The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 9

The streets of Dienses Square hummed with low charged energy, conversations a soft buzz and laughter a gentle tinkle compared to the typical rowdiness Cassandra had come to expect on a Saturday. As if the revelers were on their best behavior, conscious of someone watching and weighing them—someone besides the towering marble statue of the Jester himself, peering down from his perch in the center square. Dienses, the half-dressed God of Merriment, toasted the crowd with a mad, gleeful look.

He’d surely disapprove of the solemnity.

The food stalls, cafés, and taverns ruled Dienses Square at night, with the retail stores, butcher shops, and produce markets shuttered. The mouth-watering scents of spiced meat and fried onions lingered in the balmy air, and every few blocks, the unnatural glow of a magical sign warned mortals to steer clear of a Fae-only establishment.

Cassandra jostled through the fizzling crowd, head held high. She needed to make the necklace drop as quickly as possible and return to the Temple before Mother Superior realized she was gone.

She didn’t worry about being recognized as a Shrouded Sister here. The poor families she’d helped didn’t frequent this part of town. Plus, she’d dressed as a civilian tonight in a long-sleeved, plum muslin dress with a low neckline that no Shrouded Sister would be caught dead in.

She had no idea where she’d gotten the dress. Which likely meant she’d lifted it during a robbery and Xenia had pulled the memory.

Wavy chestnut locks cascaded down her back and black fingerless gloves with thick wristbands covered her tattoo.

As she flowed through the twisty, narrow streets, she replayed the tense and unhelpful conversation with Mother Superior that she, Xenia, and Richelle had suffered through before she’d left the Temple this evening.

The abbess, once again, had refused to view Cora’s disappearance as anything more serious than a desertion. Which she’d insisted was not a crime worth reporting.

Any Sister could choose to leave the order at any time. The abbess forced no one to stay.

Without consistent practice, the diluted Fae magic injected into a Sister’s veins—that unique combination of immortal magic and mortal blood that gave every Sister her memory pulling and viewing powers—would break down, and her abilities would wither like an atrophying muscle. And her tattoo would fade away. The wayward Sister would become just another normal human woman, scraping together a grim existence in the colonies.

If that’s what Cora and Sister Kouris wanted, Mother Superior would allow them their freedom. The abbess’s lack of concern had enraged Cassandra to the point that she questioned whether Mother Superior herself might have some sinister, ulterior motives.

Cassandra pushed those worries to the back of her mind as she cradled the wrapped necklace and rushed towards the drop point, the smack of her low-heeled lace-up boots echoing off the cobblestones.

The streets grew quieter, options for late-night revelry fewer and farther between as she approached a dark alley. She surveyed her surroundings for prying eyes, then turned into the narrow slice, conscious of the solid metal door to her left—the kitchen entrance to the Empress’s Lap, once a notorious pleasure hall and now the slowest, rattiest pub in Thalenn.

The Broker had selected this drop location, and Cassandra had never questioned it. But she refused to set foot inside, knowing she’d garner too much attention among the sparse and mostly male clientele.

The alley reeked of decay, the combined stink of rotten vegetables, burnt grease, and stale beer making Cassandra gag. As she stepped into the shadows, she approached a large liquor barrel, one of four nestled in the corner between two slimy brick walls.

Cassandra listened for unwelcome company, the only sounds a faint din of voices from the pub and the slow drip of water from a rusted rain gutter. Tucking the parcel under her armpit, she yanked the circular wooden lid off the empty barrel, and the staves cut into her stomach as she leaned over the edge.

Just as she was about to release the parcel, slow footsteps approached and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Panic tightened her scalp as she glanced down the alley. There was no way she could escape to the street without being spotted. She dropped the parcel into the barrel, then hauled herself over the lip, grabbed the lid, and settled it in place above her.

Once concealed, she took a deep breath to steady herself and almost passed out from the overpowering stench of bourbon reeking from the saturated wood. The burnt vanilla aroma reminded her of her father, who used to relax with a glass or two after a rough day at work.

A ground-shattering roar rent the night, rattling Cassandra’s bourbon-soaked cage. She whipped her hands up to cover her ears and tore her knuckles open on the barrel’s rough interior.

Her heart leapt into her throat as heavy footsteps and a long inhale accompanied the unmistakable click of fangs dropping. A Deathstalker sniffing the air for signs of life. Confident that the heady aroma of the liquor would mask her scent, she prayed the thick walls of the barrel would muffle her pounding heartbeat.

The Deathstalker crept closer, and she took another deep breath, determined to quell her panic and calm her thundering heart. No matter what happened next, she would not go down without a fight. Steeling her spine, she closed her hands into fists as the menacing steps halted.

Her barrel shook with the sudden force of its neighbor being ripped away. The wood smashed against the wall, followed by a squeal and a crunching, squelching noise that she assumed was a rat meeting its death in the Deathstalker’s jaws. She covered her mouth to muffle her retching as the footsteps faded away.

She stayed within the barrel for a full five minutes to ensure the Deathstalker was truly gone and to give herself time to think. She’d never been interrupted during a drop, never encountered a soul in this alley.

Even if Cassandra wanted to pick a more secure location, she had no way of contacting the Broker, save leaving a note in this barrel. Which somehow seemed more dangerous than sticking to her original plan.

Besides, Cassandra needed this payout, intended to gift every single dracha to the Callas family. She’d resigned herself long ago to facing the consequences of getting caught, believing that saving these families was worth the risk.

She decided to plow forward with no course corrections.

She lifted herself out of the barrel, leaving the parcel, and turned the lid upside down to signal the presence of a package to the Broker.

Drop complete.

She would return in three days when the payout would await her. She said a silent prayer to Letha that Mistress Callas would stay away from the Temple this week.

Poking her head out of the alley, she scanned the street for signs of the Deathstalker. She curled her torn knuckles around the brick, flinching at the seeping scarlet wounds ringed by flaking white skin.

Fudge.

If the Deathstalker were still lingering in the shadows, he’d smell the blood. The scrapes didn’t hurt much, only burned a little. The taste of iron filled her mouth as she licked her knuckles clean. Useless, as the wounds immediately started weeping again. She tugged at her fingerless gloves, trying to pull them up to absorb the blood.

She needed to get moving, now.

Cassandra didn’t see a soul in any direction, that otherworldly roar having cleared the area. She dashed onto the sidewalk, keeping close to the buildings and under the shadowed cover of their awnings.

After a few blocks, she rushed past a closed bakery, cases empty of the day’s temptations, then was lifted off her feet and slammed into the brick wall.

The vise-tight hand at her throat pinned her several inches off the ground, and her feet flailed, unable to replace purchase as she gripped a thin arm as solid as a steel cable. She struggled to suck in a breath as the Deathstalker’s face emerged from the shadows, eyes like a viper’s with black slits for pupils inside a bed of vivid yellow.

The Fae was over six feet tall, almost as tall as Tristan, but with a sinewy muscle tone. His long body swam in his chalk-white suit, torso flat as a board with stick-thin arms and legs. His pale-yellow hair glowed against his alabaster skin and his lips were thin and flaking, chapped from flicking his serpentine tongue in and out.

“Your blood smells delicious, mortal,” the Deathstalker hissed in a guttural snarl, the voice of an ancient serpentine behemoth rising to the surface after millennia spent prowling the seas’ blackened depths.

Cassandra’s stomach hollowed out.

The Deathstalker shuddered with pleasure as he ran his forked tongue along her battered knuckles, a petrifying imitation of Cassandra’s own actions a moment ago. “And tastes even better,” he groaned. “We wonder…would your fear taste as divine?”

Cassandra spat in his face. “I’d never give you the satisfaction.”

The Deathstalker wiped her saliva from his cheek, a wide, rictus grin on his face and blood on his teeth.

She couldn’t tell if it was hers or the rat’s.

His tongue darted out as he licked the spittle from his fingertips, then gripped her chin so tightly she knew she’d develop a bruise.

“So fragile, so delectably brittle. We can smell your fear already, Brittle Lady,” he said, fangs popping out as he pressed closer and rubbed his arousal against her. “We are sick to death of Delirium, unsatisfying processed emotions. We hunger for the real thing. We could easily take them from you. Make you feel pleasure as well.”

Cassandra laughed, a garbled sound with the Deathstalker’s hands clamped at her throat and chin. “With that tiny thing? Feels like you’re jamming a baby carrot into my hip. The only emotion you’re likely to draw from me is disappointment.”

He snarled, a pale replica of his earlier street-clearing roar, but scarcely less terrifying to witness up close. He dipped his head towards her neck, and her pulse pounded as the venom dripping from his fangs splashed against her skin.

In an instant, a blistering yet impressively focused gust of wind ripped the Deathstalker away.

She dropped to the ground onto her hands and knees, chin throbbing, and the Fae tumbled down the cobblestones, coming to a stop as his head met the heavy bronze base of a streetlamp with a resounding clank.

Two black boots came into view, and a familiar oaky, spicy scent enveloped her as she rose onto her knees, chest heaving in her fight to catch her breath.

She looked up into a pair of caramel-colored eyes.

Tristan grinned down at her, his arms crossed over his broad chest and his black wings flared.

“Baby carrot?”