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“Why does Rutherford want him dead?” I ask as we walk around the corner to see Lancelot bound to a chair by his hands and feet. His mouth is also bound by a bloody cloth. His face is swollen. He grunts and pulls against his constraints, shouting muffled slurs.
Lucian shakes his head and swipes a gloved hand across his forehead. He sighs. “The lad is hell-born,” he says. “There’s something wrong with him. We’re going to have to kill him.”
I shake my head. Look, I have no problem killing a man. It’s not hard. It’s not easy. It just is. If I had a problem doing it, I wouldn’t do it. I have the freedom of doing whatever it is I want. So, something about it thrills me, obviously. But well, I still have a bit of humanity left, I reckon. Because whenever I kill, it’s nice to have a break in between. It does something to the mind and body, to take a life. To know that the person, however vile, has lived and, will have people missing them, waiting for them to return home. It’s quite chilling. Foul, really. It gives me the shivers. And yesterday was a bloodbath. So, if I can avoid killing today, I just might.
Plus, I’m in a great mood, given last night’s activities. Olivia’s a lot more amenable, though; there’s still a little quiver within me that’s on constant alert. I wonder whether she’ll be stupid enough to attempt running again, and I worry that if she does, I might learn that my control is slipping. I’m afraid I won’t be able to bring myself to kill her, or I’ll force myself to pull the trigger to prove to myself that I’m not too soft. Neither of those options bring me much ease. Nevertheless, there can be no place in my thoughts of Olivia now. I don’t want to be thrown off task.
There’s a seat ready for me, placed before Lancelot. “So, why might someone hire me to kill you for a hefty three hundred pounds?” I sit. He mumbles through the bloody cloth in his mouth. “Oh, my apologies. Lucian?” I gesture.
Lucian scowls at the man as if his stench is rotten. He walks toward him, grabbing the cloth from his mouth and tugging his neck forward in the process. Lucian’s hand creeps toward his knife, as if he’d love to be given the order to stick the blade in his neck himself. I know Lucian must be itching to tell me what this unlucky scalawag is guilty of. But well, I like to give the floor to the damned beforehand.
“They’re telling lies all about the town. I’m no kidnapper!” he says.
Slowly, I rotate, locking eyes with Lucian who is giving me that, ‘I told you, now let’s hurry up and get rid of him’ look. My legs shake as my blood comes to a boil. “What did you do with the children?” I narrow my eyes at Lancelot.
“I told you. I didn’t do anything!” he yells. “They’re all lying. They just want to get rid of me.”
My voice scratches. “What have you found out about this man?” I ask Lucian.
“It’s not just rumours. We’ve several eyewitness accounts and missing children who were last seen with him,” he says. “Fortunately, there have been a few survivors. One of those survivors is Lord Rutherford’s dear niece. The youngster reports the horrific things she’s witnessed,” he says, shivering as if he too has seen them. “He’s messed her up entirely. The poor lass might have to endure the asylum before she’s even lived life,” he grunts.
Lancelot squirms and scowls at the wall next to him, unable to face us. The contemptible arse! I’d like to bang his head into that wall and demand he tell us what he did with the children, but I already know by the look on his face they’re dead. Call it a killer’s instinct, from one murderer to the next.
“That’s his worst crime, but not his only crime. He’s also guilty of licentious acts, such as forced sex with women and um…” Lucian clears his throat and shuts his eyes tight. His nostrils flare as if he’s gotten a whiff of that rotten stench again. He swallows. “And otherlewdacts,” he says, and his voice rattles. Opening his eyes, as if his forehead is weighing down on his brows, Lucian goes pale. His lips tighten, and he clutches his knife before stomping up and down the room. He’s on the verge of blowing up into tiny bits. “When we collected him, he was just about to…”
“Okay, enough!” I say, reaching for my pistol immediately. I don’t need to know what other lewd behaviour Lucian saw, but I know it must have been horrifying if he’s reacting in this way. It’s not necessary for us to both have the imagery in our conscience. Lucian exhales as I point the weapon toward the swag-bellied pig.
“He’s lying!” Lancelot yells when he spots the weapon. He spits at the ground and glares at me. But the guilt swims in his eyes, weakening his gaze.
I rest the pistol against his forehead. “My partner’s words are good enough for me. Children are innocent.”
Recalling my own youth and the abuse I suffered, I envision the face of my father as I press the nozzle into his skull. My teeth dig into my bottom lips.
“They deserve to be given love and happiness, not to be ruined and scarred for all eternity because of pigs like you who take out your own depravities on helpless lives. You’ve taken the life of the innocent and now, you lie to spare your own life? You’re contemptible.” I spit in his face.
He fixes his mouth as if he’s about to spit back at me, but he’s too slow. I fire. Bang. The explosion is deafening. But as the swish of gunpowder settles, a shaky gasp echoes. Spinning around with my gun pointed in the direction of the sound, I lock eyes with Olivia. My mouth falls open, and hers swiftly closes as she turns on her heels and takes off running. Ah, for the love of…
I hand Lucian my pistol because my shaky hand can’t be trusted as I take off after her. Her breathing echoes as she turns out of the hallway, thankfully, not toward the friggin’ door. “Olivia!” I yell, rounding the corner after her. She bolts up the stairs, and I groan. “Stop running!” I demand, but she doesn’t look behind her once.
With her dress in her hands, she takes the stairs one at a time. Holding onto the banister, I swing my weight toward the stairs, flinging my body forward and catching up to her. Grabbing her by the arm, I shove her against the wall. My chest is tight, and my heart is pounding, from killing that ass wipe and her doing what she always does. My fingers are still vibrating off the weight and buzz of the exploding weapon. Growling, I punch the wall behind her head, bringing my nose down to hers.
“What are you doing out of the room?” I roar. She grimaces and reaches for her ear with a shaky hand. I grab it and push it down. “Answer me! Didn’t I tell you not to leave the room? Do you want to be next? Is the room not to your liking? Would you like to return to the cellar?!”
She swallows and with her wrist in my grasp, the rapid pounding of her blood flutters against my thumb. She glares at me. Her gaze is loathsome. But she shakes her head.
“The next time you disobey me, not only will you be returned to the cellar, but you’ll face the same fate. Tell me, Olivia. Do you want to be next?”
Tears transform her eyes into glass, and my chest burns like the pit of hell. My brain flips, and my stomach sinks. Snarling at myself, I release her arms and hover over her, resting my hands on the wall above her head. “Why have you chosen to disobey me? Does your mind fail you, Olivia? Do you need to be constantly reminded of the rules?” I bare my teeth.
She tightens her lips, and her nostrils flare, but she clears her throat and straightens her neck. “I was looking foryou.”
“Why?!” I ask. “What couldn’t wait until you saw me tonight?”
Her lips shake. “I got your invitation to the ball. I thought…” she starts. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.” She looks away. “I’d like to go back to the room now if that’s okay.”
Her jaw is rigid as she stares ahead, beneath my arm, yearning for her escape. Her breasts rise and fall with her frustration. Now that she’s made the request to go back to the room, I want to deny her. I’m the one in charge. I decide when she goes back to the room.
“You came looking for me because of an invitation or something else?” I ask, reaching for her chin and pulling her head toward me. I lower my lips, and she drops her eyes, determined to deny me. Sighing, I let my hand fall from her face. “How long were you standing there? And don’t get all quiet and refuse to answer me. It’s infuriating. And I’m not in the mood to be messed with.”
