She looked into his eyes. They were soulful, knowing eyes, and he felt himself getting lost in them. He could not tell what her expression said.
“If you wish,” she replied.
Reece’s heart dropped.
He turned and walked off, feeling crushed. He was confused; he wasn’t sure if he had been rejected-but he certainly had not been embraced. Selese was a mystery to him; he wondered if he would ever understand her.
He increased his pace, heading back towards his Legion brothers, towards a world he did understand, and wishing he had never come here. If this was the girl who had saved his life, a part of him wished it had never been saved at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Godfrey ran through the back alleys of the seediest part of King’s Court, trying to keep up with the young boy as he weaved in and out of the crowds, running ever since the graveyard. Akorth and Fulton trailed behind him, struggling to catch up, breathing hard, not in as good shape as he-and Godfrey was not in great shape, so that wasn’t saying much. Too many years in the alehouse had affected all of them, and chasing after this boy was a mighty struggle. As Godfrey heaved, he resolved to turn over new leaf, to stop drinking for good, and to start getting into shape. This time, he meant it.
Godfrey shoved a drunk out of his way, sidestepped a young man trying to sell him opium and pushed his way past a row of whores as this part of town became worse and worse, the alleys narrowing, filled with sewage and mud. This boy was quick and knew these streets well, twisting his way through shortcuts, around vendors-it was obvious that he lived somewhere close.
Godfrey had to catch him. Clearly, there was a reason this boy was running, why he had not stopped since they’d spotted him at the grave. He was scared. He was Godfrey’s only hope of finding the proof he needed to find his assassin-and to bring down his brother.
The boy knew his way around here well, but Godfrey knew it even better. What Godfrey lacked in speed he made up for in wit, and having spent nearly his entire life drinking and whoring in these streets, having spent way too many nights here running from his father’s guards, Godfrey knew these streets too well-better, even, than the boy. So when he saw the boy turn left down a side street, Godfrey immediately knew that that street hooked around, and that there was only one way out. Godfrey saw his chance: he took a shortcut between buildings, preparing to head the boy off at the pass.
Godfrey leapt out of the alley just in time to block the boy’s path, who, looking back over his shoulder, never saw it coming. Godfrey tackled him from the side and drove him down hard into the mud.
The boy screamed and flailed, and Godfrey reached up and grabbed his arms and pinned him down.
“Why do you run from me?” Godfrey demanded.
“Leave me alone!” the boy shouted back. “Get off of me. Help! Help!”
Godfrey smiled.
“Do you forget where we are? There is no one around to help you here, boy. So stop shouting and speak to me.”
The boy breathed hard, wide-eyed in fear, and at least he stopped shouting. He stared back at Godfrey, scared but also defiant.
“What do you want from me?” the boy asked, between breaths.
“Why did you run from me?”
“Because I didn’t know who you were.”
Godfrey looked down, skeptical.
“Why were you in that graveyard? Who do you know was killed? Who was buried there?”
The boy hesitated, then relented.
“My brother. My older brother.”
Godfrey, feeling bad for the boy, loosened his grip a bit, but not enough to let him go yet.
“Well I’m sorry for you,” Godfrey said. “But not for myself. Your brother tried to poison me the other night. In the Tavern.”
The boy’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but he kept silent.
“I know nothing of the plot,” the boy said.
Godfrey narrowed his eyes, and knew for sure that this boy was hiding something.
As Akorth and Fulton arrived behind him, Godfrey got to his feet and grabbed the boy by his shirt, and picked him up with him.
“Where do you live, boy?” Godfrey asked.
The boy looked from Godfrey to Akorth and Fulton, and remained silent. He seemed scared to answer.
“He’s probably a homeless bugger,” Fulton volunteered. “I bet he doesn’t even have any parents. He’s an orphan.”
“That’s not true!” the boy protested. “I DO have parents!”
“They probably hate you, want nothing to do with you,” Akorth goaded.
“You’re a LIAR!” the boy screamed. “My parents LOVE me!”
“And then where do they live, if these parents exist?” Fulton asked.
The boy fell silent.
“I will make this very simple for you,” Godfrey said, matter-of-fact. “Either you tell us where you live, or I will drag you to the King’s Castle and have you chained to the dungeon, never to come out.”
The boy looked at him, eyes widening in fear, then, after several tense seconds, he lowered his eyes to the ground, raised an arm behind him, and pointed.
Godfrey followed his finger to see a small attached house-more like a shack, leaning to one side, looking as if it might collapse at any moment. It was narrow, barely ten feet wide, and had no windows. It was the poorest place he had ever seen.
He grabbed the boy’s arm, and dragged him towards his home.
“We’ll see what your parents have to say about your behavior,” Godfrey said.
“No, Mister!” the boy cried out. “Please don’t tell on me to my parents! I didn’t do anything! They’ll get mad!”
Godfrey led him there, pleading and protesting, then kicked open the door and let himself inside, dragging the boy, Akorth and Fulton behind him.
The inside of this shack was even smaller than the outside. It was a one room home, and as they walked in, the boy’s parents stood a few feet away, and turned and faced them, alarmed. The mother had been engaged in knitting, the father in tanning a hide, and they both stopped what they were doing, stood upright, and stared at the intruders, then looked down to their boy with concern.
Godfrey finally released the boy, who ran to his mother’s side, hugging her tight around the waist.
“Blaine!” she said to the boy, worried, hugging him. “Are you okay?”
“Who are you?” the father demanded, angry, taking a step towards them. “What right do you have to charge into our home? And what have you done to our boy?”
“I did nothing to your boy,” Godfrey answered. “I only brought him back home, because I want answers.”
“Answers?” the father demanded, angrier, confused, walking towards him threateningly. He was an older man, with a large nose, covered in warts, and strong face-and he did not look pleased.
“Your other son poisoned me last night,” Godfrey stated.
The father stopped in his tracks, as the mother burst out weeping.
“You speak of Clayforth,” the father said. He looked down sadly, and slowly shook his head.
“They chased me home all the way from the grave mama,” the boy said.
“I believe that Blaine knows something about my attempted murder,” Godfrey said to the mother.
She looked at him with alarm, protective of her son.
“And what makes you say that? You know nothing of our son.”
