Time passed slowly as the shadows deepened and evening bled into night. I shivered under a blanket while Sarah gently probed me with more questions. The last of the candies melted in my hand, making my palm sticky, and the scent of mint filled my nose.
All around us, night sounds battered my ears. The wind flapped the awning, and an owl hooted somewhere high above. And then finally, I heard the horses as they returned to the trail.
My heart cracked against my rib cage as Sarah stood and gestured for me to stay seated. She stepped away from the wagon and lowered her voice.
“Did you find him?”
An eerie silence descended, and then Thomas’s grave tone filled the void.
“We found a house in a small clearing.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “It was empty, but someone had been there recently. The embers in the hearth were still warm.”
“But the girl—”
“We were too late, Sarah. She’s the only one who escaped.”
Chapter 2
Bowen
Six years later…
“He’s a beast! A man with a wicked temper who’d rather cut you than look at you. Why else would he collect all these weapons? The catacombs beneath this manor must be filled with his prey.” The merchant waved his arm through the air, indicating the expansive display of knives and broadswords hanging from the wall.
“Maybe so, Charles, but he pays well.” The other merchant, the one named Thomas, leaned forward to examine a painting. His eyes widened at the macabre scene.
I slid into the shadows on the other side of the wall. Could he see me? Impossible. It was unlikely Thomas had noticed the two peepholes drilled into the tree line. However, when I peered through the holes again, I studied the man to be sure.
Charles scoffed. “What use is a fortune if we end up chained in the basement, subject to his torture devices? His scars alone could send a man screaming. Have you seen his face?”
My fingers pressed reflexively over the scar in question. It bisected my left eye and carved a path under my chin to the collarbone. More scars disappeared beneath the neckline of my shirt.
I sneered. What did that man know about torture? Had he ever watched the razor’s edge of a blade descend against his skin? Feel its teeth as it left its mark, knowing even though it wouldn’t cause death, it would leave a different kind of permanence—one that inspired fear?
No. That man knew nothing.
I pulled a hidden lever on the wall, and the platform spun on silent tracks. The merchants were too engrossed in their conversation to notice I’d joined them in the room. I crossed my forearms over my chest and waited.
Thomas shrugged. “I haven’t seen his face, but it doesn’t matter. We’re here to deliver the blade, not make friends.”
“With his reputation, I doubt Bowen MacKenzie has any friends.” Charles picked up a cast-iron cannonball and weighed it in his palm. He held it up to show Thomas and gave a strangled cry when he spotted me. The cannonball slipped from his hand and cracked against the floor before rolling underneath my desk. He gulped. “How long has he been standing there?”
“Long enough,” I muttered.
Charles blanched and swayed on his feet. “We meant no offense.”
“Then I must have misheard you.” Crossing to my desk, I lowered myself into the chair. It creaked beneath my large frame. Steepling my fingers together, I rested my elbows on the surface and glared.
Perfected over the years, my glare accentuated my scars and sent even the hardiest men to their knees. Charles was no exception. His left knee buckled, but he caught himself before he hit the floor.
“Did you bring it?” I asked, shifting my attention to Thomas.
Thomas nodded. The hardier of the two, he only swallowed and tugged the collar of his shirt away from his neck. He didn’t break my gaze, which surprised me. Most people were reluctant to look me in the eye. Many preferred to direct their conversation at the floor.
“We brought the blade and have done what you asked. Anyone looking for the weapon will be able to track it back to you.”
“Good,” I growled.
A tense silence followed in which both merchants apparently forgot their purpose. Their gazes dropped to their feet.Typical.I rapped my knuckles on the desk.
