David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

The greater reason, though, was the Conningtons, the brothers with whom he was set to meet in two hours.

Two hours. He closed his eyes and leaned back, listening to the beat of his heart in his ears. His fingers crept into his pocket, touching the note hidden within. They asked for this, he told himself. And you need it. Your people are starving, and they’ve promised you food. If the brothers meant you harm, they would have just sent someone to assassinate you.

True, his inner contrarian stated. Yet they have tried before and failed. What if this is a new plan for them to be rid of you?

Matthew chuckled. Well, Moira can help with that, can’t she?

The brandy did its work, and he fell into an uneasy sleep, only to be awakened from an ill-omened dream by the creak of the solarium door. He jerked with a start and instinctually grabbed the dagger off the table beside him. The fire in the hearth had barely died down, which meant he couldn’t have been out for more than an hour. He peered across the room, past the shelves of historical tomes given to his father by the best minds in Neldar and the Quellan elves, past his display cases of stuffed oddities found at sea, until his eyes came to rest on the noblewoman standing in the light of the doorway. Her purple gown was long-sleeved and high-necked, and her bodice had been pulled tight, making her small breasts swell, bringing attention to the moonstone pendant between them. Her hair was deep brown and had been cut short, exposing the scar on the back of her neck, and her face had been painted rosy at the cheeks and light blue above her sea-glass eyes. Her thin lips were twisted into a despairing frown.

“It’s time,” Moira said.

“Is it? I should’ve known, considering how pretty my girls have made you.”

“Don’t mock me. This is horrendous.”

Matthew laughed. “You look wonderful, my dear. Much more a lady now than before.”

She glanced down at herself in contempt. “It is not me.”

“Get used to it, because if you are to hide in plain sight, this is who you’ll have to be.” He rose from his chair, tucked the dagger in his belt, and approached. “Is everything ready?”

“I saw the dimwit downstairs. He was pacing and muttering.”

“Good.”

He took hold of her hand. She flinched at first, averting her eyes from his as she brought her free arm up to cover her cleavage.

“Don’t worry, Moira,” he whispered. “You’re here to protect me, not be my concubine.”

“I know, it is just…” she began.

“You are uncomfortable. I know. Trust me, so am I.”

They exited the solarium and descended the stairs, where they found Bren pacing in front of the estate’s front entrance. The bodyguard glanced up at them and frowned.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Bren said. “Not like this, anyway. It’s not smart. We need more people.”

Matthew shook his head. “No, it has to be like this. ‘Three and no more, lest our agreement be broken.’ Those were the terms. I signed off on them.”

“Your funeral.”

“Don’t look so distraught, Bren. If they kill me, you can sell yourself to the highest bidder. Just think, this might be your chance to see just how much you’re worth on the open market.”

Bren muttered a reply under his breath that Matthew couldn’t hear. Moira sighed and rolled her eyes.

As they traversed through the darkened city with but a single lantern to light their way, Matthew couldn’t help but wish that he actually felt as flippant about this meeting as he was acting. Beneath his self-assured exterior lingered the feelings of doubt he couldn’t quite extinguish. He wrapped his fingers around his dagger’s grip and held it tight, wishing the curved and wickedly sharp steel would infuse him with its cold assurance. With each twist and turn they made, his fear grew. By the time they entered a pitch-black alley cutting between two warehouses in Port Lancaster’s fish-packing district, it was near suffocating.

And then a voice called out from above.

“Hey, Brennan, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Before they could react, dark shapes fell from the rooftops on all sides.

“Those bastards,” Matthew muttered. “They can’t play fair, can they?”

Moira’s slender fingers wrapped around his, pulling him out of the alley. Five men stepped into the moonlight, clothed in tattered deerhide, each holding a dirk. They smiled as they approached, and Matthew could see mostly toothless grins emerge from beneath unkempt beards. Bren drew his longsword and waved it before him, shouting for the men to desist.

Without so much as pausing, two of them leapt forward, swinging wildly with their dirks. Bren caught their attack head on, his steel clanking with theirs, the noise of the colliding swords deafening in the night’s dead quiet.

The two attackers pressed onward, forcing Bren farther down the street. Beneath the frightened chatter of his own teeth, Matthew heard his bodyguard yowl in pain. The other three men continued to advance on him and Moira from the opposite side. Matthew took a deep breath, trying to steel his nerves. His hand slipped out of Moira’s, and he moved to charge with his dagger.

Moira grabbed his shirt from behind with more strength than she looked to have, yanking him back until he struck the wall, knocking the breath out of him. The dagger fell from his hand, clinking off the slate walk. Moira fell to her knees, blocking their way.

“Please, sirs,” she said, her voice high pitched and fearful, like a child’s. “Please leave my love alone. I’ll do anything, anything, but please don’t hurt him.”

The men halted, looking from one to the other. Finally one stepped forward, fixing Matthew with a mocking stare.

“What, Brennan, got yerself a whore to beg for you? That what you’re into now?”

The men fell into a fit of laughter. Matthew wanted to scream at them, but his voice was trapped in his throat.

Moira shuffled forward on her knees while Bren continued his fight somewhere off to the side.

“Please, sirs, I’ll do anything,” she said. She was close to the one in front, and her hands reached out, clawing for the drawstrings on his ragged breeches. The man gazed down at her, his expression uncertain. He glanced from one of his partners to the other, and an expectant look crossed his filthy mug. “Anything,” she said again, giving the string a tug.

“Lookit this,” he said, laughing to his partners as his breeches came loose and slid down his hips. The arm holding his dirk slackened, and he lifted his gaze to Matthew. “The whore’s eager.”

Moira yanked the man’s undershorts halfway down his thighs, then whipped aside her dress. Matthew caught a glint of steel as she shot upward, her hands moving so quick they were blurs in the moonlight. A wicked shortsword appeared from beneath the folds of fabric and lace, and she drove the blade into the man’s groin. The screech that left his mouth was so loud that it could have shattered glass. Moira bounced to her feet and kicked him, yanking the sword from his nethers with a wet plop . Blood streamed into the air as he fell.

The remaining two gawked at their fallen companion, their jaws slack with disbelief. Moira turned on one, slicing upward with her blade. The man reacted too late, failing to parry with his dirk. The tip caught him under the chin, and he stumbled as he tried with his free hand to staunch the blood pouring from his throat. The other attacker leapt at Moira from behind as she bore down on her injured foe. Matthew tried to shout for her to look out, but his voice was faint. His heart raced out of control as he snatched the dagger from the ground and rushed forward, hoping to reach the unseen assailant before he buried his dirk in Moira’s back.