Blood of the Underworld(36)

“Just give me a chance,” Victor said. “I’ll prove myself to you, to everyone in Veldaren.”

“I’d be careful of that,” Tarlak said, putting back on his pointy yellow hat. “The more the underworld sees who you are, and believes you’re here to do what you say, the more frightened they’ll be.”

“Good,” Victor said. “Let them be afraid.”

“They fear the Watcher, and they fear Thren Felhorn. Should your name one day be among theirs, I’ll treat you to drinks at my tower.”

Tarlak left, ignoring the cold glares from the guards at the door. While heading down the street, he stopped and turned back to observe his handwork on the walls and think on the man hiding within.

“Crazy bastard,” Tarlak muttered, shaking his head. “What in the world are you thinking?”

He headed back, feeling terribly annoyed. Worse, he wasn’t sure if it was at Lord Victor’s insanity, or his own for helping the man in his impossible quest.



Time was not on his side, but Peb felt confident he could finish quickly. Not that he’d brag about that to anyone else, or even admit it. But with such a daring mission approaching, Peb needed some release, otherwise he’d be a nervous wreck throughout. After Thren had heard what happened from Alan, he’d been deathly quiet, talking to no one for a full hour. When he exited his study, his plan was simple, and his mind set.

Victor Kane died tonight.

“Like it’ll be that easy,” Peb muttered to himself as he headed toward the darkest alleys of Veldaren. He was in too much of a hurry to watch his surroundings, but he feared no attack, not so deep in the heart of their territory. A few coins rattled in his pocket, just enough to pay for what he needed. He usually had his pick of the women, given how weak he looked, how unthreatening. The whores talked, Peb knew that. They knew he needed just a touch, just a kiss, and that he’d never hurt them, not like some of the others who needed to punch or beat someone weaker to get themselves off.

Turning right, he passed a dimly lit tavern, then veered into an alley beside it. He knew many men preferred brothels, wanting a bed where they could lie back and do nothing, or to have clean sheets they could ruffle and cast about. Peb needed none of that, just him standing, and a pretty girl on her knees. What did anything else matter, especially when the cost would go up twofold for all the extravagances?

“Hello?” Peb asked the alleyway as he stepped inside. Normally there’d be three or four girls there, eager to sell themselves to the men who stayed in the tavern. The night was still young, though, so perhaps they were elsewhere.

“Can I help you?” a soft voice asked. Squinting, Peb saw a petite woman further in the shadows. Long brown hair curled around her neck, and she smiled at him with such delicate, pretty features...

“I think you can,” he said, smiling. Gods, those eyes, just staring at them would have him done in no time. He’d be able to go charging ahead of Thren, feeling on top of the world as they tore Victor from his room and beat his face to a pulp. He reached into his pocket as she beckoned him closer.

“How much?” he asked, fearing the normal rates might not apply to someone so clearly of a higher class.

“Not much,” the whore said, her eyes twinkling. “In fact, cute as you are, I might pay you.”

She was just flattering him, he knew, but Peb liked hearing it anyway. His hand reached for the sash of his pants.

“That so?” he asked. “How much you think I’m worth?”

That smile darkened, and those delicate features suddenly seemed far less innocent.

“Two silver, and two gold.”

Peb was too stunned to even move. By the time he saw the small crossbow, it was too late. She pulled the trigger, and the bolt thudded into his neck. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His stomach heaved, and he dropped, unable to maintain his balance. He tried to run, to scream, but his muscles ignored every command. Poison, he realized, his terror increasing. The bolt was poisoned.

“I know you can’t move,” the whore said, kneeling down beside him, covering the front of her brown dress with dirt. “Maybe you think that means you won’t feel anything. You’re wrong. I just want you to know that. You’ll feel every...single...thing.”

A knife flashed before him, held aloft so he could see the sharp edge in the moonlight. Then it turned, and Peb felt tears run down the side of his face. The tip pressed beneath his right eye, slipped deeper. It cut through nerves, muscle, and then with a sickening plop, pulled free. With his remaining eye, he saw her holding aloft his severed eyeball, a thin, bloody strand of tissue still attached to the back. Satisfied, the whore put it into a pocket of her dress, then leaned forward, dagger leading, hungry for his remaining eye.