Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1)

by Rebecca Grey

  Vengeance

  The Prince’s Games

  Vengeance

  Copyright 2021 Nikki Hunter

  All Rights Reserved

  Imprint: Independently published

  Cover design by Seventhstar

  Editing by Red Line Editing

  The content of this book is protected under Federal Copyright Laws. Any unauthorized use of this material is prohibited. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales are entirely coincidence.

  I’d like to dedicate all the hard work I’ve put into this book to my mother. Thank you for loving me and believing in me always.

  I love you.

  P.S. Please don’t read past this page, Mom. Trust me on this.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About Rebecca Grey

  Drunk and swaying on a rickety old bar stool to my left sits a man, clearly of Orcish lineage, with rather tall socks. His large, goofy ears stick out from the sides of his head, crinkly gray hair sprouting from them. Orc is the only option with an ugly face like that.

  With socks that high, he must be rich. The more fabric you own the richer you appear to be. Which isn’t hard, considering everyone that actually lives in The Bend is pretty fucking poor. The rich only come here to mock us, and the poor who find themselves suddenly rich…don’t live long.

  Socks are also a great way for me to know if someone is likely to spend a good chunk of coin or not. Not that I care. But the more coin they spend on stale alcohol, poured from dirty bottles lined with gnats, the easier my job will be. The sun has very clearly gone down, drawing more patrons into the bar. At night it grows worryingly cold even when the daylight can blister your skin if you’re not covered.

  The ivy-covered Dryad bartending is smart. A lot smarter than some of the bartenders or waitresses I’ve run into in my time in The Bend. With a practiced smile she dotes on the man, offering his first drink of the night with a fresh napkin. She’s careful not to be too nice. People who are too nice get taken advantage of.

  I swirl my small steaming mug of hot tea, watching the Orc raise his glass and down another sip. In due time. It won’t be long now. I’ll give it minutes, certainly less than twenty.

  Speckled with dust, the large mirror behind the bar is hung over metal lockboxes that poke out on either side of it, reflecting the room behind me. Booths are shoddily held together, and the lights swinging above them flicker every so often. Old paintings, supposedly famous, hang crooked on the walls. People don’t even bother to read the tags stuffed into the side of their decaying frames anymore. I’ve been here enough to memorize them and every thick stroke of paint on their canvases. Girl with Pearl Earrings by Johannes Vermeer, The Kiss by Gustav Klimt, and Impression Sunrise by Claude Monet to name a few. Humans every last one of them. Thus, they’re mostly forgotten.

  Admittedly, Humans are very resilient and stubborn creatures. It’s our blood, my blood, that waters down every immortal bloodline now. Hybrids, though, are still nearly as dangerous and much more common than Purists like me. Immortal’s powerful traits are more dominant than the Human genes. That’s why Hybrids are less in touch with their humanity, or so I think.

  Tonight, Geno’s bar is borderline rowdy. A few patrons had scored big at the gambling hall around the corner. They don’t have tall socks, and I doubt they will have enough money left over in the morning to even purchase some. After this job, I would collect my coin and head home to my small apartment on the sixth floor of a deteriorating building. It’s where all the mercenaries live. All I can think about is crawling back to my thin mattress and ignoring the world. But tonight’s job is good money. Money I so desperately need.

  I pull my eyes away from the paintings, catching the swing of the door from the kitchen. The hinges whine loudly. Captain Balander often stops in to sit at the bar to catch up on his correspondence while his crew unloads the liquor they’ve brought from overseas in the back. It’s him I expect now. Over the last year, we’d chatted a few times, as I often frequent this bar. Geno’s is one of the few places that still holds some taste of the world immortals have forgotten. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’d find myself, on occasion, prying open one of the many metal boxes that cover the walls to find yellowing paper folded carefully into envelopes. Each one has a sticker pressed to its corner, and if you’re careful enough, you can unwrap the papers. Mostly, it’s numbers that are jumbled together with little meaning to me, but on a rare find, it’s a handwritten letter. I’d spend the night drinking and sounding out words with my poor grasp of reading, guessing at the lives of the dead. Balander often would purposefully slip the word I was trying to pronounce into his conversation with the bartender.

  Instead of Balander’s scarred face, a silver-eyed man appears. There is no way he is older than twenty, with his perfectly unwrinkled tanned skin and his short dark hair that reveals two pointed ears.

  I squint at him from over my own glass. He smiles and instantly it’s too charming. Balander must have picked up a stowaway from The Oasis and is letting him drink while his crew works. And his outfit… very… not sea-born Elf like. The boy slaps money down on the bar top, sliding onto a stool. He tosses the Orc I’m watching a friendly smile. Black pants meet unmarked boots that don’t reveal his socks. Though I don’t need to see them, considering how he’s clad with polished leather and gold buckles.

  I catch the two weapons he has belted to him. As a pirate that works with or for Balander I’d expect such things. Though, surely he is wise enough to know that the use of them here would not go without punishment.

  “This is an interesting bar,” he muses. There’s an accent to his speech that I can’t place, one that smoothly runs off the tongue as he speaks. “What is this place?”

  “It used to be a post-office.” The bartender says with a practiced tone.

  “Post-office.” He laughs, tasting the words. “Whatever does that mean?”

  The Dryad shrugs, turning back to her work. I’m not even sure what it means, just that it’s some abandoned piece of Human history.

  “I think I could win, if it wasn’t for my bum leg.” The Orc at the bar pats the carved wooden peg strapped to his knee, carrying on his own conversation. He doesn’t notice me and the way I pull my black hood up to cover my telling round ears, just two seats away from him. His words are slurred together.

  With The Oasis Games on the verge of drafting, The Bend is abuzz with the thrilling prospect of who could win. More liquor has been poured and spilled tonight than any other night this week because of it. People want to celebrate wins before they actually happen. Idiots. Everyone who is thinking about entering the week-long game is a half-witted moron. They’d die before they saw the glory or the money.

  The bum leg is his telling mark. My
mark. Services in The Bend cost a lot of money, services like having a wooden leg carved and fitted just for you. Cost is so high for these services that this, now drunk and slobbering clod, had asked the Mr. Genovese for a generous loan. Or so I’m guessing. I never really know why the loans are taken out, only that the patron owes money. A lot of money. Though they’d tipped me off that my target tonight is handicapped.

  “Certainly,” the boy says, entertained by the drunken rambling.

  “You’re a healthy young man, what are you? Elf? You look Elf. Why don’t you enter?”

  The bartender sets a cup in front of the boy, very clearly liquor, not that The Bend has a legal drinking age. He thanks her, sipping the drink before he turns to Orc. “Oh, I certainly intend to.”

  I feel his gaze slide down the bar to me and I pull my face forward, letting my hood hide my features. The heat of his attention burns through the fabric. I can feel it so clearly on my cheeks. Confidently, I lift my glass and take a sip.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” The Orc sloshes his drink as he thinks. “We should bet on your winnings.”

  You won’t have time to collect any winnings you could potentially earn. I think to myself. The Orc’s payment is past due today. And that means he pays with his life. The thought brings a craving, crooked smile to my face. It’s been far too long since I was hired specifically for a job like this.

  “I’m not much of a betting man,” the Elf answers.

  There is little room for me to feel sorry for the Orc in the cold dark place that is my heart. It’s a vicious cycle, and he fell prey to it. Though, it gives us mercenaries the ability to go out and collect on other’s debts.

  Genovese owns it all, the service providers and the banks lending money out with unbelievable interest. Creatures living here don’t know that. But I do, and I’d known it since I began my training at eight years old.

  Bubbling alcohol spills down the Orc’s face, soaking his beard, equally as patchy as the gray hair sprouting in small tufts randomly over his scalp. It is not particularly attractive to see. Though as a Purist, I often find I have troubles being attracted to Hybrids. Particularly ones from the least Human-like creatures. My pickings are slim.

  “In my youth, I would certainly have won. I’m thinking about backing my nephew. Maybe he can find a way to pull my family out of this crippling debt. They say this year’s reward is the highest it’s ever been.” He stops to lean closer to the silver-eyed boy, as if it’s a secret. “Five million legends handed to you by none other than King Caspar himself.”

  I watch him through the mirror.

  “That’s a lot of money,” the boy hums. His attention flickers up to the mirror, catching my gaze for a mere second before I tilt my head back down.

  Bloody piece of Oasis shit doesn’t know better than to keep his eyes to himself.

  I try not to roll my eyes, only succeeding because I meet the gaze of the poor bartender. The server makes a pretty show of acting as if she hasn’t heard five other men at this bar whisper the exact same things to her.

  With a stranger’s attention still hot on my skin, my hand grazes over where my twin daggers rest in hiding on the inside of my belt. I’m reminded that Death and Justice are always served at the end of their matching blades. As the man with the wooden leg stands and wobbles from his seat, I drop two legends against the dark stained bar top. Sin and Punishment are in the air tonight. I breathe them in.

  Swaying, cheering, and raucous shouting makes it hard to part the crowd. The man pushes his way through, heading directly for the bathroom. I slide into the gaps that form in the moving mass, like liquid seeking cracks to escape through.

  The unfinished walls of the bathroom are little more than rickety wooden panels surrounding a deep hole in the ground for privacy. I don’t need privacy to do what has to be done tonight. Though, discretion when breaking the law is necessary.

  Technically, this side of the wall has no rules, no law that any man who passes through should follow. If you live here though, you know the city follows another, more silent and deadly set of laws put in place by the many bands of criminals who litter the decaying streets. I am about to break the first law. It’s my job to skirt around that particularly bothersome law.

  First, do not commit murder unless you are prepared to die or flee for your life. Which is exactly why I make a habit of never getting caught. I like to walk the line between secrecy and blatantly killing a man in public. A shiver of excitement travels down my spine at the thought. No one expects such a slight, unarmed girl to be killing.

  Second, don’t poach business. That tends to piss off gangs and can cause very messy and bloody disputes. Between the Vampires that run business from the Pleasure-Seeking District, down to the Merchant Market and the Elves that trade in the Magic Corner, we had enough gang wars.

  The last law is really my own personal rule. Trust no one. The Bend is riddled with liars, thieves, and con artists. Many of whom I pass before stepping behind the stall wall.

  Shock in shades of crimson bloom on the stranger’s face as he grips his unbuckled trousers, fighting the way his body threatens to tip over. He remains squatted, pant-less and vulnerable. My favorite way to find a man.

  “This is taken,” he says on a grumbled rough breath, “find another stall!”

  “I have the right stall.” I nudge my cloak, letting my fingers skim the hilts of my daggers.

  Some men cower before their deaths, begging for the chance to live. Some men promise me coin, protection, or other things I always refuse. A few other men meet their death with pride. They fight for their lives and accept death as it takes them over. Men like this, like the Orc with the wooden leg, they don’t even see their death coming.

  The Orc makes a move for his pants, or a weapon, or even possibly his dick. I don’t care what he is reaching for. All I care about is the warmth of the hilt of both daggers in my palm as I guide their slender blades into the curve of his neck.

  Blood bubbles from the man’s lips, the shockingly scarlet liquid gurgling deep in his throat. With both large wart-covered hands he reaches up to cover the gaping holes. His eyes look lost, searching for answers as his mouth moves with unidentifiable words.

  “You deserve this,” I say through clenched teeth, sliding one of my blades back into its scabbard. “You deserve this.” I squeeze my eyes shut.

  The leather covering my legs groans as I squat down low over the piss stained floor. My hands find his blood-soaked chin and I dig my nails into his thick skin, watching blood spill from the wound. “You. Deserve. This.”

  Inhaling his fear, I breathe in his death as his body finally sags against the ground and the shoddy wooden boards hiding us. I try to tame my growing smile as I pick up the dead Orc’s hand and saw off his thumb. An ear, nose, finger, or any other small body part is usually enough for Genovese to give the legends he owes me. So I hum a pleasant tune as I pocket the meaty appendage. With great care, I make sure both daggers are hidden behind my waistband, knowing I will eat well for the next week thanks to this kill.

  Stepping out from the latrine, I tug a cloak that rests on the back of a chair. It belongs to a customer so far drunk he is slurring his words at a painting on the wall. I use it to wipe the blood splatter from my boots.

  The bar is as it was when I stepped away from it. Not a soul gives me a second glance as I melt into the crowd once more. I mean to march right up to Genovese’s office to collect my coin, my boots smacking the ground with determined steps, but the conversation between the bartender and the new Elf I’d seen earlier catches my ear.

  “I’m late. Send Mr. Genovese my sincerest apologies. Hell, I’ll talk to him myself if you just let me through,” The airy male voice says.

  Coming to a halt, with the toe of my boots balancing in the doorway to the stairwell, I cock my head to the side. The hood of my cloak keeps the new patron from my view, but I can hear the echo of my mistake in every word he exchanges with the bartender.

  “Lis
ten, I can’t do that,” The bartender says, setting a glass mug down against the counter with a loud thud.

  “I’ll have the money for him soon. I promise.”

  In all the years that I’ve been in this business, I’d never met a mistake. There have been mistakes that I’ve quickly amended, or hastily forgotten about, but never had the mistake been so blatantly obvious as this one.

  So this has to be some sort of joke. Because if he’s late on his payment then he should be dead. If he’s so desperate to talk to Genovese, then he knows there’s a bounty on his head. But he’s alive, and I won’t get paid.

  Twisting on the heel of my boots, the rubber soles squeak against the floor as I make my way to the counter. I don’t have long. The scent of the Orc I had stolen this cloak from will be fading soon.

  It’s reckless of me to turn back. Even more reckless of me to slam my fist against the bar top, gaining the attention of the man, the bartender, and a couple of Dwarfs milling around nearby.

  “You owe Mr. Genovese money?” I rasp under my breath, searching the Elf for some sort of aliment or handicap.

  The man who should be dead but is still very much alive gives me a tilted smile. His skin is dark and tanned, making his startling silver eyes stand out over his sharp cheekbones. Curly brown hair messily hangs down over his forehead but remains short at the sides, making the points of his ears even more apparent.

  An Elf. A damn ruthless, barbarous, pirating Elf. I can’t believe my eyes. I resist the urge to pull my knives out now in front of so many people.

  “I wouldn’t say I owe him money. More like we are exchanging favors.” He smooths his hands over the small metal buttons on his long leather shirt. Two brown belts are clasped over his waist, holding up a long sword and what looks like an old revolver. A pirate all right. I know no one else who collects Human things like the pillaging pirates that like to trade on the shores of The Bend.

  “Mr. Genovese doesn’t deal in favors.” I tilt my chin, revealing the tangles of my long blonde hair and the scar that runs diagonally over the right side of my full lips.