aurelilia

"Again," he snapped, the switch sliding across her swollen knuckles with a crack!

"Damn it all," she mumbled under her breath. When she had agreed to assist the Crows with the infiltration of Illario's operations, the fifth talon had taken it upon himself to teach her the subtlety of Antivan Crow etiquette—to help her, he said, better understand the wealth of information that could be passed wordlessly between neighboring houses. Why Lucanis could not have been her instructor, she did not understand. But Viago had been insistent, and she had relented. 

She knew little of the man who called himself  the fifth talon—ever lurking between shadows and silence, making himself known only when it suited him. Still, he and Teia had been as welcoming as one could have hoped the Crows to be, and for that, she was grateful. Her search for signs of the elven gods in Treviso would have proven impossible—and likely fatal—without them. Even so...

"Incorrect finger placement could be the difference between a cordial greeting and a declaration of war. One mistake would cost you greatly, and everyone else greater still. Now," he repositioned the butter knife on the table. "Again.”

The gala was a show of presence—of power and competence in the face of tragic loss. Illario no doubt wished to secure his standing, not only in House Dellamorte, but as First Talon of the Antivan Crows in Caterina and Lucanis's absences. 

Rook kept to the edges of the crowd, just as Viago had instructed her. “It is more difficult for a poisoned knife point to reach your skin if you maintain some distance,” he had said, whilst sifting through his trunk of toxins and their anecdotes. Rook lifted her hand to adjust the mask on her face, then promptly dropped it before she reached it, more of the fifth talon's words echoing in her mind. “The masks are not decoration. They are means of communication; quiet ways to ensure cooperation, forge alliances, or send threats. Only adjust it when you are alone, else you speak in tongues you do not understand. If you must do so otherwise, turn to the wall.”

She turned away, pushed the mask back up her nose, then turned back. “Half a second, no longer. You will be turning your back to a pit of poised vipers. They need only one second to strike.” Rook had yet to spot Illario, which set her on edge. Half of her mission was staying as far away from him as possible to ensure her cover was not blown. Illario knew her voice, and Viago insisted it would be too dangerous to interact with him directly, even in disguise. 

The other half of her mission was gathering intel, and in the absence of the man of the hour, Rook maneuvered closer to a group of lavishly clad Crows, each with a drink in their hand—the loudest group in the room. Their tongues were already loosened by the champagne. She plucked a glass of her own off of a passing servant's tray and dipped her pinky fingernail into it. No changes. She sent a quiet thanks to Viago, wherever he was, for providing a toxin-sensitive lacquer. 

She straightened her spine and elevated her chin as she stepped into their space, hoping the illusory confidence would squash any possible undercurrents of suspicion. The man nearest to her clocked her immediately, but did not grace her with a turn of his head. She nodded her head ever so slightly in acknowledgment and he relaxed. He was the most sober of them, it seemed, for the rest had barely noticed her appearance at all. 

“It seems as though the Dellamortes have fallen on bad times at long last,” a woman in a taffeta burgundy dress with a golden feathered mask proclaimed, her puckered red lips pursing conspiratorially as she leaned into the circle. “Illario is the only one left standing.” 

“He has suffered greatly,” another woman—this one in a deep, satin purple gown—postured, tilting her black mask downwards on the left side. Allyship with Illario, perhaps? But Rook wasn't certain she meant it. She took a sip of her drink. 

“He stands tall,” the man beside her said. His voice was gruff, and this was the third time he had adjusted his silver pocket square since Rook had arrived. Nervousness or something else? “The Crows could use someone who can withstand the falling of the dominoes.” 

“What does our newcomer think?” The man next to her tilted his head in her direction.  

“What house are you from?” the woman in red asked. 

“House de Riva,” she answered smoothly; an easy lie—one Viago had approved of. They had decided that she would masquerade as one of Viago's fledglings. The group shared barely concealed looks beneath their masks and Rook's grip tightened on the stem of her glass. 

“And what does the fifth talon make of this… situation?” The man next to her shifted on his feet, subtly turning towards her. 

“The fifth talon does not report his personal opinions to us,” she shrugged, taking another drink. She felt the man's eyes on her exposed neck and fought to maintain her relaxed composure. She could not show signs of tension; not now. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man begin to open his mouth to question her further, but a gloved hand clapped onto his shoulder and he jumped. Rook jumped too. ‘Damn it.’

“Ah, my friends, it is good to see you here.”

‘Damn it!’

She turned her head, smile ready on her painted lips. Illario. His gaze tracked her as he spoke to the man next to her. Saved from one crow only to be thrown into the arm's reach of another. The youngest Dellamorte laid platitudes at the feet of those in the group, smiling with the ease of a snake, his posture relaxed and elegant. But his eyes never left her. She was pinned. ‘What now, Viago?’

In answer, the talon's response echoed in her mind—what she was certain he would say to her. ‘Survive.’ At last, when he had squeezed as much of her nerve from her as he was able, Illario turned to face her, his eyes glinting beneath his black mask. “And who might you be, bella signorina?” 

“Fiorella de Riva, signore.” She pitched her voice lower, adopting as many of Viago's speech patterns as she was able. Illario smiled and Rook's heart stopped. Was it over?

“Ahh, one of Viago's new recruits,” he murmured, his eyes raking down the deep blue and black velvet dress that hugged her form. “I have heard your name in passing. It is an honor to finally meet you.” 

She tilted her head flirtatiously. “You as well, signore.” 

His smile deepened. “Illario, please.” 

“Very well,” she said, voice at a near-whisper. “Illario.” 

He leaned in and Rook could smell the citrus cologne he had, no doubt, drenched himself in on the day of their first meeting. She had to hold her breath to keep from coughing, just like that day. “I have many guests to attend to, but perhaps once I am finished, I could show you the gardens? Fiorella means “delicate flower”, does it not?” 

She took in a slow breath and eased her face up to meet his, catching his eyes defiantly. “I would be honored, si—” He cocked an eyebrow. “—Illario.” 

He smirked and leaned closer. “Perfetto,” he muttered in her ear. His proximity sent a cold chill of anxiety down her spine. ‘Does he know?’ “Later, then, bella.” In a single breath, he was gone, and Rook's balance faltered for a moment before she was able to steady herself on her heels. 

Praying it would be excused as being flustered by Illario's charm, she took the only chance she had to escape and moved towards the back of the ballroom. A large oak door stood ajar and she passed through it without question, finding herself in a dark hallway with ornately carved doors lining either side. Her arm shot out to catch her against the wall when she faltered again, and she squeezed her eyes shut, breaths coming in hard and fast. 

‘You are alive. You are alive. You must escape and report back to Viago.’ She straightened her spine once more, took a deep breath, and turned towards the door. But before she managed a single step forward, an iron grip closed around her wrist and she was yanked into the closest room. The door slammed behind her and her back was pressed against it, arm above her head. 

She resisted, vision blurring in the frenzy, and raised her free hand to bar against her attacker. But that wrist was grabbed as well and joined the other above her head. “It is me, it is me, Rook. Easy.” 

“Viago?!” Her eyes refocused at last and were met with the hard gaze of the fifth talon. He was angry, but Maker help her if seeing his face was not the most relieved she had been all night. 

“What happened to staying away from Illario, Rook?” His eyebrow arched and she gulped. She was not one of his Crows, but it made the man no less imposing. 

“What happened to me going in alone, Viago?” she countered, not yet willing to admit that she could have cried at how thankful she was that he was there. 

His brows pinched together and he crowded her closer to the door, the warm smell of mahogany clouding her senses as he invaded her space. “You think I would allow you into a murder of Crows on your own?” His voice was a growl, and were her mind not clouded by how close he was, she would have teased him for his cliche phrasing. 

“I honestly wasn't certain what the contingencies were.” Her voice sounded more breathless than she intended, and the air left her lungs entirely when Viago pressed closer and ran his nose along the curve of her neck. 

“You are under the protection of the fifth talon,” he murmured, the heat of his exhale raising goosebumps along her flesh. “and I do not leave my assets unattended.” 

“Good to know,” she croaked, breath stuttering when his facial hair scratched the underside of her jaw as he pulled away, his piercing blue eyes assessing her. The slow smirk that pulled at his lips was enough to send a raging blush to her cheeks and she forced her breathing to slow as she met his stare. 

“Do you think you will be able to find your way back to the Diamond on your own?” She couldn't tell if he was scolding or teasing. Possibly both. She nodded regardless. “Good,” Viago nodded, then stepped back. “Return to me in one piece, Torre. That is an order.”

Rook cocked her head to the side, finding her voice again at last. “I'm not one of your Crows, Viago.” 

He pursed his lips, but the corners tipped up anyway. “No, you are not a Crow. That much is true. But you are mine. The moment you agreed to work with the Crows, you belonged to house de Riva, and house de Riva belongs to me. Understood?” 

A dangerous heat curled low in her belly in response. She nodded wordlessly, accepting his ownership with an ease that surprised her—and would likely embarrass her later. 

“I expect your report in no less than an hour.” With that, he melted into the darkness and vanished. Rook's head fell back against the door and she pressed her palm into her chest, attempting to ease the throbbing race her heart was running. 

‘Maker's breath, what was that?”

~