Their Reign (The Rite Trilogy 3)

The gate around the property is open, the house itself dark. The street is empty. This neighborhood is outside of the touristy part of New Orleans. I walk swiftly toward then through the gate, wondering if it’s ever closed, considering how it’s dug into the soft, mossy grass. I bypass the front entrance, not worried about the motion detector I trigger on the side of the house. It’s not going to alert Mercedes or anyone else. It’s poorly positioned where there aren’t any windows.

Using the flashlight on my phone to locate the lock at the back door, I slide the key in, turn it, and enter the house. I shine the light over the room. The large, old kitchen has updated appliances and a long chopping block counter with a farmhouse sink. The floors are tile and probably original to the house.

It’s a long, relatively narrow kitchen, and I walk the length of it, taking in the single dish in the sink and the teacup still on the counter with its tea bag in it. It’s cold to the touch, but the teabag is still damp, so it’s probably from earlier tonight.

An old wooden table with seating for six is set in the middle of the room, making it seem even narrower. It’s wiped clean. It looks like it’s been used for years. I walk through to the formal dining room, take in the antiques, the lace curtains, and although it’s messier than I like, I see money here. High-end, well-made furniture, beautiful things in a style fitting to the house and to New Orleans.

On the table by the front door, I see the hat and sunglasses from the photos Ezra showed me. I take careful steps up the staircase to minimize the creaking of the wood as I climb. The bedroom doors stand open. I look inside each one, finding most of the beds stripped of bedding. Which makes sense if Madame Dubois lives in her French Quarter apartment. Quietly, I open a closed door and find it’s a bathroom. Like those in the kitchen, the fixtures are high-quality but older, the tiles original, the large claw-footed tub elegant and beautiful. A toothbrush and toothpaste sit on the edge of the single pedestal sink, and the sink is wet from recent use. The towel is askew, and a bath towel is drying on a rack. I pick up the damp bar of soap and see the imprint of the apothecary on it. I recognize it from the items Solana gifted me and remember the elixir she’d given me for my mood.

When I bring the soap to my nose, I smell Mercedes. I take a moment to inhale deeply. I can just picture her relaxing in the deep tub and possibly drinking a glass of wine, all while I turn New Orleans upside down to find her.

The lashes I took burn as if fresh. They’re healing well, but my movements are slower, and if I stretch too far, I reopen some of the lacerations. I consider what I did. How I stood in her place to save her from having to submit to such a cruel punishment. And I think about her running away, sneaking into the back of Paolo’s truck because that’s the only way she’d have gotten out. All while I was in that dungeon-like space.

When I imagine her soaking in the tub, relaxing, my hands clench into fists.

I force a deep breath in. I know she ran because she was scared of what The Tribunal would do. What her punishment would be. She may not know the intricacies of the laws, but she does know their ways. I just have to remember that, I tell myself as I walk out of the bathroom and go to the last door at the end of the hall, which is closed. I just have to remember she didn’t know what the Vicarius clause was. She has no idea what I endured, or she’d never have run. She’d have been there when I got home. She’d have been waiting for me in my bed.

But all those words go out the window when I open the door and see her in the little bit of light that comes in from the streetlamp through the lace curtains. All those generous thoughts dissipate as I take in her peaceful, sleeping form, long, damp hair fanned out over the pillow, her arm on top of the floral print blanket drawn over her. Her back is to me, and I step closer to the bed to listen to her quiet, soft breathing.

She’s sleeping deeply. Soundly. When I haven’t slept for days. She’s well-rested and freshly bathed, while I have endured cold showers so as not to feel the burn of the lashes that line my back. That will leave scars to last my lifetime.

I close the door and settle into the wingback chair to watch her sleep her last peaceful sleep.