TWENTY-TWO
For the hundredth time that day, Aly darted a glance at Grant, trying to peer through his glamour.
Her memory of the face she’d seen once while he slept—his true face, she now believed—was murky; trying to picture it was like trying to summon the remnants of a dream.
There was no sign of that face now as she looked at him; his chestnut hair was glossy and his skin, darkened with a hint of stubble, was smooth and unblemished.
“What are you looking at?” His whisky-coloured eyes flicked up to look at her.
The hair lifted on the backs of Aly’s arms, the carved edge of the desk digging into her palms as her grip tightened.
She’d been wary of the danger Grant posed before, but the naked fear on Calum’s face when he learnt Grant was demi-fae had rattled her to the core.
Calum had tried to dissuade her from returning to Grant, but she hadn’t had much choice.
Whether Grant was fae or merely mortal, the only way to be rid of him would be to expose him as the Wulver and see him imprisoned.
She forced herself to smile. “You.” She tilted her head. “You look lovely today.”
The corners of Grant’s mouth twitched up. “I always look lovely.”
Aly leant forwards, her skin crawling as she neared him. “Aye, but you look particularly lovely today.” She leant in and kissed him, hoping the warmth of his lips might chase away some of the ice in her bones.
There was a knock at the door and she pulled away as two of Grant’s guards walked in, hauling a spindly man a few years older than Aly with them.
He looked familiar, though Aly couldn’t say why; his eyes were an indeterminate shade between blue and grey, and his hair was somewhere between blond and brown.
He had a split lip, dark blood crusting on his chin.
Rory shoved the prisoner into a wooden chair and bound him there while the other guard—Colin—rolled the rugs out of the way, revealing pale, unvarnished floorboards.
Grant dismissed the guards with a gesture, leaving Aly alone with him and the prisoner. “Do you recognise him, my dear?”
Aly frowned. There was something familiar about him. “I think I’ve seen him at your salching market.” The hairs rose on her arms. Why had Grant’s goons brought a salch before him?
Grant nodded, giving her a half smile. “Very good. And where else have you seen him?”
Aly flicked her eyes to the prisoner again. “I’m not sure.”
“He’s the Redcap’s deputy.”
A chill spread through Aly’s limbs, the Redcap’s screams echoing in her ears. He’d begged for mercy in the end; they always did, no matter how much they disdained her. She wiped her palms on her kilt as though she could wipe off his blood.
Grant tilted his head at the bound man, his eyes on Aly. “You know what to do.”
Aly crossed towards the prisoner, her boots loud on the bare floorboards.
A cold sweat broke out beneath her shirt, a single bead of moisture sliding down her spine.
She squatted in front of the bound man’s chair.
“This is your last chance,” she whispered.
“Speak up now and it’ll be better for everyone.
” By which she meant his death would be fast rather than slow.
“What were you doing in the Wulver’s salching market? ”
He spat in her face.
Aly blinked, wiping her cheek on her sleeve. The man glared at her, hatred brimming in his eyes and a sneer curling on his lip.
“Oh, get on with it already,” Grant snapped.
The tray was already laid out next to her. Aly’s fingers skimmed over the knives, her stomach churning. Heat crept up the back of her neck as her fingertips closed round the end of a long, slender needle.
She hated this. Hated Grant for making her do it—and herself for obeying.
She’d refused once. In front of witnesses—three of Grant’s guards—she’d refused to torture a prisoner.
A young girl, no more than seventeen, whom Grant suspected of thieving and wanted Aly to prove it.
She’d suggested finding evidence of the theft, or even just punishing the girl, but Grant had been insistent: he wanted a confession, and he wanted Aly to obtain it.
When Aly had protested, Grant had sat her in a chair, immobilised her with his magic, and forced her to watch—to hear—as he tortured the girl.
It took her three days to die.
All through it Aly had been unable to move, unable to help or end the girl’s suffering, and the sounds of her shrieks and whimpers haunted Aly’s dreams for months after.
Aly swallowed back the bile rising in her throat, tightening her grip on the blade. She held the man’s hand down with one hand, leaning her weight on it as he squirmed and writhed. Grant never incapacitated the prisoners he had her torture; he liked making her fight for control.
The prisoner screamed as the needle slid underneath the nail of his pinkie finger. “What were you doing in Grant’s salching market?” Aly asked again, but he clenched his teeth together and shook his head. She moved on to the second finger.
“Tear his nails out.” Grant was leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, delight written across his face. Nausea twisted Aly’s gut. She wasn’t sure which part Grant enjoyed more: watching a stranger suffer, or watching Aly be the one to do it. She suspected the latter.
The man’s breathing was ragged now, his head hanging over his chest. Sweat dripped down his hair, turning it mud brown. Aly reached for his right forefinger, her hand curling round the callused flesh.
“Wait.” He jerked his head up, blue-grey eyes boring into Aly. “I’ll tell you.”
Grant swung his legs off the desk and leant forwards, his elbows on the desktop. “I’m listening.”
“I’m here . . . because of . . . the Redcap.” His voice was thin and reedy with pain, his words interrupted by heavy breathing. “To find out . . . why he died . . . and to . . . avenge him.”
“He died because he was scum,” Aly said, her teeth clenched. The smell of blood stung the back of her throat. “You should have just moved on.”
The man gave a weak laugh. “He was scum? Look at . . . who you’re . . . working . . . for.”
“I’m under no illusions.” Aly stared at the sanded planks on the floor.
“Do you . . . even know—” He didn’t manage to finish his question before his head jerked to the side with a sickening crack, and he slumped in his chair. She reached for his wrist, feeling for a pulse, but it was too late.
Grant was still seated, his arm outstretched towards the prisoner. Aly whirled on him. “What did you do that for? We could have got more out of him.”
Grant tsked at her. “Aly, pet, he wasn’t saying anything useful.”
“What if he had accomplices?” Aly retorted. “You didn’t give me a chance to even ask. You didn’t want him to finish that sentence, did you?”
Grant picked a stray hair off his coat and straightened the cuffs. He didn’t look at Aly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What were you afraid he was going to say?” Aly pressed. She stalked towards the desk, leaning over him. “Why did you have me kill the Redcap?”
“Because he murdered children.”
Aly shook her head. “That’s why I did it. Why did you ask?”
“He was interfering with my business.” Grant waved a hand in dismissal.
Aly felt sick. The Redcap had been evil, worse even than Grant, but it twisted her stomach to realise that she had been manipulated into murder. “What business? What was his deputy going to tell me?”
“I honestly have no idea.” He tipped his head back to look her in the eye. “I have no secrets from you.”
“Then why didn’t you let him keep talking?”
Grant stood, buttoning his coat. “Because I have an important business engagement and I wouldn’t be around to enjoy his screaming.” And with that he was out the door, leaving Aly to watch as Colin and Rory wrapped the corpse in thick linen.
Aly’s hands shook as she leant against the desk.
It was a blatant lie, to claim he had no secrets from her.
How na?ve and foolish she’d been to think he never lied.
But she couldn’t imagine what the Redcap’s deputy might know that Grant thought she didn’t.
Could he have known something of Grant’s heritage?
It was possible. There’d been a hint of something in the prisoner’s accent that reminded her of Calum’s.
And if he’d thought a fae had killed a human, that would certainly give him a motive for vengeance, even for someone as heinous as the Redcap.
And Grant wouldn’t want her digging into his background.
It wasn’t a perfect explanation, but it was the best Aly could come up with. She watched Rory and Colin remove the wrapped corpse, recalling how she’d warned Calum about what Grant did to spies in his midst. She’d left out the part where she did most of it.
Calum rapped on the timbered door, the sound echoing in the corridor.
His fingertips tapped over the six handles of the knives across his chest, safely buttoned away beneath the soft tweed, as though the weapons would give him the courage to tell Lewis the truth.
The knives thrummed with power in response to his magic.
He was breaking numerous laws carrying weaponry like this, but when he’d dressed that morning, after the discovery that the crime lord he was working to bring down was fae, his insides had clenched with fear at the prospect of leaving the house unarmed.
The blades lay flat against his torso, well concealed under the heavy tweed of his frock coat, and no one would find it odd for him to wear his coat buttoned even indoors at this time of year.
There was the sound of footsteps, then the door swung open. Lewis’s brow furrowed when their eyes met.
Calum crammed his hands in his pockets so Lewis wouldn’t see them shaking. “Can we talk?”
Lewis glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the clock he kept on the mantel. “If it’s quick. I need to get to work.” He opened the door wider, letting Calum inside the familiar space.