Chapter 9 #2
A quick glance at the dilapidated building in front of him confirmed he had found the correct place.
The Crown & Oak. He eyed it suspiciously.
The roof was sagging on one side, and the door hung precariously, as though it would blow off at the slightest gust of wind.
The wood creaked beneath his worn boots as he limped toward the entrance, using the movement as a guise to check his surroundings.
The street was almost empty, its few occupants paying him no mind. He slipped inside, the lights dim and the stench of unwashed bodies strong, choosing a table in the corner where he could watch the door and still overhear surrounding conversations.
A brawny woman wearing a dingy gray dress that hung off one shoulder approached him with a smile that was missing more than a few teeth. He hunched lower, hoping his disguise and disinterest would keep her from offering him more than a drink.
“Well, I ain’t seen ya ’ere afore,” she said with a hint of suggestion. She slid a little closer until their legs were nearly touching. “Wot can I get fer ya?”
“A pint o’ ale.” He tossed a coin onto the table.
“As you like, darlin’. Anything else ya be wantin’?” She was certainly not subtle in her hints.
“Nah, just the pint.” A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, but she shuffled away, returning a minute later with a mug of ale that smelled like the inside of his stable. He had drunk worse, though, and sipped it slowly.
He feigned complete focus on his drink while keeping watch on the taproom’s occupants. The distant chimes of a church bell heralded the arrival of eleven o’clock, yet nothing suggested anyone present was more than they seemed.
Perhaps he had been wrong. Again.
He took another drink. A hallway led to more rooms at the back of the building. Perhaps it was time to do some exploring. It would be far less noticeable to slip in through the rear door than to walk down the hallway in full view of everyone present.
Rising from his chair, he stumbled to the door, his gait unsteady as a man three sheets in the wind, though he had drunk very little of the ale. Experience had taught him that keeping his wits could mean the difference between life and death.
The damp air seeped in again through every hole in his clothes, and he shuffled around the corner.
Movement from the darkened alley beside The Crown & Oak caught his eye.
Enough light spilled from the tavern door for him to make out a horse farther down the alley, hitched to a rickety wagon stacked with crates.
Odd. The alley had been empty when he arrived, and deliveries took place during daylight hours—most business owners did not relish being robbed.
The alley was empty except for him and the horse, and without stopping to question the wisdom of his actions, he stumbled closer to the wagon, pausing to mimic retching sounds.
Still, no one drew near. He approached the wagon from behind, its large load covered in a dark, rain-slicked oilskin.
Ducking behind the wagon, he lifted the covering. He half expected to find a dead body or boxes of smuggled French brandy. Instead, he found rows of sturdy crates, each stamped with The Great Dover Shipping Company.
His pulse hammered. That company served only the elite of St. James’s. The presence of these crates in a back alley in the rookeries was no coincidence. It was a threat that might finally take him to The Sentinel’s doorstep. He would need to act swiftly and carefully.
A sudden whinny and the stamp of hooves yanked James from his thoughts. He sensed the presence behind him before the heavy tread reached his ears. He straightened with careful precision, pretending interest in the crates while his every sense fixed on the figure drawing closer.
When the footsteps were within striking distance, James pivoted to the left, wheeling to intercept the assailant.
The brute let out a startled yelp. He towered over James’s six-foot frame and was considerably brawnier, but James maintained the element of surprise.
Hopefully, the ruffian expected a drunkard or a desperate thief, not a man who knew how to use his fists.
James grabbed the stranger’s arm, recoiling at the stench, and drew his pistol from his coat.
He was a terrible shot but counted on its mere presence to deter trouble.
The man threw back his elbow and struck James hard in the ribs.
James lost his grip on the pistol. It clattered to the ground as he stifled a groan.
One more wrong move and this alley could be his grave.
The wagon loomed at his back. The pistol had skittered somewhere beneath it, and his opponent blocked the only clear path to the street.
James managed to remain upright, fighting the pain in his side while landing a punch on the assailant’s jaw. The man spat out a curse and a tooth with it.
His opponent connected with a blow to James’s shoulder, sending pain radiating down his arm, threatening his balance.
Grunts and curses echoed off the dirty alley walls, the stench of sweat and refuse now mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
James spotted the end of his pistol under the wagon but did not know if he could reach it.
This was exactly the sort of recklessness that had landed him in trouble with Westmarch.
As the man hunched over in pain and exhaustion, James prepared to deal a final blow, one that would knock his attacker senseless and buy James the time to disappear. Shuffling steps drew his attention behind him toward the alley entrance.
Two cloaked figures emerged from the shadows. Too still and deliberate to be street urchins. They were here for a purpose, and whatever it was, it did not bode well for him.
He needed to leave. Now.
He turned back to see his assailant straightening, angry and cursing.
James drew back his fist and landed a hard blow to the stranger’s nose.
A loud crunch cut through the air. James grabbed his pistol while the man was down.
This was his chance to run, but one of the figures crossed the light spilling from the tavern door.
A flash of recognition froze him.
It couldn’t be.
She was never meant to be here.
A hissed warning cut through the air. “Behind you!”
James spun, but only in time to register a blinding flash of white and the sickening thud of wood on bone as the world dissolved into darkness.
James was dead.
It was the only explanation for the soft cushion beneath his head, which smelled faintly of orange blossoms and, strangely, ink. Gentle fingers ran through his hair, their touch so light he would gladly have remained here forever.
The carriage lurched, sending a spike of agony through his skull. He stifled a low moan. If this were death, it felt remarkably like traveling in a hackney over bumpy cobblestone streets.
Was the pain an everlasting punishment for his mistakes?
He struggled to remember the events that led him here, but with the growing ache in his head, he could only snatch pieces of his memory. His eyelids felt weighted with lead, refusing to open, and every attempt to do so only increased the pain.
The soft hands paused as a familiar, feminine voice whispered, “We are almost home.”
Home. Not quite heaven, but close enough if she were there.
The carriage lurched, and the darkness claimed him again.