by C. M. Lind
Randolph paused, half-way out of his chair.
Saemund leaned over the table. “Sit,” he whispered.
The door was so close, and Silvia was just behind it. All he had to do was leave, but Randolph suffered from an incurable, morbid case of curiosity—a case that only became worse after five generous glasses of straight bourbon.
He always found, regardless of sobriety, that he was prone to actions and words without thoughts, and, like earlier in that day, he had touched without asking. Everything he ever did created more questions for him—but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
He sat back down.
Saemund smiled as if he knew some secret joke that Randolph didn’t. “Something has changed with you as well. Has it not?”
Randolph glared at him. “No,” he lied.
Saemund’s new eyes were still full of the predatory look that Randolph knew so well. They twitched about, taking in every detail of Randolph’s face. “You’re lying.” He smiled. “I can always tell when a human is lying.”
“What are you getting at?” Randolph tried to control his face, knowing any tic of a muscle could give him away.
Saemund dragged the words out, as if every syllable brought him pleasure. “You knew I was looking into someone. You knew I wouldn’t have met with you without any information about it. We’re meeting now, and you do not care at all.” He laughed. “You were about to leave knowing a killer is after your master, and you do not care. So, yes. Something has indeed changed, mercenary.”
“How about you,” countered Randolph. His hand upon the table clenched into a fist, and his knuckles cracked. “You’re a madman. Attacking women in the streets. Sending no word for weeks. Trying to scare me.”
Saemund sat back, seeming to digest the words. His flinty eyes stared at Randolph and didn’t blink. “Madman?” He giggled with his entire body for only a second. “Perhaps, but this madman knows who is going to kill your master—and when.”
“It is your job to handle it.”
Saemund’s eyes flickered around Randolph’s face again, and he knew that the monster was reading him no matter how much Randolph wanted to hide his conflicted anger.
“I’ve thought of something far more entertaining though.” Saemund leaned back over the table, getting his face as close as he could to Randolph’s. “I’m going to leave it all to you.”
Randolph cocked his head.
“If you want, I will tell you who it is. If you do not wish to know, then I will not tell you. The assassin will be free to strike at your master, and you will be able to deny any information about the killer.” Saemund giggled again; his whole body bounced, and there was a mirth in his eyes that made Randolph’s skin shiver. “If you never knew who, then how would you have been able to stop her?”
Randolph’s hand went up. “Wait,” he said. “Her?”
“Ah!” Saemund clasped his hands. “You do wish to know!”
Randolph’s teeth were dug into his lower lip, and the taste of copper overwhelmed the smoke and oak from the bourbon. He shrugged.
Saemund tsked thrice. “None of that. Yes or no. You decide.”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head again. He would shed no tears over Jae—not after what the man had done to him. His boss had set him up to be the fool. To bear the burden. Randolph had thought that Jae had hired him because he was good at what he did, but he suddenly knew the truth: that he was hired because he was too dense to ever figure out what had really happened.
The smile vanished from Saemund’s face, and a gloomy bleakness replaced it. “It is hard to decide, is it not? The burden of knowledge. The encumbrance of duty.” He dragged his dry tongue over his front teeth. “The misery we suffer for loyalty to the unworthy.”
Or the drive of curiosity, no matter how much it may hurt us, thought Randolph. He nodded. He could decide what to do with the information later.
Saemund pulled a piece of folded-up paper from his waist and set it on the table with such care that it might as well have been made of crystal. There was no joy on his face nor mirth in his voice. “Here.”
Randolph stared at it. The paper was thick, like a broadside, but it looked as clean as if it had been resting in Saemund’s pocket since its creation. His hand lingered over it for a few moments before he took it.
A small smile grew on Saemund’s face, and he exhaled with a slight laugh.
Randolph laid the dagger on his lap, needing the hand to unfold the paper, which he did carefully while Saemund watched his every motion.
He stopped halfway.
He had seen enough. He threw the paper back onto the table. The familiar scowl he had seen before in that very bar looked up at both of them.
Randolph slammed his elbows onto the table, cradling his head with his hands. “Fuck,” he whispered.
“Do you want to know when?”
“I don’t know,” said Randolph into his palms.
“The strange thing is: she is not a Disciple.” Saemund giggled again. “In fact, she seems to loathe them, which makes me wonder why she even bothers to kill your man.”
“I already know why.” What a fool Randolph had been. She had killed Vaux already, so she must have known the whole story. It was so obvious to him in that moment, and he had never felt more stupid in his entire life. To him, she knew everything—no doubt about it.
“How marvelous for you then,” seethed Saemund. “Care to enlighten me?”
“No,” said Randolph.
“Why?”
Randolph looked up from his hands. “It doesn’t matter.”
Saemund’s eyes narrowed, returning to their predatory state.
“Well, it doesn’t!” insisted Randolph.
“Never question. Never have your own thoughts and, most certainly, do not share them, huh?” Saemund scoffed, as he slipped the paper back into his waist. “Spoken like a true slave.”
Randolph’s fists slammed onto the table. “I am not!”
“Really?” shouted Saemund back at him. “You have what you need. Go kill her for your master.”
“Why don’t you?” screamed Randolph, spit flying from his mouth. His hand went for his knife.
“I can’t!” screeched Saemund, a watery quiver in his voice.
The entire bar was quiet, and all eyes were on the two men at each other’s throats, practically on top of the table to get to the other.
Randolph realized his knife was raised, and he returned it to his sheath. Lambert was creeping from behind the bar, just about to say something to the two before Randolph cut him off. “We’re leaving.” Randolph threw a few silvers on the table before he grabbed Saemund by the arm.
The creature offered no resistance, and Randolph hauled him out of the bar, throwing him into the street outside.
Saemund rolled onto the stony street, covering his robes with dirt and dust, but he was up with the grace of a skilled acrobat in seconds.
“You are going start being straight with me right now because I have had enough of your games and your giggles!” barked Randolph.
Saemund patted the dust off of the front of his robes. “There are no games, half-wit, just normal words!”
“Then do your fucking job!” shouted Randolph.
Saemund scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Like you really want me to!”
Randolph shoved him, but Saemund didn’t budge. “I do.”
“You’re lying, dog.” He pushed Randolph back, but Randolph didn’t move an inch. “I can tell!”
“Fine!” Randolph hands went wide. “You got me! Maybe I don’t!”
“Fine!” said Saemund, crossing his arms. “Then do not do a thing.”
Randolph dropped his arms. “What I don’t get is why are you doing this?”
Saemund tsked, wagging a finger as he kept his arms crossed. “Not fair. If you won’t share then neither will I.”
“Fine!” said Randolph, crossing his arms.
The two stared at each other, their bodies uncom
fortably mirrored.
Randolph, after a few minutes of silence had passed, asked, “It’s going to be at the party, isn’t it?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“No.” Randolph shook his head. “I don’t think I care.”
Randolph walked over to Silvia, who had remained completely docile and oblivious to the two’s altercation. He didn’t know where he was going in that moment. He just wanted to get away. From Saemund. From the Reinouts. Everything. “As far as I’m concerned, Saemund,” he untied her reins from the post, “we never met tonight.”
Chapter 53
Between The Hound’s Breath and Iron’s Rest, Saemund stood on the street with his arms crossed. He watched the mercenary ride away. He looked down once he was out of view, and he realized he was standing in the exact place where the woman had been before: the first time he had laid eyes upon her.
He kicked the dirt on the street before he turned to walk away.
He had to think of what to say. What would he tell Dotard and Worm? The two would know that he had met with the mercenary, and, as usual, they would be full of questions.
He’d lie of course, and they would believe him. He’d tell them that the mercenary wanted to take care of the woman personally. Perhaps he wanted to make a show of it the night of—a giant dramatic reveal and a clash of warriors to show off for his master.
Yes, he thought, it was perfect.
He was so engrossed in his plan, that he hadn’t realized that he was being watched the entire time, and that his watchers had heard every word the two had yelled in the streets.
Saemund turned into an alley. He planned to take a back way to Turmont’s Tinctures. What he would tell the woman, he didn’t know, but he felt that there was nowhere else he could run to.
He froze as he heard Dotard call his assumed name. Saemund turned. Worm was there with Dotard practically hiding behind him.
“What are you two doing here?” asked Saemund. His muscles twitched.
“We’re here for you,” muttered Dotard.
Saemund blew air, and he shooed them with his hands. “Be gone!”
Worm brashly shook his head, keeping his eyes to the ground.
“You’re not going to!” Dotard’s chin was held high; his face was taut, and his eyes bulged. “Liar!”
“I’m handling it!” shouted Saemund, raising a fist to the both of them.
In a low voice, barely audible, Worm mirrored Dotard’s accusation: “Liar! We heard!” hissed Worm.
Vigorously, Dotard nodded, as if fresh life was breathed into him.
“Listened to everything!” added Worm.
“Everything,” Dotard echoed just a half-second after Worm.
Worm shook his head. “We have to!”
“No!” Saemund screamed. His vocal folds were painfully tight, and the words barely squeaked from him: “I don’t!”
The two pulled away from him, hissing at his words.
Saemund felt a stab in his side, as if someone had slipped a hook in between his ribs to sheer off the intercostal muscles in one reckless sweep. His hand shot to it, pressing against his ribs. He took a deep, unsteady breath, and his words were no louder more than a creaking groan. “Fuck your master!”
They both lost their breath as their hands shot to their mouths, covering their own lips as if they themselves had uttered such gross blasphemy.
Another scrape inside him, as if his own body was rending itself. Saemund’s face broke into pained laughter, his hand pushing harder into his sore side. He had wanted to say the words for so long, but he never could formulate them. A mental block, an isolating darkness, an impassable void always kept the words from his lips. Somehow, he had made it through, and after leaping the void in his mind, all that was left was physical punishment—another reminder from his master to never disobey. To simply follow his own purpose.
It was, after all, his nature to follow: to kill, to obey—that was all he needed to do.
Worm was the first to break free of his paralyzing shock. “No,” he said softly, putting his hands out to placate Saemund. “Do not say…” the rest of the words were lost to him, and he merely shook his head as if suffering from insurmountable spasms.
Saemund smiled at Worm, taking a step closer to make sure the pathetic little shit could hear the two syllables he found he had fallen in love with. “Fuck. Him.”
“Don’t worry,” said Dotard with the kindness of a mother. “We’ll take care of you.”
Worm licked his lips, and his eyes lit up. “Yes!” His spasms went from shaking to nodding. “We will take care of you!”
The smile from Saemund’s face disappeared, and his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“The woman!” exclaimed Dotard with the excitement of a child being brought to a candy store.
“Yes!” piped Worm. “We will all go home together.”
Saemund swallowed, the tightness in his throat was spreading to his jaw. A deep, throbbing pain crept into his teeth. “What?”
“We’ve been gone too long,” said Worm. “We need to go home.”
Dotard nodded again, an annoying, vacant brightness in his eyes.
Saemund exhaled sharply. “I am never going back there!”
“Have to!” squealed Dotard.
All color drained from Worm’s face, and his lip quivered, unable to create any words.
“Then go. Tell him I’m dead.” Saemund coughed a small laugh. “I won’t stop you.”
“But,” the word trembled past Worm’s quaking lips.
“Have to,” said Dotard again. “To tell on you.”
Saemund’s hand dropped from his pained side, and he cracked his knuckles.
Worm nodded. “Yes!” He turned to Dotard. “We’ll beg! We’ll tell!”
A single giggle shot from Dotard. “The woman first. Then beg.” He jabbed a finger at Worm’s chest. “New Saemund?”
Worm’s head raised with pride, and his lips opened to respond, which he never did.
Saemund’s right hand snatched Worm around the throat, squeezing.
Worm’s eyes shot open. One last, high-pitched squeak piped from him, and his hands vainly ripped at Saemund’s.
Dotard gasped, stumbling back away from the two.
Saemund clasped tight. His fingers were ripped open to his grey flesh underneath by Worm’s nails, but he did not relent. He squeezed harder, imagining his former master’s thin, frail, boney neck between his fingers. It was his skin that swelled under his hand. His nails that fought for his life. It was his trachea that popped under his fingers. It was his vertebrae that snapped free from the rest of the spine as Saemund throttled his hand back and forth.
Worm was limp in his hand. Only Saemund kept him aloft, his hand still crushing what was left of the thing. Lost in a smoke of rage and resentment, Saemund only saw and felt his former, monstrous master, and the rest of the world vanished from him. His fingers touched the base of his palm, and his whole hand was covered in hot, slick red. A slap, and Worm’s head splattered into the red puddled stone at Saemund’s feet.
Slick muscle and vertebrae slipped from his grip, and the rest of Worm joined his head onto the street. Saemund dropped his hand, and it fell to his side, smearing blood on the priest’s robe. The dark cloth eagerly soaked up the red, hiding the gore from any curious eyes that might see.
Saemund looked at the remains of Worm. His stolen skin was already separating from his own grey flesh, sloughing off like a snake’s.
He’d have to hide the body, quickly before anyone saw him. He couldn’t risk anyone finding a real monster, and he couldn’t let such word travel far and wide for his former master to hear.
But first, he thought, raising his head back up.
Dotard was gone.
Vanished.
He dropped his gaze back to the decapitated Worm. He would deal with the remains first, and then he would look for Dotard.
The fool couldn’t hide from him forev
er.
Chapter 54
It had been a day since Soli had seen Randolph. A day since he confessed that Lord Jae Reinout was behind his biggest regret. A day since he had discovered her disfigurement.
She figured the two had much to discuss.
But Randolph hadn’t returned to her room. She was left alone with her ill ruse; her only company was the stack of books that Etienne had left for her.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Etienne knew about what had happened with Jae, Randolph, and the Delarue Auction House. She thought not. He was kind—far too kind to be involved with such things, and she sincerely hoped he had no idea of the deceitfulness of his cousin.
Part of her wanted to know, but another part of her didn’t. How could she have looked at the man she thought of as gentle the same ever again if she knew he had been part of such trickery? If confronted, how could she be sure his answer was honest? What if all that came of it was her own doubt? Would she spend the rest of her life unable to trust her own instinct?
She wished Randolph would have returned to her, but it seemed, to her, that he had disappeared. Then where had he gone off to? While lying in her bed, an open book resting upon her breast, she pictured him in his quarters. Perhaps he was hiding. In the dark he sat, blaming himself for Jae’s deception.
Such thoughts filled her with a boiling anger.
Randolph was a good man with a good conscience, she told herself repeatedly. He didn’t deserve such treatment from Jae. That man deserved to be punished, and she herself would second Randolph in that fight.
But, then again, if he ever did, he would end up at The Cliffs. The image of him swinging from the gallows, gulls occasionally landing to grab a bite of flesh, made her stomach turn sour. She swallowed hard as she shook the image from her mind.
No, she resigned herself with a sigh, Randolph couldn’t kill him. Neither could she. They were both helpless against the man. The only difference that she saw was that her time in captivity was to be over soon, whereas Randolph had indefinitely sold himself to the fiend.
She picked the book up from her breast and turned the page. She sat up in bed at what she saw. In thick, detailed font it said: House Fhoren.