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Killian clutched the letter in his hand as he stalked through the quiet street. He’d been casually meandering around the block for the past hour or so, gathering his bearings. His palms were drenched in sweat as the appointed time neared, and not just because of the summer heat. The sky was nearly cloudless, a sunny glow cast over the city, but Killian couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that chilled his spine. He knew he was walking into unfriendly territory, but it was a risk he had to take. He’d sought out this meeting for a month, and prayed it would be exactly what he needed after so many dead ends.
The address appeared to be an abandoned bakery, its sign half torn away, and the windows boarded up. It was in no worse shape than many of the other buildings on the block, including the businesses that were still open. Others milled about the street, their hoods pulled low to hide their faces, but they paid him no mind. In this part of town, it seemed the people kept to themselves.
Killian eyed each passerby, studying them with a decade’s worth of training. He imagined what sort of devious plans brought them to this neighborhood. A few months ago, he would have turned up his nose at them. Now he was one of them.
All the while he waited, his excitement grew. This was it—exactly the break he needed. It was the same feeling, the same weightlessness and goose-pimpled skin he would get before interrogating a suspect, knowing damn well he had them dead to rights. Yet there was an underlying tone to it, one he couldn’t identify.
Finally, it was time. He walked briskly, his cloak flowing behind him. As he pulled the door open, it emitted a loud creeeeak. He looked over both shoulders before tearing across the threshold.
The inside of the building looked exactly as he had imagined. Dust covered nearly every surface, tattered signs lined the walls, and a rodent scurried behind the counter. Perhaps at one point it had been a quaint family bakery where people could socialize and buy little cakes, but now it was downright depressing.
Though there appeared to be no threats, Killian stood tall, his hands ready to cast a shield, his dagger poised at his hip.
“Hello?” he called out.
A door behind the counter swung open, and a grisly man stepped through. He appeared to be in his forties—or perhaps time hadn’t been kind to him. Despite the heat, the man wore a leather jerkin. Stringy brown hair reached to his shoulders, and a scruffy beard coated his face. “You must be Killian.” His voice was as haggard as his countenance.
Two more men emerged through the doorway, similarly dressed in leathers. They weren’t as stocky as the first man, but they carried themselves with a formidable air as they marched into place on either side of him. Seeing the way they stood together, their silent but palpable camaraderie tugged at something in Killian’s chest that he didn’t want to acknowledge.
He kept his voice even as he replied, “And you must be Siamus.”
Siamus’s chin lifted ever so slightly in affirmation, a glimmer of pride shining in his dark, cunning gaze. His pride was fitting. He hadn’t become the leader of Rhodan’s Bastards—the most ruthless and powerful mercenary group in the kingdom—through incompetence. The legends surrounding the man were astounding bordering on absurd. Even if only a fraction of the stories were true, he was still a force to be reckoned with. For a moment, Killian wondered how Elyse would fare against him, both in combat and conversation. Their arrogance would be well met.
“You said you have a job for us?” Siamus asked in that gruff voice that dripped with apathy.
Killian took a few sauntering steps toward the wall and leaned against it, reveling in the way Siamus’s lackeys tracked his every movement. “I want you to find someone and bring them to me—alive.”
Siamus’s face remained impassive. “Kidnapping ain’t exactly a job for the Bastards.”
It was true. A mere kidnapping would be far too bland for their normal capers. The Bastards were more accustomed to robbing high-profile merchants or terrorizing bar patrons. But this was no mere kidnapping.
Killian let a small smile play across his lips. “But you don’t even know who the target is.”
“I’m listening,” Siamus grunted.
Killian’s smile grew a hair wider. “Elyse Crenshaw.”
He realized it was the first time he’d said her name aloud since she’d disappeared. It tasted like filth against his tongue.
The only reaction Siamus gave was a tiny twitch of his mustache, but the other two men exchanged quick glances. That told Killian enough. They would take the job.
“Have you heard of her?” Killian asked, feigning casual ignorance.
“Aye,” Siamus conceded. “You’d be pressed to find a wielder in Rhodan who hasn’t heard of her." He widened his stance and crossed his arms over his broad chest as he added, “She’s untouchable.”
Killian’s ribs seemed to tighten, knitting together at Siamus’s words. He would never be able to fathom Elyse’s infamy.
“Are you saying you can’t do the job?” Killian goaded.
Siamus’s eyes narrowed. “Careful,” he warned. “I’m saying it’ll cost you.”
“I don’t care about the price,” Killian drawled. “Just get it done.”
Siamus nodded. “Half a million gold,” he said. “Half now, half upon delivery.”
Killian had to rein in his surprise. He knew that their cost was high, but damn—Elyse really did hold a reputation.
No matter, though. He could get it done.
