The Weeping Scar Martha Chronicle 1 by TheSpiralAim
Hunger buried itself deep when it was allowed to make itself a home. An hour under someone meant coin, and coin meant holding it at bay. Martha had made that connection a year ago after she had been kicked out. The streets of Sibiu were not kind to an unwanted ratten.
Her client lay on his back with the loose satisfaction of a man done spending effort. That much didn't matter unless it meant he would pay.
"That was lovely, wasn't it, miss?" the human man asked.
"Martha," she replied.
Her eyes found his clothing and belt pouch. A few figs for this, and she could eat for several days. Maybe sleep somewhere with a wall at her back. The man stood, and her ears twitched. He should go to the pouch, fetch the coins, and leave.
Instead, the man circled the bed to her and set his hands on her shoulders. Gently, for now. His eyes met hers. Martha watched his hands, then the pouch, then the distance to the door.
"Martha," he repeated with a tone that was too sweet.
Her shoulders wanted to pull away. She kept them still. Instead, she counted the room. Lye, old wool, lavender oil, and the stale skin scent of a man who washed less than she did. Her clothing sat folded on the windowsill.
"How about another round?" the man asked.
Martha's stomach tightened, and her eyes found his pouch again. When the man had undressed earlier, she had heard the coins in it. Enough to pay.
"You paid for an hour," she said, keeping her shoulders still.
"Yes, and you did wonderfully. It'd be a shame if there wasn't an encore performance," the man said.
"Then you'll need to buy another hour," she said. Her stomach cramped at the delay. More coin meant more bread. That had to matter more.
"I bought the room and the wine," he said.
"Yes, but not from me."
"I also bought the wine."
Martha hadn't touched any of the wine, though the bottle was already half empty. She looked back at him.
"Another hour, or another half hour, and we can talk."
"Talk?"
"You bought an hour; I served for an hour," she said. Her stomach cramped enough for her to want to double over.
Stress sharpened his scent. Acrid, sour, and distinctly human. He stepped closer and moved his hands to her hips. Too close. The window felt cold behind her.
"I don't know why you're being so difficult. I treated you well," he said.
He was not entirely wrong. She had endured worse men. This one had been easier until the paying part. Her stomach did not care how gentle he had been. Bruises faded. Missing coin stayed missing.
"Pay me first," Martha said.
The man's hands stopped.
She thought that had worked. His thumbs rested against the bones of her hips. His face stayed soft, but the smell of him sharpened. Sweat, wine, old linen, and sour under it.
"Pay you first," he repeated.
"For the first hour," she said.
"I was going to."
Martha looked past his shoulder. His belt pouch lay on the chair with his folded shirt half over it. Close enough for him. Too far for her. "Then do, please." She hated how little sound it made.
"You really know how to spoil a mood."
A mood was not food. It was not rent for a corner near a hearth. It was not a heel of bread wrapped in paper and eaten slow enough to lie to the stomach.
He lifted her enough that her toes dragged against the floorboards. His mouth pulled tight. He did not shout. He did not let go. Martha held still, her eyes locked on his.
"I have the room for the whole night, and you're just going to keep making this about you and money?" he asked.
Martha's ears flattened back. Money was the point. That's how this worked, right? "I'm not going to be sleeping here or drinking your wine, sir. If you want more time, my rates are the same for another hour." The last words thinned before she could stop them.
Behind her, the window frame creaked.
Martha heard the tired wood split.
Cold air hit her back. His hands tightened, then missed. The sill struck her hip, the frame gave, and the room vanished above her.
She hit the street on her side and left hand. Her lungs emptied. For a moment, there was only cobble against skin, glass in her fur, and the stupid need to breathe.
She tried to move.
Pain snapped through her wrist and up her arm. A shriek tore out before she could bite it down.
"Shut up!" a distant voice shouted.
"Keep it down," another voice said.
Her clothing landed a few paces away.
The man remained in the broken window. His mouth hung open. Surprise lasted until he saw her looking back. Then his face tightened, as if she had been rude, and he stepped out of sight.
Martha tried to push herself up.
Her left hand folded uselessly beneath her. A hiss slipped through her teeth. The wrist was wrong. It hung at an odd angle and didn’t want to move.
She crawled to her clothing and dressed one-handed, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. The wrist would not sit right. She pulled at it until it popped. Then again. The shape looked closer to normal.
The street ahead was empty except for the glow from a few windows.
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