Chapter One #2
“I have.” That the Butcher was eight feet tall.
That she could rip a man’s head off with her bare hands.
That she was—alternately—half monster herself, or some kind of savior.
Either way, it had been agreed upon that she was not entirely human.
The details seemed to depend on what she had done to get into the news that day, and who had paid for the article.
The only thing they’d gotten right was that she killed faeries for money, and that she was good at it.
“So, that head,” Dickie said. “You … cut it off yourself?”
“I did.” Lyssa nodded at the now-covered platter.
“This troll was living under a bridge Mr. Clarke wants to tear down. It took a lot of work to kill it for him, and now he thinks he can short me on the payment. Either he gives me what he owes me today, or he leaves here with a belly full of rotting troll brains.”
The staff clapped and whistled at that.
Mary tossed Lyssa an apron and a cap. “Better get moving, then. He’s in and out today, on account of some big meeting this afternoon. Got an earful while I was pouring his wine.”
Lyssa tied the apron on over her filthy clothes and tucked her braids up into the cap. “Ready, Brandy?” she asked, and there was a woof of assent from behind the cloth draping the cart.
Lyssa wheeled the serving cart through the swinging double doors and out into the main dining room, blinking in the overpowering glow of the Kingmaker’s newfangled electric lights.
She had only just gotten used to gas lamps by the time something even brighter had come along to replace them, and the intensity dazzled her for a moment before she managed to shake it off.
The hideous odor emanating from beneath the covered platter invaded the room almost instantly, and the murmur of polite conversation and the gentle clink of silverware ceased abruptly in its wake.
“Apologies,” Lyssa announced to the sea of wrinkled noses and scandalized faces now turned toward her.
“Delicacy from overseas, incredibly rare and expensive. I understand the fragrance may be offensive to most of you—it takes a true connoisseur to appreciate. I’ll be out of your air in a moment, I assure you.
” As she wound her way through the dining room, a handful of people hailed their waiters and demanded that the same delicacy be brought to their tables immediately.
“They’d eat goblin shit if they thought it was in vogue,” Lyssa muttered to Brandy.
The private booths were in the back, away from the barely upper-class riffraff in the main dining room.
The booths were completely enclosed, the mahogany walls polished to a blinding shine.
Lyssa opened the door to the largest booth and backed the cart in, Mr. Clarke already hurling reprimands at her.
“—took you so long? I have been waiting for a full fifteen minutes for your return, and I am not accustomed to—”
“Mary had to step out for a moment,” Lyssa said brightly, kicking the door closed and maneuvering the cart so that it was perpendicular to the table.
Whatever else he was not accustomed to, William Clarke was most certainly not accustomed to being interrupted by the waitstaff.
He glared at her, clutching his roast beef sandwich so hard the meat was beginning to slide out from between the bread.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms covered in more hair than now resided on his head, and he had a napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt to protect his finely embroidered waistcoat from the au jus dribbling down his chin.
“What is this? What is that stench? And who are you?” Mr. Clarke demanded, finally seeming to register the bloody button-up shirt and mud-splattered pants beneath Lyssa’s apron, far outside the usual dress code imposed upon the Kingmaker’s female staff.
Lyssa tapped the toe of her boot against the metal leg of the serving cart, and Brandy slipped out from beneath the cloth, taking up a position to Lyssa’s right.
“You brought a dog into my booth?” Mr. Clarke sputtered. “No wonder that cart smells so foul.”
Brandy growled low in his throat at that, his hackles rising.
“You asked me who I am,” Lyssa said with a grin, tearing the ridiculous cap from her head and letting her long, messy braids tumble down her back. “My name is Lyssa Carnifex. Some call me the Butcher.”
Clarke’s expression soured. “The bounty hunter we hired to get rid of the troll at Prince’s Pass?
What do you want?” He shook his head, waving her off with greasy fingers.
“No, no. Forget I asked. Whatever it is, my office will handle it. I have far more pressing matters to attend to at the moment—finishing this sandwich, for example.”
Lyssa snatched the sandwich out of his hand and took a bite before tossing the rest to Brandy, who swallowed it whole.
“Now you don’t have a sandwich, so my thing takes precedence.”
Clarke slammed his hands down on the table, rattling the silverware. “How dare you, you insolent bitch!”
“You can afford to have another one delivered to you later, I’m sure. Right now, you and I have business to discuss.”
“I told you, my office will handle it!” he roared.
“I have already been to your office,” Lyssa explained slowly, rolling up her shirtsleeves to expose the tattoos on her forearms: Ungharad’s flaming sword on her right, and a butcher’s cleaver crossed with a blacksmith’s hammer on the left. “They were unable to assist me.”
“So they sent you here?” Clarke snapped, and in his expression Lyssa saw the promise of hell to pay. But her squabble was not with this man’s long-suffering secretary or cowering accountant, and she refused to let them be punished for telling her where to find him.
“They didn’t send me anywhere, Mr. Clarke.
I am a hunter. A good one. And you made for very easy prey.
” She blew a stray hair out of her face.
“You know, you should think about changing up your routine a little. A man with your wealth can afford to be spontaneous once in a while. Variety is the spice of life, after all. Isn’t that what they say? ”
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“I want what I am owed.” She removed the lid from the covered platter and dumped the troll’s head onto Mr. Clarke’s plate. Slime and au jus went flying, spattering every inch of the tablecloth—and Mr. Clarke. So much for the napkin.
Clarke tore said napkin from his collar and threw it on the floor. “You—”
“Your office refused to pay me what was advertised,” Lyssa spat. “They said the amount had been set at your behest, and they hadn’t the authority to give me a penny more.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t—”
“No?” Lyssa pulled the bounty advert out of her shirt pocket, the paper crinkled with dried troll blood, and unfolded it slowly before slapping it down on the table.
“Here is the price that was advertised.” She took out the check she had received from Mr. Clarke’s office and slapped it down beside the flyer. “Here is what your accountant gave me.”
He looked at her incredulously. “B-but the difference is only a shilling!”
“A shilling I earned,” she growled, her anger spiking at only. A shilling meant a hot meal with good meat in it. A place to sleep out of the cold. And the more shillings she collected from rich assholes, the more jobs she could do for destitute widows free of charge.
“But—”
“One thing you must understand, Mr. Clarke,” Lyssa said, putting the check back into her pocket, “is that I do not forget or forgive those who have wronged me. Robbing me—even of a shilling—is a tremendous wrong, in my book, and I suggest you balance our account while I am still willing to accept late payment. After that…” Lyssa grabbed the back of his head and forced his nose to the bounty advert.
She unsheathed one of her knives with her other hand and slammed the point into the table an inch from his face, pinning the paper to the wood.
“I will take something of equivalent value from you. Like your head. I am quite good at cutting them off, you see.” She forced him to turn, so that he was looking at the faerie monster she had killed for him and his suspension bridge.
Its tongue pressed against his mouth, and he let out a whimper.
“Or perhaps I could make you into something more useful than a mere trophy. The rest of this troll is being stitched into a coat as we speak. But you have a nice hide as well, supple and smooth.” She caressed his cheek with the back of her hand, and he flinched violently.
“Would you like to be a new set of gloves? A pair of boots? Oh, I know! Undergarments! So that you can kiss my ass all day long.”
“All right,” Clarke gasped. Lyssa let go of him and he sat up, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his expensive shirt. “I … I don’t have anything on me. I do most of my business on credit. But if you come by my office tomorrow—”
“Not good enough, Mr. Clarke. Brandy?” she said sweetly, and the bullmastiff’s ears pricked up at the indication of a command to follow. “Kill this man. Try to leave enough of him intact for undergarments.”
“Wait!” Clarke cried, cringing when Brandy growled at him. “T-take the silverware! A single fork is worth more than a shilling!”
Lyssa leaned against the table, her face an inch from his, and he shrank from her. “This establishment is not in my debt. You are.” A feral smile split her face as she looked him over. “Give me your belt, and we’ll call it square.”
He fumbled with the belt and surrendered it to her without argument.
It was a fine thing, tooled with an elaborate, interlocking pattern of stylized wolves, the buckle genuine silver.
Worth far more than all the forks in the entire restaurant, but Clarke’s expression suggested that he deemed the cost justified, if it meant this would be the last he saw of her.
Lyssa slung the belt over one shoulder, like she had just won a prizefight. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Clarke,” she said, plucking her knife out of the table and saluting him with it. “Think of me the next time you have a faerie that needs killing.”