purchase services anonymously; every ruling-caste daimon did. She’d never hired black or red maskwork, having no need of assassins or pleasure vendors thus far. She had no enemies to dispatch, and Belias had been more than attentive to her needs.

Will that change when I end our betrothal?

She couldn’t see any other option. If she were wed, she’d be made fertile by the ceremony, and she’d be his to command. The competition would be closed to her once he had spousal authority; he’d already said as much. She couldn’t see any way to the future she wanted without the competition.

She purchased the blue mask without bartering. It was new and unlike the others she owned. It felt like a step toward freedom that was both frightening and exhilarating.

What would it be like to wear the mask? To hire someone whose face I’d never seen to kill for me or to please me? The thought of paying for pleasure was disturbing, but not as much as the brief thought of having to wear the red mask herself. How will I support myself if I am unwed? She’d had spending accounts from the man who’d raised her as if she were his daughter, and Belias assured her that her father’s account would still be hers to access even after the wedding. If she didn’t wed Belias, she wasn’t sure if she’d lose her accounts. What are the terms of the wedding contract? There was no way to see it, so she wouldn’t know the penalty until the deed was done.

“Was there something else?” the vendor asked.

Aya stepped into the shadowed stall. It was empty save for wares he’d not yet sold and a rodent of some sort that scampered farther into the darkness when they’d entered. Secrets came with a price in The City, but the vendors in the carnival knew that they’d be out of business in an instant—and probably out of a pulse—if they didn’t hold their secrets close.

“I need another mask,” she said in the sort of cold voice she’d once associated with their ruler, Marchosias. She’d need to be more like that to do what she’d have to the next year, maybe the rest of her life. She had to be stronger, colder, fiercer, or she’d be dead soon. She eyed the booth with false calm and added, “Not blue.”

The vendor waited for only a moment before asking, “Full face?”

She nodded.

“Plain or elaborate?”

“Plain . . . and not red. I need a black mask.” Aya wasn’t sure she’d wear it, but if she were denied her coins because she was refusing her marriage, she’d need to earn enough to survive in the comfort to which she was accustomed. That level of financial comfort would be a necessity in order to hide her fall from privilege.

The vendor pulled back a faded cloth to reveal rows of black masks. “Each design is used only once, so the identity of the wearer has some degree of individuality without sacrificing his or her privacy.”

Behind her, the vendor pulled the cord that held open the entrance to the stall, giving her the secrecy she’d forgotten to request before shopping. The whoosh of the door closing was followed by a mutedness. The sounds of the carnival were dampened within the enclosed stall, and the enormity of what she was doing settled over her. Am I a killer? It was never what she’d set out to be, but she would choose murder over enslavement.

“Do you need a manager?” the vendor asked. “Forgive the presumption, but you seem new to this.”

He didn’t look her way. Instead, he started withdrawing masks and holding them up to her face. It felt oddly reminiscent of the way the dressmakers eyed her as they held up bolts of fabric. After rejecting several, he held out a mostly plain black mask with ridged brows.

Aya accepted it and put it to her face. “It’s a precautionary mask.”

“Ah,” he said, as if he heard such things all the time. He took the mask from her, exchanging it for one that curled around her cheeks. Dangling black feathers hung from the sides.

“If you decide to don it,” he said as he studied the mask she now held in front of her, “come round at the start of the carnival or the start of the Night Market. I accept small requests that aren’t worth the attention of the ones who are barely masked.”

“I see,” she said. She didn’t though. This wasn’t the sort of business she knew how to handle. She’d figure it out, but she was still trying to find her footing. Ruling-caste girls were raised to learn how to support their spouse, protect their young, mind their spouse’s mother, and manage a household once they were old enough to take over the duty from their spouse’s mother. They weren’t taught the intricacies of contracting for murders.

The vendor took in her expression and added, “If they’re wearing only the small masks, they’re better than you and I could ever be. The kind of jobs that those ’uns take are handled through the Conflict Resolution Centers.” He grinned at her, revealing several teeth that looked like they’d never been cleaned, and added, “A lady like yourself would want a different kind of job, a softer one.”

She didn’t correct him, so he kept talking as he shuffled through his stores of masks again. This time when he withdrew his hand from the options he held one up with a triumphant smile.

She accepted it and brought it to her face. This mask hid her mouth behind lips carved in what looked to be a kiss-in-progress. It was feminine, with narrow arched brows and high cheekbones. It looked like everything a delicate woman should be, and to further hide her face, it came with a black cowl that fell over her hair, effectively shrouding everything above her shoulders. A dusting of black stone was mixed into the paint, giving the illusion of glints of shadow on darkness.

“This is the one,” he said. “Murderous lady.”

“Accepting only female clients,” Aya said in a moment of sudden clarity, her face still hidden behind the black mask. “At my discretion. Nothing petty.”

The vendor’s smile widened. “A killer with a cause . . . and the rate?”

“Depends on the case, the caste, and the coins she can access,” Aya said. A part of her wanted to say that she’d do it for free if the case was extreme or that she’d do it for the practice to prepare for Marchosias’ Competition. The more cautious side of her reminded her that she might need to do it for coin to survive. If her father’s orders were that she be left penniless if she ended her betrothal, she might need to be more flexible.

She lowered the mask, and the vendor accepted it to wrap it in soft paper. Anyone seeing her with the package would assume she’d bought a blue mask—which she also had.

As she paid the man for her new black mask, she wondered how different her life would be right now if her birth secrets hadn’t ever been revealed to her. She told herself that she’d still have had hesitations about the lot in life that had been doled out to her, but she couldn’t truly know that. If she were simply another ruling-caste girl with a handsome, loving daimon—one destined for power and position—would she be buying a black mask? Would she be entering Marchosias’ Competition?

WHEN SHE RETURNED TO her family home in the section of The City reserved for the oldest, most respected of the ruling-caste families, she wasn’t surprised to find her mother waiting in the sitting room. She was well aware that her mother had a thriving network of spies, as was appropriate for a woman of her station.

“Alone, Aya? You’d go there alone? What would Belias think?” Her mother remained seated.

Aya took the seat beside her mother. As much as she wished she could stand calmly, say her piece, and leave, she knew that to do so was impossible. She couldn’t tell her mother everything, but she also couldn’t refuse to talk to her.

“It’s not going to be any of his concern soon,” Aya said levelly.

Her mother’s pretty face was marred by sudden wrinkles as she frowned in confusion. “Because you won’t be going around on your own?”

“Because my betrothal is ending,” Aya corrected.

Her mother reached out and patted her hand. “Is this about mistresses? I know it’s troubling, but they need looking after too. Belias can shepherd several women. He’s a good leader.”

“No, Mother.”

“Is he being cross with you? You can be a trying child. Men do not like obstinacy in their wives.”

Aya closed her hand around her mother’s, preventing her from patting Aya again. “I’m breaking the engagement because I want to make my own decisions.”

Her mother laughed, and Aya didn’t know how she’d cope if her mother rejected her completely. She knew that this woman hadn’t given birth to her, although she didn’t know that, but she’d raised Aya. In all ways but biology, she was Aya’s mother.

“You always overcomplicate things,” she said. “Either persuade him to let you have your way or accept that he has a good reason for refusing.”

“Because you and Father selected him to marry me?”

“He comes from a good family, Aya.” Her mother paused, and then delicately asked, “Is he . . . unsatisfying in some way? Is this a rebellion?”

Aya sighed. “It’s not about Bel. It’s about me.” She paused, weighing the risks of admission, before adding, “I’m going to enter the competition.”

Her mother shook her head. “You always were your father’s daughter.” An admiring light filled her eyes. “He was a wonderful fighter.”

And Aya wished that she were her father’s true daughter, but the father who raised her was no more her father than her mother was. They’d been bespelled to believe she was their own child after their infant had been killed. Her father had gone to his death still thinking that she was of his blood, and Aya was going to do whatever it took to preserve that secret for her mother and for herself. Doing so meant never having children of her own because unlike the witch who gave Aya life, she had no ability to hide another’s magic.

Gently, her mother pointed out, “You need to take quarters of your own if you do this. The shame of it will cause troubles for your brother, so we need to appear as if you’ve been cast out of the house.”

Mutely, Aya nodded. She stood, kissed her mother’s cheek, and left. Her family wouldn’t abandon her, not completely, but they weren’t going to be a party to her scandalous behavior either. It wasn’t an unexpected reaction.

But it still hurts.

SHE WAS IN HER quarters gathering the things that she could take with her to her new apartment, when Belias came to stand in the doorway.

“So that’s it? You walk away from the marriage that we’ve both been expecting since you were born?”

“Yes,” she said as steadily as she could.

“And I don’t even get the courtesy of a conversation?” Belias’ hands were talon-tipped now. He rarely lost control of his shape, but his anger was clearly consuming him. His hands curled, and the end of each finger extended in a glinting talon.

“There are rules, Belias. I filed the forms, told my mother, and it was left to you to determine if you still spoke to me after the dissolution.” Aya’s gaze dropped to his talons, and she wondered if he’d strike her in anger. He’d never done so before, but she’d never rejected him before either.

“Undo it.” He took three steps into her room, nowhere near within touching distance, but at least he’d moved away from the doorway finally.

She didn’t step back. “No.”

He watched her from unreadable eyes, and not for the first time, she realized that the daimon before her would be as much a force within their world as his father had been. Belias was meant for power, had always been, and if she were able to hide the secret of her heritage, he’d be the perfect mate.

“I will enter the competition; I won’t be ordered to obey.” Her own hands were now tipped with the same sharp talons he had.

“Are you going to fight me, little bird?” The shock in his voice hurt. They’d never fought with talons.

“If I must,” she whispered. If he did fight her this way, she’d lose. This, too, would have to change. She needed to be able to fight against claws and talons in the competition—and for potential black mask jobs. She needed to be able to stand in such fights if she was to survive the competition.

“If I agreed to you entering the competition, would you—”

“Don’t.” Aya stalked toward him. “Don’t try to lie or trick me, Bel. Once I became your wife, you’d make the decision for me. I know it, and you know it. Don’t insult me by pretending any differently.” Tears trailed down her face. “Let me keep the trust we’ve shared.”

Belias laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “You severed our engagement without a word to me. I’m not sure how much trust is left.”

Then he was gone, and she was alone in her childhood room packing her most essential possessions. She was unwed, without family, without everything that she’d thought would be hers—all because she was the spawn of a witch.

ALTHOUGH SEVERAL DAYS PASSED, Aya felt like it was but a moment before she stood in the center of the carnival. She’d settled into a tiny apartment in the part of The City where ruling-caste men kept their preferred mistresses. The looks that were sent her way were filled with knowing that was unjustified. Belias hadn’t come to her, even after she’d sent a note to his home with her address. She trained in different fight centers, and she studied the most lethal of the daimons who moved through the carnival. No mask work had come her way, but she would be ready when it did. She’d be ready to fight in the competition too. For the past several days, she’d enjoyed a strange freedom she’d never known. That would change after the fighters were all entered into the competition, but she had both the blue masks of customers and her black mask if she needed anonymity to watch the goings-on of others. She’d already begun to hire street scabs to fetch small details about those likely to enter the competition—not all of them, of course, only the ones who were worthy fighters.

As she walked toward the meeting place for contestants, the matchboard loomed large in front of her, and the desire to see her name in one of the coveted top six spots blossomed in Aya. She looked around at the rest of the competitors. Some had the soft look that told her that they’d not make it past the first few rounds. A few fighters—mostly curs—looked like they were willing to eat everyone else alive just for the shock of it. One, Kaleb, was a black mask of a not insignificant reputation. She’d already started gathering information on him. He flashed teeth at her in a smile of sorts as their gazes connected. He was surveying the competition as she was.

They were all here for the same thing, but most of them would die over the next year. Some would forfeit mid-fight, but not all fighters accepted a forfeit—and some fighters would sooner die in a sure loss than consider offering forfeiture. There were a few women, but no other ruling-caste woman. There never had been. A few ruling-caste men were here. She looked over them, noting the ones she recognized and a few she’d seen in fight clubs. Then, she stopped. Her gaze caught on the one person she’d never wanted to see in this crowd.

“Belias,” she whispered.

He stared only at her. The arrogance in his posture, a well-deserved arrogance at that, said that he needn’t bother studying the other fighters. He was better than them, stronger and faster. Few daimons would dispute that. Fewer still would live if they did dispute it.

She eased through the crowd until she was at his side. “What are you doing?” she demanded in a low voice.

“Thinning the herd.” He looked around him. “You’re mine, Aya, and I’m a better fighter than most of them.” He didn’t bother lowering his voice. “Anyone that faces you needs to know that I’ll kill them if they walk out of the ring and you don’t.”

Voices blurred together, a buzz of sounds as his statement was repeated.

“Stop this,” she hissed at him.

“Withdraw.”

Aya grabbed his forearm and tugged him toward the edge of the crowd. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t hurry either. To anyone watching, he’d still appear indifferent to the entire situation.

Once they were farther away from the other fighters, not outside the crowd but on the very edge of it, she released him. She pursed her lips and glared at him. There wasn’t a single sentence she could think of that would resolve this to her satisfaction. She had to fight—and win—in Marchosias’ Competition. If she didn’t, her secret would be revealed, and she’d lose everything. If she won, she’d have a chance of survival.

Belias reached out and trailed his thumb down her jawline. “Withdraw, and we’ll leave.”

“I told you: I can’t.” Aya let herself lean into his caress. This, too, would end. Until then, she’d treasure these few remaining touches while he still thought he could convince her to change her mind.

“You don’t need to prove your strength to anyone, little bird,” he said in a low voice. “You’re strong and fierce. No one doubts that.”

“It’s not that simple.” She turned her attention to the center of the carnival where their ruler was stepping up to a raised platform. Marchosias was a fearsome daimon, a daunting leader whose scarred skin and corded muscles were almost enough to convince others to forget that he was as canny as he was deadly.

“Tomorrow marks the beginning of the competition,” Marchosias called to the assembled crowd.

They cheered in a roar of voices and stomping feet.

“No one has to enter the carnival,” he added, as if there were any among them who didn’t know the rules of this competition, as if there could be anyone in The City who hadn’t grown up with the tales of legendary fights and bloody victories.

“Please, Aya,” Belias urged. He held out his hand to her. “Don’t do this.”

Marchosias’ gaze swept the crowd before he added, “But if you enter, know that you will kill or be killed.” His attention stilled on her. “You can forfeit mid-fight or before a fight, but no one has to grant mercy.”

Aya smiled at him, the lion who’d once routed most of the witches from The City, the despot who held their lives all in his grasp, the daimon whose very word was life or death. She took one step forward.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Belias lower his hand to his side.

“If you’re here to fight, step up to the witch and be entered.” Marchosias grinned at her, a challenge if ever there was one. “Ladies first?”

With her head held high, Aya walked toward him. Once she reached the white-masked witch standing on the ground near Marchosias, she stopped. The witch met her eyes, and the sorrow there made Aya want to cry out. Instead she pulled her gaze away from the blue-and-gold witch eyes as if the enslavement of the witches wasn’t sickening. She smiled up at Marchosias and said, “I believe I’m the first ruling-caste woman to ever enter.”

“Where is your betrothed? Or husband? Or father?” he asked, casting his gaze around the crowd.

“I have none of those. I speak for myself,” she said with a slight catch in her voice.

As Belias walked up to stand at her side, Marchosias’ grin grew wider, but he said nothing. Belias’ father had been a trusted general and confidante. Marchosias nodded once at Belias.

“Once I win, I’ll serve our city well,” she swore to Marchosias, to all of those nearby, and to herself.

Marchosias laughed. “You’re going to make someone a fine wife once you forfeit and give him strong sons.” He turned to look at Belias. “If you can’t leash her, boy, I’ll find her another spouse.”

“I know,” Belias said calmly.

Even now, she was as property, discussed as if she weren’t doing something on her own. No other ruling-caste woman had ever entered Marchosias’ Competition, yet here he stood, not looking at her with respect but discussing her with as little regard as her parents once had when they promised her to Belias at her birth. He’d been a child then, but she’d grown up aware that he was her future master.

Aya’s expression didn’t falter, but her gaze dropped and she held her hands out toward the witch. She couldn’t turn back. Circumstances far beyond her control had eliminated most of her choices; she’d die in Marchosias’ Competition before she’d sentence a child of her blood to the fate she now faced.

“I won’t forfeit. Ever.” She lifted her eyes to look at Belias. “My blood will coat the ground before I become anyone’s wife.”

And then the masked witch bound her to the competition. In a brief instant, it was over. Her future was determined, and the line of other daimons moved forward to be likewise bound. Belias was second in line, but as he was entered into the rosters, a cheer went up. A ruling-caste son, the heir to one of Marchosias’ great generals, and a man willing to kill for the betrothed who had rejected him—even now, he was the hero they rallied behind, and she was the peculiar creature they didn’t understand.

Mutely, Belias took her hand, and they walked away from the throng of fighters. Neither spoke as they wound their way through the carnival and toward her apartment. It was a small victory, his coming to her new home, and she felt her love swell.

“I won’t kill you,” he said once they were inside. “And I’ll make clear that I meant my threat.”

“Bel—”

“You want to prove you’re capable of fighting as a man? Fine.” Belias locked the door. “Bloody your hands and your blades. See what it’s like. I won’t let your pride kill either one of us. There’s no one in the competition I can’t best, so we’ll do this until you come to your senses.”

Aya stared at him. She wanted to argue, to explain that it wasn’t that simple, to tell him the secret that drove her, but he’d hate her once he knew who her real mother had been. I’ll bribe them to keep us from being matched. She could kill, and she would die if she had to, but she wasn’t sure she’d recover if she had to kill him.

“I do love you,” she whispered. “I won’t walk away from the competition, but I want you to try to remember that.” She took his hand. “Stay here tonight?”

Belias laughed quietly. “That’s the most reasonable thing you’ve said in days.”

As she had so many times before, Aya helped him undress. Their knives and short swords clattered to the table she’d had delivered earlier that week. Wrist guards, tunics, and boots were shed as they moved toward the bed she’d brought from her home.

It wasn’t the new home she’d once expected to share with him, but as they sank down onto the bed, she was grateful for that. If she’d been his wife, gone to his family home as a new bride able to bear young, he’d discover that her mother was a witch. Their child would be the thing he hated. The love she still saw in his eyes as he looked at her would vanish.

Better to lie through silence; better to kill in the competition.

She closed her eyes and whispered a quiet spell to strengthen the disguise that kept her telltale blue-and-gold eyes hidden from him.

He lifted his head to look at her, and he asked, “Did you say something?”

“Nothing important,” she lied.

He looked expectantly at her.

“A sigh or maybe thinking aloud,” she lied again.

“Thinking what?”

“Don’t stop.” She stroked her hand over his arm, enjoying both the feel of him and the relief of telling the truth now. She admitted, “I wish you were always with me.”

The love in his eyes was matched by the arrogance in his expression, and she knew that he truly believed that they’d have forever. They didn’t, but they had today. She pulled him to her and kissed him until she was breathless with wanting. Killing and secrets would wait a little longer.

The End

EXCERPT FROM CARNIVAL OF SECRETS

NOW THAT YOU HAVE THE KEY TO THE CITY,
STEP INSIDE THE DECADENCE AND
DANGER THAT IS THE . . .

MORNING HAD COME, BUT only just barely. The sky was still a mix of the gray and plum streaks that heralded a new day in The City, and as she had on so many other days the past year, Aya was readying herself for another fight. She wondered briefly what life would have been like by now if she hadn’t entered the competition. She didn’t like killing, but the thought of the life she was escaping reminded her that this was the right path. Every ruling-caste woman was required to reproduce. She’d avoided that for now by ending her engagement, but that only delayed the inevitable. Eventually, if she didn’t choose a mate on her own, she would be given to someone by their ruler. Better to die in the fights than in captivity. At least within Marchosias’ Competition, she had a chance of freedom. The rules didn’t specify that the winner had to be male, only that the winner had to survive. If she survived, she’d be able to do what no other woman had—rule in The City’s government. That chance was reason enough for what she’d do in a few short hours. It had to be.

A thrum in her skin let her know she had a visitor. It was light enough out that she was cautious as she went into the main room and opened the shades. A street scab stood on the fire ladder. After families were burned alive in the war with the witches long before her birth, the ruler of The City, Marchosias, had ordered ladders installed on the outside of every apartment building in the living sections of The City. Over time, the ladders had become the visiting routes for those not caste-equal. Security kept the windows impermeable, but the ladders enabled the lower castes a route through which to speak to the resident of a home.

The scab’s black eyes darted left and right, assessing everything he could see inside her home. Scabs were the bottom of the lowest caste, daimons who lacked trade, pack, or family. They were also the ears and eyes on the streets within The City.

She slid open the glass pane. “No one else is here.”

The scab nodded. “Verie’s death is all they talk about in the Night Market.”

“All?”

The scab shrugged. “All that’s new.”

Aya pulled a coin from the jar she kept by the window for just this sort of visit. She handed it out the window. “Anything else?”

“Word is that one of the fighters killed him.” The scab leaned into the edge of Aya’s house wards, stopping just before the wards would fling him into the street, unconscious. In The City, hers were the best wards that could be used without attracting unpleasant attention.

She turned her back as if she didn’t notice the disrespect of testing her wards. Noticing meant she should rebuke him. It was a foolish game of trust the scabs often played: see if the high-caste girl is truer to her caste or to her fight reputation. Aya didn’t like games.

“Which fighter?” she asked evenly.

“Depends on who’s talking.”

Aya glanced over her shoulder at him. “Including?”

The scab held out his hand.

Silently, she turned and gave him two more coins and repeated, “Including?”

The coins disappeared into one of the pouches that were sewn on the inside of the scab’s shirt. “You, Sol, and Belias.”

The only three highborn fighters left in the competition.

“Safe money’s on you,” he added, and then before she could reply, he kicked his feet backward, slid midway down the ladder, and dropped into the crowds on the street.

Aya leaned out the window for a moment and looked for him. She’d found increasingly reliable scabs over the past two years, but the last year—the fight year—had proven remarkable in that way. The longer she’d lasted in the fights, the more appealing working for her became. She’d proven herself to be ruthless and thorough, but she’d also been judicious. That sort of behavior earned her the grudging approval of a number of the trades-caste residents, as well as members of the lower castes.

Even before the competition, she’d never struck a scab. Sometimes, though, she wasn’t sure if it would matter to the scabs themselves. Her willingness to pay for good information was all they heard, and her probable future was one of power and money—or death. After the competition, she’d either be in a position of use or in the ground. Either way, working for her now held no long-term risk for them.

She closed the window. Now was not the time to think about death. Today’s bout was with Belias, and he wasn’t a fighter to approach lightly. Her odds of winning against him were not high. The matchboard had him favored to win so strongly that the return on bets was fourteen to one.

As she padded into the front room of her apartment, her gaze fell to the knives that had been soaking overnight. She had already gathered her other weapons. The knives were the final items she needed for the fight, but taking them made her cringe. It wasn’t a noble move by any stretch. Sol probably wouldn’t do it; Belias wouldn’t even think of it. The toxins on the blades would stop any daimon’s heart. If Belias knew, he’d be disgusted with her, but she’d fought against him often enough in her life that she didn’t see any other option. She didn’t have the skill to beat him. He’d taught her a lot of the skills she did have, and he knew which tactics she favored. A fair fight wasn’t possible between them.

And the judges knew that when they matched us.

Aya withdrew the knives and slid them into the sheaths that hung from her belt. She was so far from class-appropriate behavior by now that one more stain wasn’t worth the guilt that threatened. It was bad enough that she lived alone, that she wore her hair in a short, nonornamented style more suitable for a soldier in Marchosias’ army than for an eligible ruling-caste girl. Her behavior in the fights was an embarrassment to any ruling-caste family: noble women didn’t engage in fights outside of sanctioned clubs, and they certainly didn’t kill for sport or gain.

Resolutely, she pulled the door closed behind her and descended the stairs that led to the crush of people in the street. After almost a year of fights, of blood on her hands, of lives spilling into the dirt under her blades, she was one of the final standing contestants. The fights only happened once a generation, so the sheer number of entrants was daunting. Many fighters made a point of doing all they could to announce their participation in the competition, but the rarity of women entering meant that the female fighters garnered extra attention from the start. For her, that attention was multiplied: the unheard-of act of an upper-caste woman entering was more shocking than the violence of the matches themselves.

Women of every caste had a place in The City—but those of her caste were the only ones sheltered from the violence that was rife in their world. Her choice to enter the competition invited criticism from every corner. She’d moved into the trades-class section of The City, where upper-caste boys lived in their premarriage years and kept their favored mistresses after marriage. Leaving her family home and refusing her intended marriage added to the furor over her entering the competition, but she’d done it—and was succeeding better than even she had thought she would. Being pushed to the wall made a person do things that they’d not have believed themselves capable of, as the blades she carried proved. Winning the competition would mean changing the future for The City. That goal was worth any sacrifice—even Belias.

She took comfort in the excitement humming in the air. They were whispering about her past bouts, betting on her odds today, and telling tales of her supposed actions outside the fight grounds. She smiled at those willing to make eye contact. They were the people she’d protect and guide. They weren’t the feral daimons who lived in the reaches outside The City. They were orderly even in their debauchery, and they’d be hers to rule.

As she reached the edge of the Carnival of Souls, she saw the black-masked assassins and red-masked pleasure vendors negotiating with daimons who were seeking the services of one of the trades. Many of the patrons hid their faces behind masks as well, but some bolder daimons carried on their negotiations without disguise. Those were more often the daimons of the highest stature; ruling-class daimons had less need to hide business dealings. Likewise, the best-paid assassins and pleasure dealers often signified their status by wearing only the barest of masks—or in rare cases, no mask at all.

Aya walked farther into the center of the carnival, where the matchboard hung like a beacon, inviting people to place bets and buy tickets for the upcoming fights. Tall red letters spelled out the final ten fighters’ names and ranks. Her name was after Sol, Flynn, Nic, Kaleb, and Belias, but before Dian, Tylo, Cree, and Jade. Finally being on the board was a victory, but it wasn’t good enough.

The only matches left in this round were hers and the one between Nic and Kaleb. If she won, she’d move up to fourth position—unless she found a way to score sufficient points to take third from Nic or Kaleb. Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d even survive fighting Belias, so taking bloodpoints wasn’t likely. A fighter could score extra points by difficult strikes, maiming, or otherwise exceeding the necessary combat acts, but the assignation of points was entirely at the judges’ discretion and thus unlikely to be of use to her in this fight.

Although all of the judges claimed that they were judicious in awarding points, only a fool would believe that there was no corruption in the process. Corruption was as common as violence in The City, and as a girl fighting against a ruling-class boy, especially one who outranked her in the fights, she wasn’t going to get any help from the judges. Aya wasn’t supposed to win. It wasn’t a woman’s place to be an equal.

Murmurs increased as she made her way through the carnival, and her mind went back to the rumors about Verie’s death. No one approached her, but they watched her as openly now as they would when she was in the match. She was a spectacle, their entertainment as surely as the dancers or tale-tellers working in the stalls throughout the carnival. The fights were a chance to watch a display of the strengths that had protected The City, and Aya suspected that the fights were, in some way, Marchosias’ method of encouraging his people to keep in top shape for any altercations that could come in the future. They stayed strong to enter the competition, but that also meant that he had ready fighters he could utilize if he needed to swell the ranks of his troops.

When Aya reached the entrance gates for the fight yard where she’d stand against Belias, she stopped to look at the line snaking past the pleasure stalls. It was probably meant to be an insult—or extra titillation—to set her fight here at the pleasure field, where coin typically only bought chemical or physical decadence, but perhaps it was a gift of sorts. She’d fought here once already, so she had field familiarity that Belias wouldn’t have. She smiled at the customers lined up waiting to get into the pit seats, and she walked to the front of the line.

“I’m here to kill Belias,” she told the gatekeeper.

Gasps and barks of laughter erupted down the line as her words were repeated and passed around.

“Smart money’s on the boy,” the gatekeeper said in a loud voice.

“Belias will lose—or if it’s before fifth blood, he can forfeit.” Aya turned to face the line. “Tell him for me: I’ll accept his forfeit if it’s before fifth blood.”

Nervous laughter and bloodthirsty cheers mixed in the growing cacophony.

“Tell Belias,” she repeated, louder this time, and then she turned away.

The gatekeeper lifted the bar for her to pass. “Someone ought to put you back in your place.”

She stared only at him, ignoring the line now. No one would dare speak so to a proper upper-caste woman, but she didn’t behave as women of her stature should. However, she couldn’t pretend that she was anything other than upper caste, not if she intended to rule. “I know my place: I was born to the highest caste in The City. I was born to make The City safer and stronger.”

“Women have no business ruling anything but the home,” someone yelled from the line.

She looked steadfastly at the gatekeeper, but spoke loudly so as to be heard by those in line. “Unlike most every remaining contestant, I am already ruling class. They all fight for what Sol, Belias, and I were given by birth.”

She knew the crowd watched her attentively now. She glanced at them and reminded them, “We fight to prove our worthiness to have what is our birthright already.”

“Women don’t rule. They are too soft,” someone called.

“Tell that to the fighters I’ve defeated.” Aya turned back to the gatekeeper who had started this argument. “I outrank you without winning, and even if Belias or someone else gets lucky and kills me, I will still outrank you.”

The gatekeeper bowed his head.

Quietly, she suggested, “Take a piss.”

He lifted his gaze to meet her eyes.

“Now.” She pointed at the dirt.

Eyes downcast, he obeyed. The alternative was calling for judgment, but he had insulted a ruling-class woman in front of several hundred witnesses—many of whom had heard every word. Some of those witnesses would speak, and so any judge at the carnival would rule against him. The right of class allowed her to offer immediate punishment.

“Kneel,” she ordered.

Just as the gatekeeper dropped to the ground, Aya saw Belias walking toward her. He raised his brows in silent question, but he knew not to vocalize that question in public—not that he had to ask. People in line were filling him in on the events that had just transpired.

Aya told the gatekeeper, “If I order you to drink from the ground, you will do so or face judgment. If I order you to ask for seconds, you will do so.”

The gatekeeper looked up at her. “What do you want me to do?”

“Ask me for mercy.” Aya glanced at Belias. “I have very few options, but if you ask me for mercy, this will go easier.”

The smile on Belias’ lips said that he understood that her words were for him too. He shook his head once; he would not ask for mercy. It wasn’t as if he thought he needed it, but she’d thrown the offer to him so that he could speak the word midfight.

The gatekeeper, on the other hand, said, “Mercy.”

“The difference isn’t in how cruel women can be.” Aya spoke louder now so that the line of people could hear her again. “If by action you tried to ‘remind me’ of what place some think a woman deserves, I would break you, but I won’t kill you for ignorant words. I can be a lady and still rule. One does not negate the other.”

A few people in the crowd jeered. Others cheered.

“The ground seems wet,” Aya said mildly, as if the urine-wet mud were a surprise. “I’d hate to soil my boots.” She looked down at the kneeling gatekeeper. “Do you have something I could step on so I can cross?”

“I . . . I have no coat, but”—the guard started to pull his shirt off—“I can offer you this.”

“That’s not good enough,” Belias said as he walked behind the gatekeeper, put a foot on the man’s back, and pushed him flat to the ground. Then, he turned to Aya and bowed. “Please.”

When she didn’t reply, he held out a hand to help her over the fleshly bridge that now spanned the puddle of mud and urine. “Your servant,” he murmured.

Aya ignored the proffered hand and stepped on the gatekeeper.

“I believe we need another gatekeeper,” Belias called. “This one is otherwise occupied.”

As Aya walked toward the ring, Belias assumed control of the crowd with practiced ease. She could hear him appointing a replacement and assisting girl after girl over the prone gatekeeper’s body. He had co-opted her example and neatly established his own dominance. Worse yet, he had done so with the same charm that had once made her grateful that he’d been chosen as her betrothed when she was born, the charm that made her fall in love with him, the charm that made her heart break when she refused their wedding ceremony. Aya pressed her lips together tightly to keep words better not said from boiling over. She’d entered this competition to change her future, to attain the power she needed to improve The City, and she was going to do just that.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MELISSA MARR is the author of the bestselling Wicked Lovely series as well as the adult fantasy novels Graveminder and The Arrivals. When not writing, editing, or traveling, Melissa is buried under a plethora of books, dogs, and children in Virginia or online at www.melissa-marr.com.

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BOOKS BY MELISSA MARR

Wicked Lovely

Ink Exchange

Fragile Eternity

Radiant Shadows

Darkest Mercy

Wicked Lovely: Desert Tales

Carnival of Secrets

Wicked Lovely: Desert Tales

(Art by Xian Nu Studio)

Volume 1: Sanctuary

Volume 2: Challenge

Volume 3: Resolve

Faery Tales & Nightmares

Graveminder
The Arrivals

Writing as M. A. Marr, Coauthored with K. L. Armstrong

Loki’s Wolves

Odin’s Ravens

COPYRIGHT

UNTAMED CITY: CARNIVAL OF LIES. Copyright © 2014 by Melissa Marr. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition © September 2014 ISBN 9780062289100

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