The slightly yellow parchnt crinkled under Atticus’s fingers, his eyes glued onto the drawings of the brothel workers. The depictions of those won weren’t works of immaculate art, that’s for sure. Rather, they seem hastily drawn. However, there was no denying the fact that these won usually had so form of resemblance to Daphne. They had a similar face shape, while others had her eyes.
From the information they had overheard from the shed, it seed like they were blonde as well, a perfect coincidence with Daphne’s hair color. Only, too many coincidences would lead to none.
"It’s uncanny," Atticus agreed. He sifted through the drawings one by one, his frown deepening the further he got. "How many?"
"Twenty," Jonah replied, his answer swift. "So nights, more than one at a ti. The brothel owner was very forthcoming with the information. Apparently, the girls were always bruised, scared, and hurt afterward, but because Jean Nott paid well, he remained a favored client."
"Yet he’s helping us with our investigation?" Atticus asked doubtfully. Brothels were notoriously known for keeping the depraved secrets of their more prestigious clientele. "What changed?"
Jonah picked two sheets out of Atticus’s hands and laid them on the table with a solemn look on his face. "He killed them."
Atticus froze, staring at their portraits. Jonah continued to explain.
"These two won died from their encounter. From the reports I have gotten, both of them suffered from multiple injuries like gashes and cuts. This woman," he gestured to the one on the right, "even had whip lashes on her body. She died from her wounds just last night while the other died from asphyxiation."
Atticus wanted to maintain an air of indifference but it was getting more and more difficult the more Jonah explained what he had just found out. The dead woman’s eyes stared right back at him as if daring him to comnt. She couldn’t have been older than her early twenties, yet her life was so unceremoniously snuffed out so quickly, just because she had a lunatic for a client.
Atticus knew they were all brothel workers, and they were not Daphne no matter how much they looked like her. However, the very fact that they all had an uncanny resemblance to his wife made it difficult for Atticus to not feel at least a shred of sympathy for these won.
As well as fury.
If Daphne had been captured by Eugene Attonson at any point they had interacted while alone together, she could’ve been the one suffering that fate. Atticus didn’t even wish to imagine the sort of things that psychopath would do to his wife. In Jean Nott’s eyes, these won were simply replacents.
"He’s still there?" Atticus asked.
"No," Jonah answered. "This girl," he gestured to the one that was whipped, "was the last girl he bought the ti of. That was two nights ago. The brothel wanted to find him to get him to pay compensation for the dead girls, but he was nowhere to be found. That’s why the owner is willing to help us. More specifically, he is willing to help anyone that pays. They were his top workers and he needs replacents."
Atticus scowled. So in the end, it was only money that motivated the owner, nothing to do with human decency or kindness.
"But that’s not the only strange thing, they also found... abnormalities with the girls the day after," Jonah said hesitantly.
"Like what?" Atticus asked warily.
"Like their stomachs caving into nothing," Jonah said, pulling out a new stack of drawings. This ti, the hastily drawn images looked like they belonged in one of Sirona’s old dical texts, or so cautionary tale to young children to stop them from making deals with dark creatures. They were grotesque and uncanny, and Atticus felt a shiver run down his spine.
"The dead won also had the skin on their limbs suddenly turning gray and cracked, as though they were turning to stone. The brothel owner was terrified and suspected it could be a disease, but I doubt it. After Lucien Seibert’s testimony, I suspect he might have also been experinting on these won too."
Atticus’s fingers curled into a clenched fist. It was heavily brought down, slamming on the surface. The force caused several items on his desk to jolt up upon impact, jumping into the air for a brief second.
"That damned bastard! Fuck him!"
To think he would be deranged enough to experint on these helpless won who didn’t know any better.
"He might still be in Reaweth," Jonah offered. "He might be looking for the sa things we are. Maybe he’s running out of ingredients."
That caught Atticus’s attention. He glanced over, his eyes squinting into slits.
"Explain," he ordered.
"From what Lucien Seibert described, it seed like Jean Nott requires certain items to conduct a ceremony of sorts," Jonah explained. "He described one of the items― thin, watery, translucent, and amber-colored. Lucien Seibert even said, and I quote, ’it looked like liquid gold’. Sounds familiar to you?"
Atticus’s eyebrows were tightly knitted together. There were several things that ca to mind, from Moonlit venom to Amberweave wine, but he knew that it had to be related to the artifacts ntioned in the Reawethen myths.
There was only one ingredient that would fit.
"Tree sap?" Atticus asked, his mind imdiately going to Prince Nathaniel. "And not just from any tree."
"Bingo." Jonah nodded. "My guess is that it might be from Raxuvia’s sacred tree as well, just like the seeds of Daphne’s bracelet."
"Is that the deal he has with that useless prince?" Atticus wondered. "In exchange for so of the Temporal Elderwood Tree’s sap, Jean Nott will help enhance Prince Nathaniel’s magical affinity?"
"That is a strong possibility," Jonah said. "There are no other trees that are as important in Raxuvia that Jean Nott can’t get his hands on. They might be rare but they’re still found in easily accessible places in the kingdom. The Temporal Elderwood Tree’s sap, however, can only be extracted on certain days and at very specific locations of the tree which are heavily guarded."
"Just the sap alone will not give him powers, though," Atticus pointed out. "If that were the case, Prince Nathaniel would’ve already used it on himself. Unless..."
"Unless it’s just one of the ingredients?" Jonah supplied, to which Atticus nodded in reply.
"He could’ve been experinting with what ingredients could work in his favor," said Atticus. "But he hasn’t gotten it perfected yet, that’s why he is doing so much experinting right now." On whores, no less. "And also, why he might still be in Reaweth. It is the center of magic, where it all started."
And if Atticus had his way, he would end it all in Reaweth too. He rubbed his temples, his eyes flashing angrily as he glared down at the drawings.
Jean Nott must be stopped. But he had to fix the trouble brewing in his own backyard first before he went about razing Reaweth to the ground.
"Good job with the investigations. Keep it up and report to once you find anything new," Atticus instructed. "Grill Lucien Seibert again, make sure he coughs up every single detail before I exile him."
"You’re not executing him?" Jonah asked curiously.
"That punishnt will be reserved for his wife." A wicked glint entered Atticus’s eyes. "I want him to live with the knowledge that he caused her death, however indirectly. Even if she never loved him, he’ll live the rest of his days wracked with guilt and longing for her."
"...Sotis I forget you’re even more terrifying when you aren’t on the battlefield," Jonah noted wryly. "What do you have planned for Francessa Seibert?"
"Only the best for my almost fiancee," Atticus now leaned back against his chair, a cunning smirk on his face. "Sit back and watch the show."
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