What price do you put above your own life by stealing into the heart of a king’s house?
Freedom.
Between Ink and Shadows
Nimona Weston has a debt to pay. Her father’s dealings with the dark society known as the Trust cost Nim her freedom. There’s one way out of the contract on her life and that’s to bide her time and pay the tithes. But when the Trust assigns Nim to a task in the king’s own castle, her freedom is not the only thing she’ll risk.
Warrick Spenser has a secret. As king’s seneschal, he should be the last soul in Inara to risk association with dark magic, but long-hidden ties to the Trust are harder to shed than simply cutting the threads. When the Trust sends a thief to his rooms, Warrick thinks he’s finally found a way to be rid of them for good. But Nimona Weston is hiding secrets of her own.
Find it now.
Read on for a preview…
Also by Melissa Wright
- STANDALONE FANTASY -
Seven Ways to Kill a King
Between Ink and Shadows
- SERIES -
THE FREY SAGA
Frey
Pieces of Eight
Molly (a short story)
Rise of the Seven
Venom and Steel
Shadow and Stone
Feather and Bone
DESCENDANTS SERIES
Bound by Prophecy
Shifting Fate
Reign of Shadows
SHATTERED REALMS
King of Ash and Bone
Queen of Iron and Blood
- WITCHY PNR -
HAVENWOOD FALLS
Toil and Trouble
BAD MEDICINE
Blood & Brute & Ginger Root
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About the Author
Melissa is the author of more than a dozen YA and fantasy novels and countless to-do lists. She is currently working on the next book, but when not writing can be spotted collecting the things she loves at Goodreads and Pinterest. Contact her through the web at www.melissa-wright.com
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Preview: Between Ink and Shadows
Nimona Weston was about to do something dangerously foolish. It would not be the first foolish thing she’d done, but possibly the most dangerous. Her debt to the Trust had her tied to bargains and theft, to the sordid underbelly of society. She was born into it. But it was not where she would die. She would regain her freedom, even if she had to resort to underhanded tactics to get it.
They would not own her any longer.
She locked the bedroom door behind her then walked barefoot across a rug-scattered floor to her wardrobe. Lace and beads stared back at her, but beyond them, well hidden from common view, waited slim black pants, a trim, long-tailed jacket, and tall boots. In short order, the day’s gown was draped over her chaise and Nim was dressed in clothes that would never be accepted among good society. She closed the wardrobe door, then took a long draw from the decanter on her desk. As the liquid burned through her lingering dread, Nim slid the hidden panel beside her bookshelf aside to stare into the darkness of a narrow corridor that would give her passage to the streets of Inara.
It was the turn of the moon. Time to pay the tithes.
The back streets of Inara were shadowed and damp, but the air was warm enough to remind Nim it was the change of another season. Springtide was well and truly gone and the promise she’d made to herself was one she’d been forced to break time and again. Promises broken were only what she’d come to expect, along with more than her share of unfortunate luck, but it would be different this time. She had no other choice.
Her boot splashed into a puddle and Nim glanced over her shoulder to be certain she was still alone. A few figures shifted among the shadows, men about the evening’s work who paid no mind to the dark-cloaked figure heading to a part of the city best left unnoticed. Kings had their crowns, but the Trust held the power. It didn’t matter how one was entangled with the Trust, whether it was the threat of debt, shame, fear of retribution, to be among court society meant one could never associate with those who dealt in magical favors.
Her father had taught her that. He’d been highest among them, close to the king. And, somehow, he’d gotten tangled in a dark bargain that had cost his station and his freedom.
He’d been lucky, though, because others had faced far worse. Nim could recall a half dozen members of court who’d been burned for rumor of magical favors alone. The Trust might have held the power, but the king still held the city. Magic was forbidden by law, and far behind Nim, between her evening’s destination and Inara Castle, was a platform on the square—just waiting for hanging day.
A clatter echoed from a nearby alleyway and Nim sped her step. Her gloves felt too tight, her cloak too restrictive. She hated tithe day more than anything, and her list of hates was amply long.
A pair of torches lit the tall arch that led to the undercity, its iron gates raised. The sentries posted at the entrance were the same as they had been the last ten moons, but Nim did not give sign of recognition when the torchlight flickered over their features. She never looked a member of the Trust in the eyes if she could help it. Contract or no, she would give nothing to the Trust that resembled courtesy. Not after what they had taken from her.
The torches smelled of magic but burned as hot and unsteadily as any that lined the walls of the city’s taverns and inns. A bit uninspired when one had access to untold power and yet not unwelcome—the strangest magics made Nim uneasy. It was unsettling to see forces work against nature, to feel their pulse beat with her own. She much preferred those which felt more real, those which might be pretended away.
“Daughter of Bancroft Weston.” The voice came from the end of the corridor, from a figure made faceless by the shadows of stone.
“Lady Weston,” Nimona said. “I am not owned by my father.”
The figure did not move into the sparse light, but Nim could feel his smile. She might not be owned by her father, but she was owned by his debt. Her life was signed to the Trust.
Nim shoved the hood of her cloak back and gave the darkness a stern look. Losing her standing in society had done nothing to steal the temperament she’d earned with it.
The man let out a breath that might have been a laugh. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of his loyalties, but the door beyond him opened, bathing the corridor in light. She stepped back, even though the woman rushing through paid no mind to either Nim or the sentry. The woman bore a fresh scar from her brow to her chin, the mark jagged, pink, and stark. Nim swallowed back any words she might have said. The Trust did not take what had not been bought by them. If the woman was marked, it was because her debt had not been paid, because the beauty she’d bartered for was theirs to reclaim.
The sentry gave Nim a smirk, and she felt the color drain from her face. Nim was beautiful. A part of her had long suspected that beauty had been bought. Those who dealt with the Trust were unable to contain a desire for the things he could not reach on their own. Their debts were often a myriad of small favors, none of which would serve them well at all. Her father was a bettor, like so many others who sold their freedom for magic, for risks that might some day land them reward. Nim would never be able to answer her doubts, not until she paid his debt and held his contract in her hands. If he was the reason she was beautiful, he was also the reason his debts had transferred that contract to her.