I hit the stone like a sack of potatoes flung off a brothel balcony. Shoulder first, then ribs, then a very unladylike slap of ass and thighs. Air punched out of me. Not cute. Not graceful. And definitely not the way a girl like me should enter a room.
Even if the "room" is a glorified rat graveyard.
The oubliette is bigger than I thought—spacious, echoey, sort of like a temple built by someone with a skull fetish. Ceiling's a good three meters up, hatch slammed shut above. Only light trickling through a slit window, high up and barred, like some divine joke that forgot the punchline.
And the floor?
Crunchy.
Not the good kind of crunchy. Not fresh-baked-pastry-under-your-heel crunchy. No. This is cockroach wings and old rat bones. Skull fragments with teeth still in. Claw marks in the stone. Some dried streaks I'm very much hoping are wine.
I groaned. Rolled over. Gagged as something squelched under my hip. Looked up.
And there she was.
Other side of the pit. Just sitting there like it's fucking teatime
. Cross-legged. Perfect posture. Filing her nails with a little bone sliver like she'd been waiting for this all day. Long hair braided to the side. Tunic ripped but arranged like it's a fashion statement. Not even dirty. Not even sweating.
I blinked.
She looked up.
Raised one perfect brow.
Smiled.
The kind of smile that says, "Oh, look, they sent me a playmate."
I sat up slow, bones cracking, ankle throbbing, tailbone registering formal complaint.
"What the blazes," I muttered, brushing something with legs off my thigh, "is your problem?"
Then louder, sharp enough to echo:
"Who in the seven clammy hells are you supposed to be?"
The girl shrugs like it's a warm afternoon and we're having wine under an olive tree. "Didn't expect company," she says, all mellow-like.
I stare at her. "You live here?"
She doesn't answer. Just goes back to filing.
"Fuck me sideways," I mutter, then shout, voice bouncing off the damp stones, "Are we meant to rot in this piss-scented oubliette till the end of time? Is that the plan?!"
No answer. Just the sound of rats—living ones, probably—scurrying through the bone pile.
I stagger to my feet, glare up at the hatch, and scream, "I demand food! Water! Wine! A fucking footstool!"
A beat. Then a creak.
The hatch opens.
"Open wide, sweetheart," a voice calls. Male. Smug. From the land of assfaces.
I flinch, too late.
A splash of something lukewarm and vaguely green rains down on me. Hits my face. Soaks my tunic. Slops into my bra.
It smells like rotten leek and something worse. Maybe regret.
Above, someone sniggers. The hatch slams shut again.
I am seething.
The girl? She giggles.
"They got me with the same trick."
I wipe soup off my face, flick a soggy cockroach leg from my cleavage, and glare across the oubliette. "Aren't you even worried we're gonna starve to death down here?"
She yawns. Yawns.
"Oh, nope," she says, stretching like a spoiled cat. "I'm getting out."
I blink. "What."
She keeps filing her nail. "I'm infected."
"…What."
"With the pox."
I take a step back. "The what now?!"
She waves a hand. "Not the gross kind. Well, yes, gross. But you can't see it. I'm a carrier. No symptoms. Just—y'know. Carnal doom."
"Carnal what now?!"
"Men sleep with me. Then die in agony. Bleeding gums. Boils. Screaming."
I just stare.
She sighs, like I'm the slow one. "They catch me. Always. Toss me in a pit, a cage, a cell, slap irons on my ankles. 'Burn the witch,' yadda yadda. Then someone realizes what I am, and out I go. Like clockwork."
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. "What are you?"
She flashes a smile. It's not kind.
"Did you hear how King Keldor of Tanagra died? Two years ago?"
I nod, slowly. "Yeah. Swollen tongue. Blood coming out his…"
"That was me," she says sweetly. "Someone wanted him dead, so they sold me to him. He took advantage. Obviously. Now he's dead."
She leans back, resting her head on the stone wall like it's feathered silk.
"I'm an assassin with tits," she says. "They always use me like that."
I'm staring at her now. Really staring. Like she's sprouted a second head and it's whispering filth in Draconic.
"What in holy, goat-fucking hell…" I murmur.
She grins. Shrugs again. "I was a street rat from Delvida. Pickpocket. Shin kicker. Usual stuff."
Okay. That part I get.
"Then the temple sluts caught me. Dragged me off. Said I had potential."
She makes little quotation marks with her fingers. I snort.
"They trained me," she continues. "Whorecraft and whatnot. Oil massages. Moaning technique. Eye contact during gagging. The works."
I cough. "Charming."
"Then one night," she says, flicking the nail file away like it's boring her now, "this sorcerer—big shot, robes, rings, awful breath—gets pissed off. Said my technique lacked… transcendence."
I blink.
She spreads her hands. "So, curse. Boom. Now anyone who sleeps with me gets the screaming shits, pustules in their lungs, and usually dies clutching their crotch."
I just stare at her. "That is… fucked up."
"Mm," she hums. "Probably karma. I kicked a lot of priests in the balls when I was nine."