6. Killian
KILLIAN
Riggs should have been out by now.
Breathing in the musty scent of Dagon, Killian’s nerves pulsed violently.
Dread seeped into the marrow of his bones.
Last time he ignored the swirling sensation low in his stomach, he came home to his pregnant wife.
Her cracked bones, lifeless eyes and mangled flesh of his unborn child flashed across his memory.
He swallowed the bile climbing his throat.
He’d be damned to make the same mistake twice.
Brows bunched, eyes narrowed, he scanned the cobblestone streets, waiting for Riggs to appear among the chaos.
Some carriages departed the castle, while some were just arriving.
Townsfolk dressed in their finest acted their worst; stumbling drunk onto the street, singing a gods awful tune.
He didn’t even miss the occasional doves flying in and out of the castle.
For all he knew, they could be messenger birds.
Worry gnawed at Killian, sweat trickling down his spine.
He had studied the guards for the past hour and noticed their shift in men.
There had been four guards stationed. Now there were eight.
The way they whispered to one another, the constant turning of their heads, only stoked Killian’s growing suspicion.
Something’s wrong.
I knew better than to let Riggs go in there by himself.
He sighed, his fingers curling into his thick beard as he peeked down the alley where the hooded woman came from.
There had to be an entry that led to the castle.
He was more than confident he could get inside.
Killian had broken an entry more times than he could count.
After all, it was the easiest part of his job.
He slid his hands into his pockets, ensuring he had his pick. He coaxed out the breath he had been holding as the cool metal brushed along his fingertips.
Killian dismounted his horse, tying River and Storm off to a nearby post. Killian knew the crime rate in Dagon was significantly higher than in Aldmoor. Knew it because he had spent months learning the demographics in the surrounding areas.
Their horses might get stolen, along with their belongings.
He had no other choice. Killian could only pray to the gods they remained untouched, but they were never on his side.
After a decade of pleading for finding his wife’s killer, the gods ignored him with nothing but silent chirps of the dead.
He didn’t bother wasting his breath praying.
When it came to the pursuit of justice, Killian put his faith in his sword. Not his gods.
Killian showed no mercy.
He strode down the vine-covered alley and halted over a sewer grate.
In theory this should lead beneath the castle.
He could only hope. He surveyed the streets, ensuring the coast was clear before he lifted the grate, and climbed down the ladder.
The pungent smell of feces wafted in his nose.
His face paled. Breathing through the rolling nausea, Killian climbed further into the dark space.
Reaching the lower level, he pulled his tunic over his nose, and trudged through the tunnel, careful not to step in sewage. Stomach turning inside out, he cringed at the hundreds of tiny squeaks echoing through the space.
Fuck me.
Ever since Riggs brought home a rat years ago for one of his research projects, Killian had developed a distaste for them.
He can still recall the deceased rodent splayed out on his pillow, muffled laughter leaking through his closet doors.
Typical Riggs. Constantly fucking with him, and persistently succeeding.
Cold water splashed along his pants as his boots submerged an inch.
He could feel the weightless rodents swimming around him, clawing at him.
Kicking his legs, he swallowed his scream.
Do not be a pansy. Panic assailed him as he increased his speed, and of course, there wasn’t a flicker of light to navigate.
He grunted, the sound carrying through the tunnel as he moved, carefully brushing his fingertips against the rough stone walls as he went.
What seemed like an hour of walking through shit, multiple doors lined the stone. Pushing open the first one, Killian peeked, instantly regretting it. Piled high in the corner were mounds of decapitated heads. His face turned green. “Oh, fuck,” he breathed, slamming the door closed.
He continued on, angling his head at the flight of stairs, blowing out a breath.
He didn’t bother gripping the railing as he ascended quickly, round and round again.
Despite the dizzy spells plaguing him by the time he reached the upper level, he increased his speed.
His chest caved, breath escaping as he slammed into a wall.
Wait, not a wall. Another door. He brushed his hands down, feeling for the knob and rubbing his index finger along the locking mechanism.
Three locks.
He clawed for the pick in his pocket. His fingertips caressed the rough, splintered wooden door as metal met metal. He jingled it, twisted it, and with three rotations, it unlocked. Two more to go. Repeating the same movements, the door opened.
“Idiots should have guards down here. What a damn joke.” Entering a passage, his eyes watered from the reek of the potent, rotten earth and decay that just smacked him in the face. What was this space before?
“Oh, thank fuck.” Torches mounted along the cobblestone walls brightened the narrow space.
Another flight of spiraling stairs emerged.
It can’t possibly be that easy. He ascended with practiced stealth, pausing at another locked door.
A closer look revealed he was staring at the exact same locking mechanisms.
You’d think after losing their daughter, there’d be a little more of a security effort around here.
He blew out a breath, unlocking the door with quick precision, and with stealthy steps, Killian walked through the channel, halting as two guards stood at the far end.
Jinxed myself. Godsdammit.
Flushing himself with the wall, he unsheathed his knife, preparing to strike. Killian crept along, listening to their conversation echoing down the space.
“Let’s sneak a drink, Argus. These royals won’t know.”
“Rutherford will smell it on us. He’s a hound. Nothing gets past him.”
Killian shook his head. Bunch of drunks. He crouched, observing them.
“Don’t be a fool, take a sip.” The guard shoved the flask at the other guard. “We need it after today. That poor woman’s guts smeared all over the cobble was enough to drink myself to death.”
A woman? Dead?
Killian’s heart pounded.
“You’re right.” The guard tilted his head back, chugging. “I don’t think I’ll sleep after that one.” The other guard patted his back. “Drink up, Argus. I’m going to take a piss.”
Now is the time.
With sly movements, Killian angled his knife, lunging at the guard who was faced toward the wall, a yellow river running down the brick.
Killian tackled him, pressing the knife to his throat. “If you want to live, here’s what we’re going to do.” The guard in his hold struggled, reaching for his sword. Killian kicked his legs, knocking him to the floor. “Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.”
The flask clinked to the ground as Argus reached for his hilt, his eyes widening.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Killian warned, driving his blade further into the guard’s throat, tearing through his skin easily. “You didn’t see me.”
“I see you now!” Argus shouted.
Killian pushed his blade deeper. The guard barked, “Do what he says, Argus.” His voice was a trembling whisper.
“Yeah, Argus, do what I say.” Killian bared his teeth. “Hands up, buttercup.”
Argus lifted his hands. “Why are you here? Who are you?”
Killian threw his knife at Argus, the tip embedding in his thigh. Argus screamed, the high pitched noise ringing through Killian’s ears, forming a headache. With the right amount of pressure, Killian squeezed the guard’s neck, until he was knocked unconscious, thumping to the ground.
Killian darted toward Argus. “Shut up.” He tackled him, gripping his too-thin hair and slammed his face to the wall, over and over again. Blood coated the brick, and Argus’ cries soon fell silent, then his body was falling.
Killian dusted his hands. “They’ll live.” Reaching for his knife, Killian wiped the blood across the guards clothes, and sheathed his blade back into his boot, continuing through the tunnel. He turned, and spotted a door painted red.
It was unlocked.
He peeked through the crack. This must be the guard station. Silence rang static through his ears. It’s too quiet.
He crept in the castle, following the faint sound of music, until he reached another stairwell.
He ascended, and reached a hallway. Muffled chatter filled the space.
Killian glanced down at himself. One glimpse at his sword, and he’d get thrown in the dungeon for breach of entry.
But that wasn’t the worst of it; his plain white tunic and soaked black pants wouldn’t suffice.
Frowning, Killian’s heart hammered against his ribs as he considered his next move.
Take someone down. Get a wardrobe, and blend in.
Killian slipped into the shadows, calculating the time it took each servant to walk down the hall and turn the corner.
Twenty seconds.
It was risky, but he had no choice. Time was ticking. Slanting his eyes at the next wave of guests, he assessed their builds, scanning for someone close enough to his size.
Too thin. Too short.
He grinned like a creep. A tall, muscular man emerged from the corner.
Perfect.
The man wore a feathered mask and a velvet blue suit. Eyes narrowed, pulse pounding. No one else in sight. His internal clock was ticking, pushing him to make his call.
Clear.
It was just Killian and the man.