“You said he’s marginally attractive.”
Doxy’s hand flew into the air, as if to say, like that’s the same thing!
Law was catching on well enough. Between the three of them, they didn’t have a banknote to their names. The Authorities had stripped him of everything except the clothes he wore. The Fallow undoubtedly experienced a similar infringement. It was unlawful for them to possess personal items of value. As talented and generous as this Lance guy surely was, he didn’t accept nothing in return for something.
When Parody leveled her sad gaze on him, he put his hands up. “Don’t look at me! I don’t think I’m his type!”
She blasted out a sigh. “I was actually wondering if you could make yourself scarce for a little while.”
It was a tone she didn’t usually take with him . . . or anyone. He wrote it off as she must be in pain and tried not to take it personally. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go blend in.”
Law stuck his hands in his pockets—it was safer than touching anything—and began edging his way back into the lounge area. He couldn’t determine what exactly was offered to Doxy in exchange for this deed, but it was probably a favor.
He wasn’t daft. And he probably wasn’t the first man to imagine what the two of them did with their free time when no one else was watching.
By the time he found a barstool with a good view of Lance’s corridor, Doxy must have caved to the request. Parody was practically kissing her feet with gratitude.
Then he caught a glimpse of the man in question. Parody did owe her one. The name suited him. That was the polite way to put it.
The degrading act, just for medical care. . .
His mind darted back to Virtue. It always did. She was the heavy pit in his stomach. The glob in his throat. The throb behind his eyes that continually threatened the integrity of his inner flood gates.
How horrible and useless he felt sitting there, at a bar. While Virtue and others like her were enduring such cruelty.
Doxy was one of the lucky ones.
There had to be something he missed. Something he could have said or done to prevent this. He failed her. It was inexcusable. She was innocent. And they were family. . . .
“Looks like you’ve had a rough day, sugar.” The voice caught him off guard. It would have been a scary degree of deep if the words didn’t roll off his tongue, smooth as warm chocolate.
The bartender took a casual stance, leaning both hands on the bar. His tight sequined shirt didn’t do much to cover his impressive pectoral man-cleavage.
Law was most certainly not gay. But he was thirsty. “Is it that obvious?”
“Mmmhmmm.”
The bartender shifted back to a standing position, set a hand on his hip, and the other one was reaching for a bottle.
“I’d tell you all about it.” Law was slathering on the charm real thick. “But I don’t think you have enough liquor or enough time.”
“Time, I’ve got plenty! And liquor. . .” He set a shot glass in front of Law and winked at him as he filled it to the very top. “On the house.”
“Thank you, kindly.” Law downed the excessive portion of clear liquid. It was strong, flavorless, and gave his empty stomach a churn. Then, almost immediately, it dulled the edges of his distress. And that was a godsend. “I’ll start by saying this . . . I should be dead. I suppose that means I’m an outlaw now!”
“Honey. . .” The bartender poured Law another full shot. “Welcome to the club!”
***
“And do you know what that sanctimonious bastard said to me?” Law asked the Fallow sitting on the stool beside him. “Trina” was tiny and pixie-like. Fallowhood, as a look, suited her better than most. Her short black hair was combed wild, like a work of art. And she had striking hazel eyes that widened every time Law leaned in and directed a question at her.
She shook her head, not a big talker, but she was an encouraging listener. She had a loud-mouthed friend leaning on the bar beside her. This Fallow was bald as the day she was born, but she had bushy eyebrows arched in a perpetual scoff. Law had forgotten her name already.
“I doubt it was ‘love you, son. And there’s nothing you could ever do to change that,’” his bartender crooned. After a few shots and at least two mixed drinks—he was losing at his effort to count—Law knew him on a first name basis. Angel.
“Nope! Not my father! It went something more like this: ‘If you represent her, the Redeemer will hear about it.’” Law deepened his voice with fake piousness that was almost a fair reenactment. “Oh, and it gets worse! I didn’t give a damn about the Redeemer and what he thought of me. My father knew that. And, well, ‘the Redeemer is the least of your problems,’ he warned me. ‘Because I will make your life a living Hell.’ And when he said something like that, you better believe he would follow through.”
“Did that scare you off?” the eyebrow girl inquired.
“Not enough. Trust me! I said my piece.”
Another bartender wandered over. He went by Sparky, and where he wasn’t hairy or tattooed, he was covered in burn scars. Though rough around the edges, he was surprisingly civil and attentive. “I hope it was fuck you.”
Law pointed at him in friendly acknowledgement. “Close!”
“Living with you is Hell already,” was Angel’s guess.
“That definitely crossed my mind.”
“I’ll see you in court?” Trina then supplied, causing Law to turn back to her with an exaggerated gasp of surprise.
“That’s right! You’re the lucky winner!” Angel had just poured him another shot and he slid it over to Trina. “All yours. . .” And then his hands fluttered in the air as his brain caught up to his actions. “I’m sorry,” he said to Angel. “That was rude of me.”
Angel simply set a new shot glass in front of him. “There’s more where that came from.” He filled it to the brim.
Law was experiencing an inner climb to invincible, and yet his stomach turned at the sight of more. He sipped it cautiously, and then—what the Hell—he threw it all back. What a shitty day. . .
“She was your mother,” the young man to his right noted. His black leather clothing and eye makeup made Hex look like a ghoul or a vampire, but he was a pretty decent fellow. “I can’t believe he made you choose!”
“I know! What a base human being, right? And my mother was a saint! The infidelity accusation was a complete farce. She even loved the tyrant. She doted on him as best she could right up until the minute the Authorities took her away. The real reason he wanted her gone? She was sick and the medicine that kept her alive was expensive. He had almost sixty other mouths to feed. Not that that was an issue. Thanks to Fallow blood, sweat, and tears, he was practically shitting gold. But he was also stingy as the day is long.”
“That’s awful,” Trina murmured with plenty of sympathy in her wide eyes. “I assume she didn’t survive?”
“She made it through the trial. Barely. And then . . . it’s very unlikely she lasted much longer. A labor camp? In her condition? Come on!” He paused for effect. And then the memory swept through him as if it were fresh. “Some say they had seen the death certificate, but it never turned up when I looked for it. My father probably made it disappear just to spite me.”
He was about to down another shot—his intention, this time, to mourn—when he heard a voice from behind . . . one he recognized. “That sounds an awful lot like something my father would do. . . .”
Law turned around to see if the voice would match the face. “Well, I’ll be damned.” She was rail thin now. Fallow. Not surprising. Her once long, thick waves of almond-colored hair looked dark cropped short and in the fluctuating blue and red lighting. But her bright, strong, friendly blue eyes were unchanged and unmistakable. They were almost identical to his own.
He opened his arms and she didn’t hesitate to go right into them. She hugged him tight. And what a relief! She didn’t blame him for what had happened and didn’t hate him like the rest of his family did. “Hi, Adam.
”
Adam Braintree. The name he was born with. And left behind. But it was the only one she would know.
He didn’t want to, but it was time to let go. “This is my sister . . . Teresa,” he informed everyone, showing her off with her neck in the crook of his elbow. With his other hand, he was wiping his eyes dry.
He didn’t stay in touch with any of his siblings. It was his choice and his father’s as well. They were forbidden to speak to him. And he didn’t want anything to do with them, not if they didn’t respect his side of things. But with Teresa, it was different. Losing her was a regret, though no fault of his own. The choice, most likely, wasn’t hers to make either.
In his heart, he knew they would have stuck together. So he was fairly certain she had been taken from him. And it appeared he was right.
They received head turns, a few aws, and a blip of applause.
“Full sister,” she added, giving him a smile that was truly infectious. Same as always. “None of that half bullshit. And I go by Tess now.”
As a young man named Adam, he was obedient, stoic, and driven to learn, and would occasionally receive his father’s nod of approval for that. Like father, like son. But he always resented himself for it. That wasn’t why he worked hard. Frustrated, restless, and misunderstood, Teresa convinced him to stop taking everything so seriously. And that was a task. He grew up in an extremely solemn place.
“That works. I like it.” Tess wasn’t their father’s favorite. Not by far! She was a girl, after all, and one who slouched and tore her pretty dresses. And she couldn’t keep a straight face at meals or special events, even if she was punished for it . . . frequently. But it didn’t change her. He didn’t break her spirit. Law always admired that. Their father, undeniably, helped mold Law into the man he became. He discovered early on who he didn’t want to be. His mother instilled in him the patience and true righteousness. And Tess was the stronger pull on his other side. Her progressivism, courage, and resilience were something to strive for. “And you’ve probably heard of me as. . . ?
“Law! I knew that was you!”
“Wait. You’re Law?” Hex interrupted.
Trina gasped beside him. “The Law from The Verity Chronicles?”
“That escape was legendary,” someone chimed in from behind.
All eyes were on Law. They were before as well, but now, their faces were alight with awe, like he had risen from the dead. And in a way, that was an accurate conjecture. “What can I say?” When he connected with his sister’s you-are-so-full-of-yourself expression, it didn’t exactly humble him. “Well, I will say this. Don’t you worry. We are down, but we are not out. We have more ‘legendary’ coming soon. We’ve got a story brewing that will make your jaw drop. It’ll change the world as we know it.”
And that’s when Doxy snuck into view, and unwelcomely at that. Parody was at her heel, her arm in white gauze up to her elbow.
He had an overwhelming urge to look away. They represented a reality where no one appreciated him, not like his new friends did. And just as he was about to dodge Doxy’s discernment, her eyes flared at him.
It was a look he was so tired of seeing. He could entertain her thoughts, her criticism, her flirtation, her mood swings, and hate swings . . . or he could ignore them. It made no difference. He could do no right.
With a wave, she seemed adamant that he come right over. He tossed her a flippant one-minute signal in return and continued to sip his next drink.
“Do you have to go?” his sister asked. “So soon?”
“She can wait,” he commented, and he gave his sister his full attention. “I’m just. . .” He shook his head, struggling to find the words. “I’m so glad you’re alive. What . . . happened?”
“The old man was going to go after me next. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. And eventually. . .” She presented herself, both hands up.
The Authorities caught up with her. And she was Ungodly to them—too old, too desecrated, or too unruly.
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I could have done?”
She set her hand on his. “No,” she puffed out, wiping her eyes dry. And she never cried.
Someone or something did finally break her. But not completely. Her strong, untamable spirit was there, shining through those tears.
And then Doxy was there, barging between them, bringing an abrupt end to a long overdue moment. “We’ve gotta go.” Doxy dragged him off his comfortable barstool by the back of his collar. “You can worry about your dick some other time.”
He stumbled to find his feet and then made a point to wrench himself free. “That’s uncalled for! She’s my sister!”
While he was slowing down, looking back, Doxy grabbed him by the arm and tugged him her way.
“I’m here a lot,” Tess called out, waving to him a doleful goodbye.
“I don’t know where here is.” He was shouting now. He wanted his sister to hear him above the ruckus. And, sure enough, everyone else could hear him too. But he stopped caring four or five drinks ago. “But I’ll find it! And believe me when I say, you won’t have to hide anymore. Not once I’ve done my part!”
“Save it for the election,” Doxy hissed as she tugged him into a ghastly corridor. Parody was already about two body lengths ahead, leading the way with the lantern.
The tunnel was dark, empty, and narrow, and dripping with filth. Not that the main entrance was very appealing. This path, however, was a gentleman’s worst nightmare!
He was running now, behind Doxy. He was keeping pace, no assistance required. “What’s the hurry?” he made sure to ask anyway.
Parody, who was particularly spry on the stairs, encountered a door at the top first. After peeking out, she opened it for them and signaled that the coast was clear.
“Do you have to make a spectacle everywhere you go?” Doxy nagged on. “And how much did you drink?”
“What? Are you my mother now?” Definitely not. “I was just talking. I’m still reasonably coherent. Aren’t I?” As he came to a stop, his balance—or lack thereof—answered the question for her.
They stepped through the door. Or in Law’s case, he stumbled through it, stubbing his toe and cursing himself out loud.
Just beyond, a ladder appeared with a manhole cover above it. More climbing. . .
“Yeah, well,” Parody said, taking the ladder behind Doxy. “You caught the attention of Barrett and his cronies. He wants to meet with you.”
As they climbed out, they were greeted with outside air for the first time in a while. It was brisk, indeed, but it was a relief to his heaving lungs.
Glancing around, there wasn’t much familiar about his new surroundings. They were in some war-torn, Dark Times era neighborhood. In the New Age, however, it was nothing more than a shantytown. It had either been ignored by the Portsmith Authorities . . . or forgotten about.
Law chuckled once the name and implications sunk in. “Jud ‘The Slaughterhouse’ Barrett? That scumbag wants to meet with me? To what do I owe the honor?”
He was the king of Portsmith’s underworld1. And, unapologetically, he was also a walking contradiction. He had only two known convictions: raking in the banknotes—illegally, of course—and disemboweling anyone who betrayed him. Otherwise, he hated the rich, but he was rich. He had to be! Heck, he probably did business with the elite on a regular basis. He denounced religion, but he certainly had no problem “spreading the light” with, allegedly, fifteen wives of his own. Not some of Portsmith’s most desirable, but still! Fifteen someones with accessible ovaries said, “I do,” to that swine. And the Fallow? Oh yes. They were trash to him. And good for only one thing. And that thing was making him more money. This also made them the most prone to his wrath. The Fallow were, therefore, the most likely to turn up somewhere dirty, damp, and dark with rats fighting to the death for a nibble of their entrails.
Rumors were just rumors, but they weren’t exactly ones he wanted to corroborate, even if he could. And that was
also a problem. Those who knew the truth were either loyal . . . or dead.
Law was preoccupied, watching his own feet. There was a lot of debris to avoid on what would barely qualify as a street. The aging asphalt was buckling in more places than not.
“Aw. . .” The monstrous croon struck Law first. Then he practically stumbled right on top of . . . cruddy black boots, gold belt buckle, extra-large pea coat that barely covered his girth, scraggly bearded face, and a tweed flat cap . . . the Slaughterhouse himself.
It was truly a sobering moment, and one so full of morbid contemplation.
What was his weapon of choice? A boring old knife? Probably not. Had to be something more Barrett-ish. Like a crowbar or a meat hook.
“A scumbag?” he bellowed on, and the guffaw that followed practically shook the ground beneath them. “Am I really that bad?”
Two of his associates stepped up from behind him. They both had shaved heads, and towered over everyone, including Barrett, who was no runt. And they looked like twins. They even had matching slashes on their cheeks, more a roughly similar mirror image rather than an exact likeness, though. From the looks of it, they were old knife wounds that had scarred over some time ago.
“I had a feeling you’d come out this way, Law,” Barrett chided.
“What can I do for you gentleman?”
Law forced a smile and shoved his hands in his pockets. They could probably smell his fear, but he didn’t want them to see his hands shaking.
The twin of terror on the right lurched forward. Law thought it might be to knock his teeth in, but the motion turned delicate . . . and even more abhorrent. He rubbed a hand down Doxy’s cheek and onto her chest, which quickly became a grab and a grope.
She squirmed and slugged him. But that only made him sneer and lick his chomps.
“How much?” he ground out, his mug now cocking in Law’s direction.
“She’s not for sale,” he stated wryly. “And surely you must know we aim to liberate the Fallow from these shackles, so to say. And with that out of the way, we’ll be on our way.”
Law attempted to sneak past, grabbing for Doxy’s wrist, but Barrett had other plans. He cleared his throat with authority and lifted an arm to block their path. “Miss Roslyn is always welcome to work for me . . . again.” When he winked at her, she clammed up like nothing Law had ever seen. Words were enough for her to fear for her life. “But I do have another item of business to discuss.” He addressed Law this time. “I saw what happened at the execution. And, quite frankly, I was impressed. A thanks is in order. You saved one of my own.” His head bobbed toward the goon on his left.
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