She had sent Shakyre home, not because she did not desire her friend’s company, but because the confrontation she longed to have, she longed to have in private. There was more honesty between them when they were alone, and it was honesty to which Leianne felt she was entitled. She had left her mask with Rye, but she was still encumbered by layers upon layers of silken white gown, impeding her ability to stealth. Still, she did not need much stealth as she stalked up the grand staircase leading to the private bedrooms of the townhouse’s master. Boldly, her heart beating rapidly in her chest, the younger Nightfall sister pounded her fist upon what she assumed was Amaranthos’ door. She was tired of games. She was tired of this endless dance. For a man who claimed to abhor the petty practices of nobility, Amaranthos was certainly quite willing to follow them where she was concerned. Blasted hypocrite!
“Amaranthos!” she snapped, and there was authority in her voice she did not entirely feel. Her cheeks were flushed and her bosom heaved with labored breath. It was not that she was out of shape, she was very fit, but the corset cinched about her waist made breathing difficult, and her state of high agitation left her scrambling to breathe. Why wasn’t he answering? Surely he could hear her. He was supposed to be a gentleman, and this was absolutely rude. Perhaps he was truly no longer interested in her? Had all of his focus been shifted to Ithinia Starchaser (that backstabbing tart!)? But if so, why had he asked her for help in catching up in his law courses?
Her mind dizzy with circling thoughts, Leianne lifted a hand to rap against his door once more, only to be startled when the door behind her opened. She blinked, turning her accusing stare from the blank door in front of her to a very bemused looking Amaranthos behind her, who was watching her quizzically from the doorframe. He was mostly undressed for the night, she could tell, her traitorous eyes glancing over his bare, fit torso and the trousers he had forgotten to re-zip; his dark hair was long and loose, and his feet were covered only by rather unimposing-looking socks. It was hard to believe that just an hour previously, he had been dressed as the distinctly macabre Plague Doctor.
“Miss Leianne?” he queried, glancing over her with something that resembled tolerant puzzlement. He was accustomed to her spirit, and to whatever rash behavior to which her temper might tempt her, but clearly he had not expected to find her outside his bedroom door at this remarkably late hour.
“I thought you agreed that in private, I was only Leianne?” she returned rather a bit saucily. Her tone wasn’t coy and flirtatious, it was biting and accusatory. She was searching for a fight. He blinked.
“Perhaps I did,” Amaranthos shrugged, rubbing absently at a spot behind one pale ear. He seemed to fight off a yawn, still looking at her with a rather bemused, peculiar expression. Clearly he did not know why she was there, and he was too tired to attempt puzzling it out.
“It’s late, Leianne. Should I even ask why you are standing outside my bedroom door at this ghastly hour?”
“You should well know why!” Leianne snapped, righteous, indignant ire spreading through her and giving her courage. She stepped closer to him. “I’m tired of these games. I’m tired of you jerking me around over a mistake I never even made, a choice that was never even wrong in the first place---“
“If you insist on having this spat now, at least allow me the dignity of finding a shirt,” Amaranthos interrupted, a certain detached tolerance stretched thinly across his features as he shut the door behind him and strode past her, across the hall, to the door she had previously knocked so heartily upon. Leianne blinked, partly in surprise at her own boldness, and partly at the humor in their awkward shuffle in the hallway. He opened the door, calmly stepping into the darkness as Leianne gathered her wits and strode determinedly after him, her voice washing over his ears like the distant, uninteresting buzzing of an annoying mana wyrm.
“Wait. So that wasn’t your bedroom?” she asked, pointing over her shoulder at the room he had just vacated. He had yet to find the candles in this room, so the only light was that which poured in from the hall, silhouetting Leianne in the doorframe. With a bored look on his features, Amaranthos glanced at her and then reached behind her, uncomfortably close to her face, to grab a candle from one of the wall fixtures. He shrugged disinterestedly.
“No. As a matter of fact, that was the toilet.”
A pale streak of color rose in Leianne’s dark skin. Amaranthos caught the expression and smirked, looking at her rather a bit smugly. Her blush transforming into a scowl, Leianne considered the merits of hitting him. Confidence was sexy, yes, but arrogance wasn’t attractive at all. She wondered sourly if he realized that. Guessing the turn of her thoughts, the young nobleman chuckled, turning away from her to light some of the fixtures in the room. Redoubling her convictions and her courage, Leianne took a breath to reorient herself and plunged further with her intended purpose.
“I mean it. I want to have a discussion, Amaranthos. I want ans---“ Her tirade halted when he stuck a hand out to her, gesturing wordlessly for her silence. Dutifully, she paused, blinking at him quizzically. Something in the room had caught his attention, the playful smirk of earlier having fallen from his face to be replaced by something much darker, much more serious. He was focused on the bed, where in the dim light and shadows it was clear a figure lay. He cursed under his breath. Leianne smirked.
“I wasn’t aware you knew how to use that phrase,” she teased archly, a touch of the superior in the curve of her painted lips. The look he shot her was sour.
“Probably some guest who had too much wine and came up here for privacy,” he muttered, a disgusted scowl deepening on his lips. “Revolting.” Candelabra in hand, squinting in the half light, Amaranthos stalked up to the bed, ready to verbally abuse whoever had dared to soil his sheets.
“Leianne!”
He did not need to describe it for her, for she had seen it too: there, illuminated by the flickering candles Amaranthos held, was the figure resting upon his bed. She appeared to be sleeping, no sound, no movement, in her form; her golden gown was beautiful, ornate, and her brilliantly colored, gilded mask still covered her face. She was stretched out atop the coverlet, her arms held perpendicular to her body, the full skirts of her gown arranged artfully about her long legs. Even with her features hidden by her mask, she was clearly a beautiful woman, sheathed in gold. Everything about her was gold: her gown, her mask, the delicate curls of blonde hair falling over her shoulders in an artful tumble. Yet, she was also marred by red. Blood stained her bodice, blood soaked into the mattress, blood coated those blonde ringlets in sticky filth. She had been cut, savagely, across the throat, and from that wound had seeped her lifeblood. Yet, she had been defiled further. Death was not sacred to her killer, for she had been cut again, precisely, deliberately, in a careful, vertical line that traced her, chin to sternum. She lay as if in repose, but there was no life left in that beautiful, gilded body.
Amaranthos did not look closely, but he suspected that if he did, he would discover that she, like the other victims found on campus, was missing her fingernails.
His heart caught in his throat, adrenaline surging through him, Amaranthos glanced back to Leianne, who was meeting his shocked, horrified gaze with her own. With a heartbeat caught between them, Leianne stepped forward, looking away from Amaranthos and instead to the woman on the bed. She was keyed up, clearly, but she was also surprisingly businesslike as she reached a hand to the body; it was such a strange, serious shift of character that Amaranthos had to wonder just what Leianne was learning inside the College of Law that allowed her to be so calm and clinical when confronted with murder.
“Ama, she’s still warm.” He did not register the endearment. His attention was held by the implication in her words: this happened recently, said the glance they shared.
“Do you have your hearthstone?” Amaranthos demanded, focusing on her with an intense stare. She blanched, shaking her head.
“No,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. Her hands were pressed against the sides of her corset, as if to accentuate the tightness of her gown as she looked up to him apologetically. “No pockets.”
Amaranthos frowned, but nodded, swallowing his distaste and burying it beneath layers of affected composure.
“All right,” he said, holding her gaze. “We’ll have to get mine. I left it in my study---down the hall, second door on the left.” They exchanged another intense look before Amaranthos set down the candelabra and they both charged into the corridor, adrenaline urging them on. The blood was fresh. The body had been faintly warm to the touch. This had happened recently: was the killer still around? Would they be able to find him? Catch him? Apprehension and excitement warred within them both as they made their way to Amaranthos’ study, stealing glances at one another even as they searched the space about them for any wayward sign of movement that might indicate the presence of the killer.
“Wait!” Leianne suddenly called out, harshly, her nails gripping into his arm. Amaranthos blinked, turning his gaze away from where he had been peering intently into the shadows. When he looked at her, he was surprised to see a dagger held ready in her hand.
“Do I even want to know where you were keeping that?” he remarked, looking at her in amazement.
“Hush,” she hissed. “There’s a rogue here. Just for a second, I saw him slip into the shadows….there!” Without looking at Amaranthos, without heeding the layers of gown billowing awkwardly about her legs, Leianne darted in the direction she had seen the movement. The killer, sensing he had been spotted, did not attempt to hide in the shadows. He erupted into a full sprint, Leianne close on his heels. Amaranthos barely had time to react, cursing a hundred obscenities under his breath as he attempted to both dash into his study and keep an eye on Leianne.
“Leianne!” he cried after her, whether to urge her forward or to tell her to stop, not even he was sure. More curses fled his tongue as he hissed foul, bitter language, running into his study long enough to snatch both his hearthstone from a table and a sword from the wall before fleeing back into the hallway.
He glanced one way and then another, before finally catching sounds of a scuffle from somewhere downstairs. Heaving another series of muttered, foul curses, the former blood knight rushed down the hall, rounding the stairs two and three at a time, hearthstone in one hand and sword in the other. With a click, he impatiently flicked the hearthstone on.
“I need the Academy Guard, Headmistress Duskflame, Doctor Ithilidae, whomever can respond.” His voice was harsh, his heavy breathing carrying over the hearthstone. “There’s been an incident at my townhouse. The address is as follows…”
He spoke as he ran, rounding a corner in time to see Leianne outside, engaged in a vicious struggle with the rogue on the front steps.
“Leianne!” he cried, hearthstone forgotten. It clattered behind him on the floor as he ran to her, sword held at the ready, positioned to intervene…but at that moment, the assumed killer fell forward, incapacitated, to the floor. Panting, Amaranthos stopped before her, chest heaving, expression incredulous. He shook his head.
“Clearly you have everything under control,” he remarked, shaking his head. His lips curved wryly as he observed the slashes in her dress, but she seemed relatively unharmed. He glanced once down to the crumpled figure on the floor. “I see I was superfluous.”
“Never,” Leianne smirked, patting him on the arm. “You showed up at just the right moment to look dashing and heroic.” He scowled tolerantly, reflexively reaching out, wrapping an arm briefly around her shoulders. As soon as he realized he was doing it, however, he jerked back awkwardly.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, looking at her quite seriously. She shrugged, choosing for the moment not to comment upon his brief show of affection. There would be time for that later, she decided. She would make time. Murders and mayhem did not mean she had forgotten her original purpose. However, they did mean she would delay that purpose temporarily.
“I’m fine,” she said, glancing about the street. In the distance, she saw what might have been guards coming toward them. Amaranthos nodded, shifting his weight. The cold winter’s wind was brutal against his bare skin and socked feet, but he didn’t seem to mind.
"Amaranthos," Leianne said suddenly, a brief note of urgency coloring her inflection. Curious, he looked down at her, watching bemusedly as she touched his arm. "Would you mind, in all seriousness, not saying that I was the one who apprehended him?" She indicated the lump at her feet. Amaranthos blinked.
"A strange request," he remarked, looking at her with an expression of puzzlement crossing his features, but he shrugged, relenting. "If you insist." He sighed, fighting off another yawn.
“I suppose all that’s left now is to wait,” he murmured, glancing up; around them, delicate crystals of white had begun to fall. It was the season’s first snow.
