FOUR #2
He pulls his glove back on, covering that unsettling scar. Something eases in my chest until he pauses, and his head tilts slightly, revealing a glimpse of a strong, slightly aquiline nose. His nostrils flare like a predator scenting the air, and I forget to breathe.
But then he turns and strides away, shoving aside the curtain and tromping down the stairs at a heavy clip. The shop bell tinkles distantly, but I remain frozen.
I count thirty heartbeats, then sixty, then a hundred. Pins and needles shoot through my numb legs, but I don’t move. My breathing goes ragged from the exertion, but still I wait.
My body gives out before my willpower, and I topple forward, the book thudding open on the oak floor. I don’t bother picking it up.
I pretty much fall down the steps, my legs too numb to cooperate. I’m forced to catch myself on the wall twice to keep from tumbling headfirst down the staircase.
Bracing myself for a trap, I peer from behind the second curtain and find the shop empty. The shopkeeper doesn’t appear, and something about her absence unnerves me further. I flee through the front door, not caring if anyone sees me leave. Just hoping that he’s gone.
I bolt along the alley, no longer scared of the narrow passage and its shadows. I stop where it bends and press my body against the rough brick. Drawing a breath so deep it burns my lungs, I peer around the corner, looking for any sign of that red cloak.
But the bishop is gone.
Forcing myself forward, I count my steps, my heart rate ratcheting up with each one. The sky overhead has dulled to a shade of gray that suggests a storm is coming. Probably a fucking omen. A chill floods my veins as I reach the alley’s mouth and the first snowflakes hit.
I have no idea what time it is. I can’t remember whether I turned right or left before. Biting my lip, I take a chance and head left. After a few blocks, I realize I’ve chosen incorrectly—there’s no sign of the pleasure house.
I’m about to retrace my steps when a door bangs open behind me and a man stumbles out, a sour reek wafting off his filthy, wrinkled clothing. He weaves unsteadily toward me.
“Well, well,” he slurs, his eyes lighting up with interest. “Look what the Stars dropped on my doorstep.”
I dodge him, picking up my pace, which is more difficult as snow begins to collect on the uneven cobblestone streets.
“That’s not very friendly,” he calls, some of the drunken thickness ebbing away. “I just want to talk.”
Speeding up, I glance over my shoulder to find him sure on his feet. It’s a trick. He’s not drunk at all. My hand slips into my coat pocket, feeling for the dagger Kieren gave me. I hesitate, weigh my options, and turn at the next marked street.
Only to find myself staring at a crumbling brick wall with a rotting barrel stationed under a drainpipe, no windows low enough to reach. A dead end.
“This is better,” the man says, stepping behind me and dropping his act completely.
There’s a calculated edge to his gaze that makes me wish I’d come out from behind that bookcase and begged mercy from the bishop.
“There’s only one reason that a person of your …
breeding … bothers to crawl to our part of town. ”
Acid shoots up my throat, but I swallow, shaking my head. “I was lost, but I think I see the street I missed. If you’ll excuse me …”
I dare one step to the side. He mirrors the movement.
“Lost?” He laughs, drawing closer. There’s no sour scent of wine on him now. Even his clothes look cleaner. It’s like he’s a different man altogether. “You’re not the first lady to sneak out of your prison up on the hill and come looking for a good time.”
He reaches out, and I jerk back, but he only twists a strand of my hair between his thumb and forefinger.
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper hoarsely.
“Jumpy, aren’t we?” His gaze drops to the simple silver locket at my throat. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
“It’s worthless,” I say too quickly. Interest gleams in his eyes. “It’s tin. The silverplate is nearly gone. See?” I flip it over to show him the back, where the plating has worn thin enough to reveal the base metal underneath. “The clasp barely stays latched. I don’t even carry a portrait in it.”
All of this is true, except it’s not worthless. Not to me, anyway. My mother wore this for almost twenty years. It was a gift from my father on their wedding day. It used to hold a portrait of him, but it fell out. It’s the most precious thing I own.
“If it’s worthless, then you won’t mind parting with it. Consider it a contribution to the local economy.” He flourishes a hand down his own chest.
“I said no.”
He clicks his tongue. “But I say yes.”
I back away, my hand slipping toward my pocket again and the dagger inside it.
But he doesn’t advance on me. Instead, his fingers flick the air like he’s conducting a symphony.
It takes me a second to realize that he’s tracing a pattern.
At first, nothing happens, but then the air glimmers, momentarily mesmerizing me.
The locket lifts from my neck like it’s been caught by a gust of wind. The loose clasp falls open, and the necklace floats between us before dropping into his open palm.
I’m too stunned to move. That is definitely unlicensed magic.
“My sincerest gratitude.” He gives me a mocking half bow. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, my lady.”
The taunt snaps the shock leashing me. My fingers curl tightly around the dagger. It’s out and unsheathed before he’s finished turning around. Lunging, I wrap my arm around him from behind and dig the blade’s tip in at an uncomfortably low position.
The thief stills, except for his head, which tips down to look at the dagger pointed at his dick.
“Let’s try this again,” I hiss. “You’re probably thinking that you are bigger and stronger than me. Maybe you’re calculating if I’ll actually do it.”
“Interesting negotiation technique,” he says through gritted teeth, eyes still on his prize. “Odds are you won’t.”
“Want to bet?” I flatten the edge of the blade against his balls, and he yelps. I extend my other arm out, palm to the sky. “Here’s my counteroffer. Something precious for something precious. You give me back my mother’s locket, and maybe you’ll still have children one day.”
He starts to pant, daring to shake his head. “You’re bluffing.”
I press it in another fraction of an inch, just enough to make my point. “Have you ever castrated a pig? I have. Would you like a demonstration?”
We remain frozen for a moment, no longer sure which is predator and which is prey. Then, slowly—as if his life depends on it—he opens his hand. The locket drops into my waiting palm, still warm from his grip.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” I spit his words back at him. Stepping away, I keep the blade angled between us.
He spins toward me, a small snarl curling his lip as his eyes narrow on the dagger. I thrust it in his direction. But he jumps back, the knife slashing only air. His hand captures my wrist, twisting it until my bones protest. “I’m not a pig.”
“Could have fooled me,” I say, the words as strained as the joint he’s pinned. My heart is hammering so hard it might crack my ribs.
He tightens his grip, and I whimper.
“But you are a bitch,” he mutters, “so be a good dog and drop your toys.”
It’s the only sensible thing to do. It’s also definitely the stupidest. But I’m out of options.
I relax both my fists, the dagger and the locket clattering to the stone.
He doesn’t so much as look down at them, and he doesn’t release me.
Darkness glints in his eyes, and he yanks me close, breathing heavily into my face.
I thrash against his hold, sweeping a knee toward his groin as I scream, but he shoves me to the ground like I’m little more than a rag doll.
“Worthless necklace.” He stomps on the locket, crushing it under the heel of his boot. Then he bends down and picks up the dagger. He flips it between his hands with alarming dexterity. “Nearly as worthless as you.”
The malice on his face sends me scuttling back, my breath seizing in my throat. My palms scrape against the slippery stone. I’m dimly aware of dirt and grit and snow, but they fade, instinct taking over. Blood pounds in my head as my eyes dart around us, looking for a way out.
A cobble shifts under my hand, and I dig my fingers beneath it. It comes free with a grinding squelch of brick and mud. I heave it at him.
And miss.
He waves the dagger in admonishment. “Stop fighting. You’ve already lost.”
No fucking way. My fingers dig for another loose stone.
He flips the dagger one more time, its hilt landing neatly in his palm, and lifts it to strike. I don’t look away. I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction. A shadow falls over us, long and dark despite the afternoon sun barely peeking over the top of the buildings.
A sliver of hope cracks through my bleating terror when the thief turns toward the newcomer, giving me a window of opportunity.
I seize it, flipping over and pushing myself up.
My feet tangle in my skirt, and I trip forward.
At the last second, I throw myself in the opposite direction, collapsing to the side of him and the stranger.
A sob wrenches out of me, my shoulders caving into a protective hunch, my hands flying up to cradle my head.
“What do we have here?”
My heart recognizes the low, raspy voice and skips a beat.
“Bishop.” The thief addresses him like he’s saying a prayer, and I wonder which one of us he’s here to save.
I squint up in time to see my attacker backing toward the dead end, color draining from his face.
“She was lost,” he says, eyes skittering like a trapped animal. No hint of the predator now.
Bishop strides toward him with lethal calm. His red cloak stirs on a gust of wind, lifting like a billowing stream of blood. Two long swords peek over his shoulders. Hidden but within reach.