Darkblade Justice: An Epic Fantasy Murder Mystery (Hero of Darkness Book 7) Page 16

  The decision brought a bit of peace to her mind and, coupled with the warmth and strength of Ria’s presence, she managed to drift off into sleep.

  Yet it felt like seconds had passed before a hand shook her shoulder.

  She leapt to her feet, drawn dagger in hand. “What is it?” she demanded.

  Her eyes, bleary from lack of sleep, took long moments to focus on Darreth’s face. But she didn’t need to see his face to know that something terrible had happened—his tone and words said it all.

  “They’ve found another body, Master Gold. Another child.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Hunter smiled as he caught sight of the carriage rattling up the long driveway of Baronet Wyvern’s mansion. Well, he’s home early. Perhaps the nobleman had overindulged himself, or found a companion interested in spending the night with one of Praamis’ nobility. Either way, he’s in for a pleasant surprise.

  One huge advantage to lush gardens was that they provided plenty of places for assassins and clever thieves to hide—a realization that no nobleman in Voramis or Praamis seemed to understand, given how much coin and effort they invested into marvelous hedges, ornamental trees, and thick shrubs. Beautiful to look at, certainly, but not ideal for security. The Hunter had made his living evading guards and using costly landscape features to get him in and out of his targets’ homes unseen.

  It had been a simple matter—almost insultingly so—to scale the wall surrounding Baronet Wyvern’s mansions, slip through the gardens, and scale the rough stone wall to the third-floor balcony. He hadn’t even needed to break a window or open a latch; few people thought to lock the windows on the third and fourth floors of a house, especially when they had walls to keep unwelcome guests out of their estate.

  Baronet Wyvern’s private offices and bedchamber exceeded the level of needless luxury the Hunter had expected. The four-posted bed seemed large enough for ten Baronets, and the stuffed goose down pillows were far too plush to make for a comfortable night of rest. In the ten minutes the Hunter had spent waiting, he’d enjoyed lounging in one of Baronet Wyvern’s stuffed armchairs accompanied by a drink of the rare and valuable Nyslian brandy he kept beside his bed. But now, with his target nearby, the Hunter stood from the chair and ducked behind the door. His dark grey cloak rendered him all but invisible in the shadows of the room. To Baronet Wyvern, it would appear as if he’d simply stepped out of thin air.

  He’d spent decades practicing the delicate art of terrifying the bloody hell out of targets and clients alike. The skill had come in handy far too many times to count. Besides, he couldn’t help enjoying the fear it instilled. The more terrified a target, the more vulnerable they proved, and thus easier for him to hunt down and pick off.

  The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway and a moment later, Baronet Wyvern himself hurried into the room. The light of the lantern in his hand illuminated the nobleman’s pale, sweating face. He muttered to himself, well-intoxicated and visibly terrified.

  And I haven’t even introduced myself yet.

  “Good evening, Baronet Wyvern.” He spoke in a deep voice heavy with gravel and menace.

  The nobleman gave a little squeak and whirled around, holding his lantern high. The door hid the Hunter, but when Baronet Wyvern turned to scan the rest of the room, the Hunter shut the door and stepped out into the middle of the room. His timing was perfect. The Baronet swung back and found himself face to face with the Hunter.

  He gasped and dropped the lantern, but the Hunter caught it in a smooth motion. “Careful, my lord. I’d hate to think you were willing to burn this house to the ground to evade my questions.”

  “W-Who are you?” Baronet Wyvern’s voice shook and he swallowed hard. “I-I already spoke to—”

  The Hunter seized the man’s collar and hauled him forward. Off-balanced, the nobleman could only let out a terrified squawk, but the Hunter made no move to assault him. Instead, he pulled Baronet Wyvern until their faces were a finger’s breadth apart.

  “You speak to me, now.” His nostrils filled with the man’s unique scent: honey-enriched beeswax, talc, and ginger. “And I will have answers from you!”

  The Baronet’s eyes were wide, tinged with panic. The Hunter knew the effect his face would have—he’d chosen this particular disguise with care. It was a hard face, cheeks twisted by burns and knife scars, with a strong jaw, thin lips, and deep-set eyes. He’d used these features on many occasions during his years as the Hunter of Voramis.

  “W-What do you want from me?” The nobleman’s voice rose an octave higher. “Please!” He cried out and flinched as the Hunter reached into his cloak, but the Hunter drew no weapon. Instead, he pulled out the small scrap of paper he’d found clutched in the child’s hand.

  “This note is addressed to you. Who sent it?”

  Baronet Wyvern stared wide-eyed at the parchment, at the Hunter’s scarred face, then back at the paper. “N-Note?”

  The Hunter released his grip on the man’s collar and thrust the parchment into his chest hard enough to send him staggering backward. The back of his knees struck the stuffed armchair and he collapsed into its plush embrace.

  Again, Baronet Wyvern gave a little whimper as the Hunter stalked after him. The Hunter lifted his boot and placed it onto the armchair, just between the nobleman’s legs.

  “Tell me who this came from,” he growled.

  The Baronet swallowed and reached out a shaking hand to take the note. His fingers trembled as he unfolded the parchment. After a moment of reading, he looked up at the Hunter. “Y-You sent this.”

  The Hunter shook his head. “I sent nothing.”

  “No, you. The Night Guild!” Baronet Wyvern’s eyes narrowed. “Are you not—?” His voice trailed off in confusion.

  The Hunter scowled. “The Night Guild is blackmailing you?”

  The nobleman nodded vigorously. “Y-Yes!” Confusion twisted his features. “But if you’re not the Night Guild, who are you?”

  “I ask the questions here.” He leaned forward to loom over the seated man. “Answer me this, Baronet Wyvern, why would a child be carrying this note?”

  “A-A child?” Again, the puzzled expression that bordered on sheer idiocy. “What child?”

  “A Bluejacket. One of Lady Chasteyn’s children.”

  “Oh.” Realization dawned on the man’s face. “Bluejackets. Child couriers and messengers, are they not?”

  The Hunter remained silent, simply fixed the nobleman with the hard-edged glare.

  “Er, right.” Baronet Wyvern swallowed, swallowed again, and wiped sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know why he would be carrying this note. The first time I received a threat from the Night Guild, it was accompanied by...” He made to reach for something, but stopped when the Hunter didn’t move. “In there.” His finger indicated a small wooden drawer in the cabinet beside his bed.

  The Hunter held up a warning finger. “Do anything stupid, and the pieces I carve from your body will never be found.”

  The nobleman blanched and bobbed his head vigorously. “O-Of course!”

  Not a very brave man, our Baronet. Then again, anyone who’d give into blackmail wouldn’t exactly be a stalwart.

  The Hunter stepped toward the cabinet and pulled open the drawer. Within lay a dagger, plain and practical except for the ornate pommel: a silver skull with two rubies set into the eye sockets.

  “This?” He lifted the dagger and turned to Baronet Wyvern.

  The nobleman recoiled at the sight of bared steel. “Yes!”

  The Hunter strode back to stand in front of the man, his long fingers toying with the dagger. “And what does it mean?”

  “A warning from the Night Guild,” Baronet Wyvern said, terror in his voice. “It marks me for death unless I do what they ask.”

  The Hunter cocked his head. “And what exactly do they ask?”

  “Gold, primarily.” Baronet Wyvern wiped sweat from the side of his face and touched two fingers to a small nick
beneath his jawbone. “Information. Anything they want. And I have no choice but to give it to them, or else.”

  The Hunter bared his teeth in a snarl. “Your actions with Lady Riandra got you into this mess.” He had no idea what the Baronet had done, but his words had the desired effect.

  Baronet Wyvern had the good sense to look ashamed. “And I’ve regretted her death—accidental, mind you—every day since. But that was through no fault of my own! She chose to overdose; I was simply the one unfortunate enough to supply her.” Panic welled in his eyes. “But I would never kill a child!”

  The Hunter remained silent for a long moment, his gaze locked on the Baronet’s face. Yes, the man was too much of a coward to be the one murdering Bluejackets or any other children. That sort of cruelty took a far harder-stomached man than the craven before him.

  “So be it.” He nodded. “Consider yourself fortunate to see another sunrise, Baronet.”

  “Y-You’re not going to kill me?” The man’s eyes flew wide. “But I thought…” He trailed off, as if worried he might somehow change the Hunter’s mind. “Who are you?”

  The Hunter flashed him a cruel grin. “Pray to whatever god you worship that you never need to find out.”

  Before the nobleman could react, he drove his fist into Baronet Wyvern’s face. The man sagged in his chair, unconscious.

  Sleep well, my lord. He’d awake with a vicious headache, but he had gotten off easier than most of those that found themselves facing the Hunter in a darkened room.

  The Hunter stalked from the Baronet’s chamber, down the hall, and out onto the third-story balcony. It took him less than five minutes to clamber down the stone wall, slip past the barely-awake guards patrolling the mansion’s perimeter, and glide through the Baronet’s tree-shadowed estate toward the wall.

  His mind worked as he climbed over the wall and dropped into the darkness of The Gardens. His path led back in the direction of the Night Guild, apparently. If he could find out who had hired the Bluejacket to deliver the message to Baronet Wyvern, he could retrace the boy’s route and possibly find the location where he’d been snatched. From there, he might be able to follow the demon’s scent—there was no doubt in his mind that the demon worked with or led the group of murderers he’d found in the sewer tunnels—back to their lair. It was a slim hope, but right now, he had nothing else to go on.

  Graeme’s reports on Praamis had been sparse, to say the least. The fat alchemist, a member of the information-collecting Hidden Circle, had only known of three murders, but that strange symbol and the plaster head casement had connected two of them. He’d come to Praamis expecting to find more deaths that would point him in the direction of the Abiarazi he hunted. His hopes had proven true, though his gut twisted at the knowledge that children had had to die to set him down the right path.

  But no more. The murders end here and now.

  Empty words unless backed by actions, he knew. Until he actually located the killers, they would continue to operate with impunity. Their need for sleep, food, and drink would slow them down, but even he couldn’t go for days without rest—or without using Soulhunger to replenish his energy. When the dagger consumed a life, it flooded him with power and vitality, pushing away all need for mortal sustenance. He would find the murderers and feed them to Soulhunger.

  His next move would be an oblique step in the right direction. The Night Guild would answer his questions about the note’s origin, and in doing so, help him hunt down the murderers. His confrontation in the sewers made him believe his goals could align with theirs—they wanted to find the killers just as he did, for their very existence depended on it. Perhaps, if their Guild Master was a rational person, he may be able to enlist their aid, or at least utilize their resources.

  To do that, he’d have to locate their secret lair. That promised to be easier said than done. But he was the Hunter of Voramis. He’d tracked bandits across a desert, hunted a demon through the Empty Mountains.

  How hard could it be to find a den of thieves in a city like Praamis?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ilanna stood silent and solemn in Journeyman Rilmine’s charnel room as the next body was brought in. Two Bloodbears carried the canvas-wrapped bundle—a tiny thing against their massive frames—and set it gently onto the iron table. Something within gave a heavy thunk as it hit the table. The sound drove a dagger of sorrow into Ilanna’s gut.

  “Thank you.” She dismissed the Bloodbears with a nod.

  A hand slipped into hers, and she turned to find Ria standing beside her. Ria’s eyes reflected her own sorrow at the latest discovery, the woman’s strength bolstering Ilanna’s own.

  Gritting her teeth, Ilanna turned to Rilmine. “Open it,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Of courssse, Guild Massster.” Rilmine set about removing the canvas, his long, pale fingers tugging at the thick material with an almost tender gentleness. When he stepped back a few moments later, Ilanna’s gut tightened at the sight.

  A child, wearing nothing but filthy undergarments. The murderer had stripped away any clothing that could indicate who the child was. A thick mask of smooth, featureless plaster encased the child’s head and made it impossible to tell the body’s gender.

  “Remove the plaster,” Ilanna ordered.

  Journeyman Rilmine sucked in a whistling breath. “It will take time.”

  “Do it.” Ilanna fixed him with a cold glare. “I will wait.”

  “Asss you wish.” Rilmine reached for a thin saw—long and thin, with close-set steel teeth—and set to work on the plaster mask. The rasping sound echoed in the chamber and grated on Ilanna’s nerves. She remained silent, her fingers locked in Ria’s grip, her eyes fixed on the horrible symbol etched into the child’s chest.

  Once again, the wounds held little blood, indicating they’d been carved after death. In a way, that felt even more horrible. Desecrating corpses was a ghoulish act, and it filled Ilanna with a cold rage. When she found the people responsible, she would carve a dozen such marks into their bodies—but she’d make sure they lived long enough to feel the agony. They deserved no less.

  Time passed at a crawl as Journeyman Rilmine worked at the plaster mask, but Ilanna forced herself to remain unmoving, unspeaking. She didn’t know if the child had family to mourn their passing; she would bear silent vigil for the departed.

  Finally, Journeyman Rilmine lowered the white dust-covered saw and stepped back. “Would you do the honorsss, Guild Massster?”

  “There is no honor in this, Rilmine.” Acid burned at the back of Ilanna’s throat. “Such things should never be permitted to happen in our city.”

  The spectral Journeyman ducked his pale, hairless head. “Of courssse, Massster Gold.”

  Ilanna moved to stand beside the body and placed her hands on either side of the cut plaster mask. Taking a deep breath, she removed one half to reveal the child’s face.

  A boyish face, five or six years of age—just a little older than Kodyn had been when he came to live in the Night Guild with her. A lump rose into Ilanna’s throat as she stared down at the waxy features: chubby cheeks that had once doubtless held the blush of life, a small nose, full lips that could have stretched into a broad smile. The boy’s eyes had been closed, and specks of plaster marred his pale, freckled skin. Seven round marks had been burned into his skin—the same mark they’d found on Arashi, the dead Fox apprentice.

  Ilanna drew in a sharp breath, and the plaster cracked beneath the force of her vise grip. Even when Ria placed a calming hand on Ilanna’s shoulder, it took every shred of self-control not to hurl away the mask in her rage or to empty the contents of her stomach in disgust.

  She spoke without tearing her eyes from the body. “Can you tell me anything about how he died?”

  “Thisss wasss the caussse of death.” Journeyman Rilmine pointed to a deeper mark on the boy’s chest. “I also found it on Arashi on clossser inssspection.”

  Ilanna frowned as she studied the wound
Rilmine indicated. It looked like all the others, but as she got a better look, she realized it wasn’t just skin deep. A long blade—likely a dagger, judging by the width of the stab wound—had been driven through the child’s chest, between his ribs, and into his heart.

  “Asss with the other body,” the ghoulish Rilmine said, “the killer ended it with a quick thrussst to the heart.”

  “And the poison?” Ilanna demanded, now turning to stare at the strange-looking Scorpion. “Can you tell if they used Night Petal on him?”

  “Until I open him and check hisss heart, I cannot tell,” Journeyman Rilmine said. “But I predict that we will find the same poissson.”

  Ilanna’s gut clenched. “Poisoned, yet finished with a thrust to the heart?” Her brow furrowed. “Why would the killer waste their effort when one or the other would suffice?”

  “I cannot ssspeak to that.” Journeyman Rilmine held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Perhapsss they sought to put an end to the child’sss sssuffering. Night Petal isss a cruel poissson, I am told. It emptiesss the gut, the bladder, even the ssstomach. One by one, the organsss shut down until the body sssimply cannot function. Yet death isss the resssult of dehydration, a ssslow, cruel way to die.”

  “A killer with a conscience?” Ilanna snorted. “That sounds highly unlikely.”

  “Agreed.” Journeyman Rilmine nodded. “Yet you asssked, ssso I gave an anssswer.”

  “Yes, so you did.” Ilanna drew in a long breath. “Do you have any idea what would make these burn marks?” She pointed to the child’s forehead. “Red-hot metal? Acid?”

  “I believe it isss the work of metal,” Rilmine said. “Acccid would make it more difficult to contain the damage to the ssskin.”

  The answer added to the churning in Ilanna’s gut. “But after the child was dead, right?”

  “Yesss.”

  There was that mercy, at least. If the killer had ended the child’s life with a dagger thrust to the heart, at least he wouldn’t have suffered too badly.