Dystopian Romance New Release on KU! EXILE by AK Nevermore ~ Includes an Excerpt!

PROLOGUE

Two Hours before the Plateau was Sundered

Serra stood in the gallery above the Assembly, tapping her long, curved nails against the top of the marble balustrade ringing the room as Lord Crandall placated the members below. Unbelievable. She shook her head at the esteemed body lapping up his drivel.

By the smirk on the slimy little Intelligencer’s face, their kowtowing pleased him to no end. He stood at the rail of his box, hands clasped behind his back, receiving their approbation as if it were his due. Such an odious little man, very obviously in his authoritarian glory without the Overlord in the room. Her lips pruned at Crandall’s patronizing drawl, not nearly as eager to kiss his scrawny backside as the rest of them.

“…set your minds at ease,” he was saying. “With the majority of the Source’s army mitigated by Lord Scot’s earlier use of talent, we expect a speedy resolution—”

“If by ‘use of talent,’ you’re referring to the wholesale slaughter outside our gates, I’ll beg your pardon, but that most certainly does not set my mind at ease!” a slight woman shrilled from the middle of the Fixers’ section. “That a single man could do—do that—”

“He’s not a man, he’s a goddamned twist, and completely devoid of compunction!” blustered a short, rotund lord from the Shades’ section. He stood, stabbing his finger into the air. “All that stolen power in the hands of a mongrel! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: he and that entire rotten House of his are a blight on Glynfyls—”

“I don’t disagree with you, Madame Wence,” Lord Crandall said sharply, ignoring the lord’s diatribe. “However, until this unpleasantness with the Source is concluded, I’m afraid we must persevere…” His eyes flicked back to the portly man sputtering at the interruption. “And use a threat to quell a threat. After which, Lord Morris, who’s to say what might happen?”

The lord swallowed his protest and grunted as he sat, apparently satisfied. The rest of the room broke into a low murmur of discussion, heads alternately bobbing and shaking. Serra snorted, noting there were far more of the former than the latter. Idiots. So willing to throw the man saving their worthless asses under the bus. As if Titus and his horde of Breakers were a minor inconvenience. Glory, there were so many small minds in this room, just begging for a firm hand.

The speaker banged his gavel and the Assembly reluctantly quieted. “Yes, well, I’m sure all our prayers are with Lord Scot and the others manning the wall.” Lord Riggs doddered, squaring a stack of papers against the podium. “Now, where were…ah, here we are. Next on the docket is the status of the infirmaries, the hill’s in particular—” He squinted at the top sheet and adjusted his glasses. “No. Is this right?” Riggs asked, incredulous as he pulled back, his watery gaze landing on the Binders’ section. “The hill’s infirmary has been abandoned?”

“Ah…abandoned is a strong word,” Lord Ketsing prevaricated, running a finger under his cravat. Serra wasn’t sure whether to frown at the man’s lack of backbone or to congratulate his wife, Janice, for so thoroughly destroying it. Bit of both, she supposed.

“But unfortunately, the description is entirely accurate.”

The small hairs on Serra’s nape rose with the jump in her blood pressure as every eye snapped to Nora bloody Jester making her grand entrance into the chamber, an hour and a half late. Dressed in one of those idiotic Grecian gowns, she looked like she’d stepped right out of the marble frieze running the circumference of the room.

Serra gritted her teeth, eyes narrowing in perverse pleasure as she cataloged every fine line wrinkling the insufferable bitch’s frigid demeanor. Something wasn’t going well. Serra could only hope Nora’s angst meant Kara had taken a turn for the worse. It would serve the little bitch right for being pregnant with a litter while her own daughter, Tamara—

No. Serra forced herself to breathe, refocusing on the interplay below. It wasn’t the time nor the place to fixate on that old injustice.

“Unfortunately,” Nora said, stepping into the First Binder’s box, “the funds that should’ve been slated for maintaining the facility’s generators were reallocated to its serenity glade and, without power, the building is uninhabitable.”

Gasps of horrified delight peppered the room, along with incensed demands to know where loved ones had landed. Behind Nora, Lord Ketsing paled as he shrank against his seat. Serra bit back a cackle. She certainly wouldn’t have to worry about him or his shrew wife leading the Binder line after this. They’d just guaranteed themselves pariahs with their misappropriation of funds.

No. As usual, there was only one person standing between Serra and her rightful position as First, but with this kind of fervor, who knew how long Nora would be an obstacle?

Hmm. Serra frowned. The Prydees had assured her of House Hess’s inclusion in the voting roles as soon as the Assembly was back in regular session, but that wouldn’t come fast enough. And without a vote, the delay left the floor, and the possibility of taking First, off-limits to a Talent from the Source. She bit back a curse, irked to no end that she had to wait upon the sufferance of others before she could exert her influence in an official capacity.

What a pity waiting wasn’t something she excelled at.

Her gaze slid back to Lord Morris, and she wet her lips. No, there was plenty she could do to grease the wheels of her ascension in the meantime, and that nasty little man reeked of opportunity. She shifted her bosom, the corset of her gown digging into her ribs as she glared down at her rival.

Careful, Nono. Best not get too comfortable in that box.

As if she’d heard the warning, Nora’s gaze rose to meet Serra’s. That’s right…she smirked. The frigid bitch didn’t even blink as she turned away. Serra’s blood pressure spiked, pounding through her temples at being so summarily dismissed. Glory, she hated her.

“Missives with the updated locations of patients have been sent out to anyone listed as an emergency contact,” Nora said smoothly, not missing a damned beat. “For those without—”

“Fie!” a slovenly man in the Fixers’ section cried, shooting to his feet. “Enough of this farce. None of this has to do with the Christ-begotten generators! It’s all a distraction from the real issue—last night Julia Cree was murdered whilst under Lady Jester’s care!”

The room went silent, and Nora’s alabaster brow wrinkled for a split second. Serra swallowed a smile. What a lovely time for that bit of leaked information to hit.

Crandall cleared his throat. “Lord Ines. I can assure you that neither Lady Jester’s stewardship of the hill’s infirmary, nor its lack of habitability, have any bearing on Mistress Cree’s death…but as it is an open investigation, I’m unable to comment further at this time. Rest assured that my Intelligencers are on the case.”

Ines opened his mouth, but his retort was lost beneath the tide of outrage and conjecture rising from the room.

“Another murder?”

“Is it true her throat was slashed ear to ear?” a man called out.

“Oh, God, just like those poor men on the plateau—”

“Like the woman in the alley!”

“And the commons, all that Flat’s trash, they’re up here—”

“Jesus, Lady Scot let them into the tubes…”

“They’re on the upper rungs!” a woman screamed as another fainted dead away.

“Shame on you!” a dowager in the Fetches’ section shook her cane at the Crandall. “You never caught that murderous beast, and now he’s struck again! The Glynfyls Gorer is still at large!”

The room descended into chaos.

Well, now. Serra watched the furor and licked her lips. Wasn’t this an exquisite morsel of mayhem? Bit more of a beehive than she’d anticipated, but it was glaringly obvious how Laughlin Scot had ascended to Overlord so quickly. Save for the few wolves in the room, the rest were absolute sheep. Bully them enough and they’d bleat, but bare your teeth, and they ran.

And Laughlin Scot’s teeth were sharper than most.

Serra sniffed as a lady seated below glanced up, then blatantly refused to meet her eye by snapping open one of those stupid fans. Yes, they certainly ran, which put whatever they were pointed at in danger of being trampled by the flock. Serra shivered and smoothed her gown over her hips, remembering just how thoroughly Scot had dressed her down at the infirmary. The amount of sway he held over the city, how everyone jumped to do his bidding—Glory, the ways she could use a man like that.

And there wasn’t a chance in hell it was ever going to happen.

She bit her lip as the frenzy below intensified, Riggs’s gavel punctuating the chaos. She was positive leading Scot around by the dick was no small feat. How Kara had him wrapped around her little finger… Serra was almost tempted to believe those mind control rumors she’d started. Though patently false, there was no way a mouse like Kara Jester had enough fire to interest Laughlin Scot.

Of course, back at the Source, Serra had thought the same about Veronica and then Nora, yet both Jester women had been able to consecutively secure the position of First Binder by doing the same to their former patron, Albanach.

Hmm. Serra drummed her fingers. Maybe she was on to something with the mind control thing, though she didn’t recall Otto sharing genetics with their House. What Albanach had ever seen in that insipid bunch of sanctimonious cunts was beyond her, but she’d be damned if the Jesters fucked their way to the top in Glynfyls like they had down south.

Her gaze met Nora’s again; the paragon an island of calm within the calamity Serra had instigated. Serra batted her lashes and blew her a kiss on the off chance there was any doubt as to who had put her there, then turned on her heel and left.

She’d learned what she needed to. Now she had work to do. The position of First Binder was House Hess’s by right—Nora’s damnable Gordian knot of talent notwithstanding—and Serra would have it. Her heels clicked across the marble floor, lips pruning as she drew in one last clean lungful of air before stepping through the opalescent mists of the gate at the end of the hall and out, into the city somewhere below the fifth rung.

Her nose wrinkled as the noxious combination of the unwashed masses, low tide, and diesel hit the back of her throat. Gagging, she waved ash from her face, her breath streaming behind her in a cloud as she trudged through the frigid morass coating the street.

Temporary. This was only temporary.

Serra grimaced. It would’ve been more so if she could’ve solved that damnable knot. Not for the first time, she cursed Bernice for offering to “have a look.” It’d become so unwieldy after her poking at it that Serra couldn’t put her arms around the bloody thing. As with everything else, Nora had somehow stacked the odds and turned the ludicrous Northern test to her advantage. Perhaps obstruction was House Jester’s extra. They were excessively skilled at that.

Serra lingered at a local tea house over a pale cup of dishwater until what had spilled at Assembly reached her ears. She added a comment or two to ensure its run continued, then bustled through the neighborhood, collecting her washing along with the gossip before stopping to do some shopping.

She scowled. Shopping. More like scrounging. A loaf of bread, a bottle of wine versus the round of cheese…she seethed as she put the bottle back. The scant allowance of units she’d been allotted was barely enough to cover the basics after her one proper dinner of steak and caviar last night.

Vagrants gave her a wide berth as she stomped toward the tenement she was currently forced to inhabit. Ahead, a newsboy hawked papers at the corner. Her footsteps slowed. Hmm. An early edition of The Post. A smile tipped up her lips at the crowd surrounding him, engrossed with his wares.

How wonderful. Was this what’d just been leaked, or could it be attributed to her earlier visit to the paper’s headquarters? Word of Julia’s death had chummed the waters, but the information Serra had provided insinuating that the Jesters could coerce thoughts…? She chuckled. As soon as people read that, every interaction with their blighted House—past or present—would be questioned, guaranteeing their ostracization from society.

A smile slid across Serra’s face. None of the rags up here would be able to resist printing such a juicy story.

The semi-literate crowd caught sight of Serra and scattered, their faces far too smug. Disgusting louts. Like any of their opinions mattered. Now, to make sure all the salient points had been included in the exposé. She thrust the stammering newsboy a unit and snatched a paper from him. He took off running and her smirk evaporated at the image on the front page.

A shot of Serra rising from her knees, wiping a hand across her mouth was not expected. She sniffed. Nor did it capture her best side. The lighting in the inset panel of Lord Crown zipping up was rather more favorable.

Damn it. So much for spinning it as alleged oral sex. The lady’s censure at Assembly abruptly made sense. Serra’s brow creased. Now she’d be forced to go the non-consensual route. After all, she was a single woman in a big city, and it was so very easy to be taken advantage of.

She rolled her eyes, but if they believed the drivel Crandall had been spewing, they’d gobble up a helping of hers while they were at it. Serra snapped the paper closed and tucked it under her arm, ignoring the snickers behind her as she continued down the grimy street to her unfortunate lodgings.

Damn Laughlin Scot for calling her out! Who would’ve thought there would be such a fuss over a blowjob? Perhaps if the puritanical ninnies up here made a practice of putting out, their husbands wouldn’t be so eager to dally elsewhere. Glory, the women in this city were insane to leave that kind of power on the table.

She climbed the ash-encrusted steps and pushed through the tenement’s graffitied double doors, slanted gaps at their edges thick with an accumulation of dirty ice. It shattered as the hinges bent back, cracking and popping, skidding across the threadbare carpet of the dismal hallway as she entered. She resisted the urge to trail a hand along the filthy wall to keep her balance, the pitch of the floor at least fifteen degrees higher on the left. Nothing in this damned city was level, and it got worse the farther you were from the crown of the hill.

The sad excuse for a clinic she’d been exiled to on Barris Street had slats of wood fixed to the edges of the work tables, for Glory’s sake. Serra scowled at a flickering bulb as she passed, rummaging for her key. Her mouth soured further at the stupid piece of metal, knuckles whitening as she palmed it. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat, the longing for flat surfaces and a decent portlock, fierce.

Temporary. This was only temporary.

The door swung open, and she sighed as she stepped into the narrow room. A sad pallet she shared with Tamara lay at its far end, and a trio of boards hung from the ceiling at the other. Intended to serve as a table and chairs, they were the only things remotely close to flat and made the rest of the place seem even more off-kilter. She dropped her sundries and the paper onto the widest scarred slab, sending the plank swinging. Serra scowled, steadying it as she clicked on the thermocoil beneath the waiting kettle.

Her back to the slanted counter, she pursed her lips as she waited for the antiquated contraption to heat. Power. She needed power to change her circumstances, and if she played it right, the North’s stigma against sex could be an asset. After all, the men up here were definitely in a drought, and wasn’t scarcity the fuel by which economies were driven?

She was more than happy to exchange some taboo caresses for what they brought in return. The trick would be using them to get her into the upper echelon of society as opposed to being ostracized from it, but discretion wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle now that she knew the rules of engagement.

Her lips tipped up at the challenge as she retrieved a chipped mug from the sink and set it on the still-swaying plank. What was the saying? A lady in the streets and a whore between the sheets? Starting with Lord Morris, manipulating the sheep on the hill would be child’s play. If the Overlord thought he’d seen the last of Serra Hess by shuffling her off to that filthy clinic of miscreants and whores on Barris Street, then he was going to be sadly—

The building shook and a cry escaped her lips. She went to steady herself on the table, and it swung forward. Serra grabbed onto a rope as she lost her footing, the coarse hemp ripping across her skin. Glass broke in the room beside hers and something above crashed to the floor. People screamed and more things fell, the violent shaking heaving the cabinets from the wall. Plates shattered, and she screamed as the edifice listed toward her—

The tremors stopped as abruptly as they’d started.

Serra threw out a weave, binding the cabinets back into place. She took a deep breath, surrounded by broken crockery, and slowly got to her feet, a quick pull of talent healing the lacerations on her palms. She wiped them against her skirts and cracked the door to the hallway. Wide-eyed people teemed from their rooms to whisper together in fearful clumps.

“You have earthquakes up here?” Serra asked the grubby whore who lived across the hall.

“Nah, dunno what’s a do—”

She crouched in her doorway as another tremor gained in intensity, rocking the building. People scattered back into their rooms. Concrete groaned, and the window above the listing front doors imploded, atomizing dingy glass shards across the hall.

Serra threw an arm over her face and clung to her doorjamb with the other, fighting to remain upright as the building lurched. What was left of the window crashed to the floor, and the whore yelped. Sirens blared outside.

A pre-pube ran past them, as nimble as a goat through the destruction. “S’Lord Scot! He went scrambled ham!” the boy cried, gone before Serra could ask any questions.

“Laud, somewhat must’ve happened t’the lady,” the whore gasped. “S’romance right out of them fae tales, way he loves her.”

Serra’s urge to vomit was cut off by a massive boom in the distance. Her feet shot from under her as the tenement canted sharply. Stone grated against stone and dust filled the air. The whore screamed as she toppled forward, flying across the hall. She hit the wall beside Serra’s door and groaned, struggling to right herself as the world trembled, the building settling at a different angle.

Serra panted, spread eagle on the floor, waiting for the aftershocks to subside. She licked her lips, tasting opportunity along with the grit. The whore was right. Something must’ve happened to Kara, but what?

“Sweet baby Jesus, I hope she ain’t dead,” the whore moaned.

Serra’s brow rose. After that display, it was a distinct possibility. She turned to look up at the whore, and the woman blinked back at her, actual tears welling in her eyes—

Serra started. “What happened to your halos?”

“Me halos?”

“They’re gone.”

The whore rummaged through her skirts and pulled out a compact. She snapped it open and gasped. Thin green rings popped into existence around her irises. They shimmered, and she disappeared. Serra blinked, and the whore popped back into view, her face pale.

“Somewhat must’ve happened to the Overlord.” She stared at the crusted over slice across her shaking palm, then met Serra’s gaze again, rubbing her thumb over the poorly healed wound. “Me oath-bond…it’s gone.”

Serra’s gaze snapped to her own palm. The whore was right. That faint tingle that’d resulted from pledging her fealty to Lord Scot had fuzzed out.

The doors to the outside slammed open, and Serra turned away, blinking from the influx of radiant sunshine. Glory, where the hell had that come from? She held up a hand, shading her eyes. One of the Binders from the hill infirmary peered in at them, pinch-faced. Behind him, a cacophony of blaring sirens, screams, and odd crashes drowned out the thudding of Serra’s heart in her ears. The building across the street was rubble—

“Oh, Lady Hess!” he panted, running a sleeve over his forehead. “Thank God I’ve found you! Lady Jester just collapsed, people are pouring into the clinics. Half the city’s been destroyed, and with the recent mandates, we’re at a loss. We need you to take control of the line.”

“Is that right?” Serra didn’t bother to temper her smile as she clawed up the door frame and smoothed a hand over her hair, positively salivating at the man’s nod.

Well. Fancy that. It didn’t look like she’d have to begin consolidating power from her knees after all.