caught sight of not only an eye that was quickly swelling and turning a deep crimson purple but also a fine spray of blood across his dark blue shirt.
We were hauled down smooth-cut stone steps into what I assumed was going to be a dark, dank, rat- infested dungeon.
“I have to say that this is the cleanest, most pleasant dungeon I’ve ever been forced to visit,” I told the man who was attached to my left side. “It’s well lit, it smells good, there’s no garbage or people’s bones lying around, and I don’t hear so much as even one little scream of torment.”
“Lord Aaron believes that a healthful dungeon is a productive dungeon,” the guard said.
“That’s quite forward-thinking of him.”
“Aye, but to be honest, he had them cleaned up when the tourists started coming through,” the man on my right commented.
“Tourists?” Gregory asked from behind me. His voice sounded hoarse and muffled. “Did he just say ‘tourists’?”
“He did. That’s probably what that sign upstairs was all about.”
“What sign?”
“The one that mentioned tours.”
“Why,” I heard Gregory ask one of his attendants, “does Aaron run tourists through the afterlife?”
“Why not?” the man said.
“I have to admit,” Gregory called up to me, “that he has me there. Literally as well as figuratively.”
“We wouldn’t be havin’ to carry ye iff’n ye didn’t fight us,” one of his guards answered. “Ye fair on crippled poor ’Erbert.”
“Aye, he did. I may never walk again,” said the man on my left.
I looked at him. He immediately started to limp.
“Poor Herbert, indeed. He tried to kidney punch me,” Gregory pointed out.
“Then there’s what you did to Maltravers,” my right guard said.
“Who’s Maltravers, and what did Gregory do to him?” I asked.
“’E’s the ’ead litter cleaner, and yer boyfriend ’ere broke his thumb. The one ’e uses to scoop!”
“Christos, not the scooping thumb!” Gregory muttered. “Was Maltravers the one who broke my nose?”
“Nay, that’d be Jones, there on yer left calf.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” said Jones. I assumed it was him, but I couldn’t actually see behind me.
I giggled, but felt obligated to say, “Gregory isn’t my boyfriend.”
“And then there’s Wenceslaus,” another man behind me said.
“OK, now you’re just getting silly,” I protested. “This is Anwyn. We’re in Wales. I’m willing to let ‘Herbert’ and ‘Maltravers’ pass, but ‘Wenceslaus’ isn’t even remotely Welsh.”
“Nay, ’e isn’t, and now ’e can’t talk what with the beating your boyfriend ’ere gave him about the throat. Got a clean left in the Adam’s apple, ’e did.”
“He got me in the bollocks.” A thin, reedy voice drifted up from the back. “With his elbow! I may never have children again!”
“You ain’t had them to begin with,” called my chatty guard. “So don’t you be going on about something what isn’t likely to happen to begin with, Ned Bundy. Not that I’m saying getting a man in the bollocks is right,” he added to me. “A man’s bollocks ought not to be touched excepting by him. And possibly his missus, if she has a light hand to her.”
“In general, I agree, with the firm exception of self-defense. What did Ned do to Gregory?”
“Nothing,” Gregory answered. “He just got in my way when I was trying to keep from having any more of my teeth knocked out.”
“There, you see? Self-defense.”
“Aye,” the guard said, sucking on his teeth as he thought. “That’s as might be.”
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Me mum named me Aloysius, but the lads ’ere call me Al. I’m by way of bein’ the ’ead of his lordship’s guards. When ’e has need of ’em. Othertimes, I does a bit of light tanning.”
“I don’t suppose we could convince you to let us go?” I asked without much hope.
The look he gave me was pitying. “Now, then, what sort of a ’ead guard would I be if I was to be lettin’ you and ’im go?”
“A nice one?”
Al scratched his neck. “That’s as might be, but I can’t see my way clear to it without word from my lord or ’is lady.”
“This really sucks,” I said somewhat pettishly. “I don’t want to sit in a cell by myself, twitching at every sound, and with no one to talk to.”
“Well, as to that, I’m afraid accommodations are what you would call a wee bit tight at the moment.” Al stopped before a solid-looking wooden door. One that I couldn’t help notice was fitted with a small cat door. “What with the tourists and all.”
“You
“Only those that pay for it,” Herbert the guard said, leaning in to add, “It costs extra.”
“Wow,” was all I could think of to say, and say it I did. A few seconds later, that pithy exclamation was joined by “Holy carp!” and “Oh, you poor thing. Is your nose broken?” when the guards summarily dropped Gregory on the floor and closed the door firmly behind them.
I knelt next to him as he rolled over and sat up. His eye was swelling even as I watched it, and a trickle of blood from a split lip dripped sluggishly down his chin.
“You look,” I said, pulling out the end of my shirt and using it to dab at the blood, “like a man who’s gone five rounds with a Velociphant.”
“What on earth do you suppose that is?”
“Love child of a velociraptor and an elephant? That or some sort of elephant on wheels? I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know that I’m getting sick and tired of being imprisoned. First it was the Watch, then it was that Holly woman, and now it’s the queen of the Underworld.”
“We imprisoned you? For what crime?”
“Nothing that I did. They thought I was my mom, and later released me because they couldn’t prove I was her.”
“Ah, I recall hearing something about that.”
“Now you know why I’m so tired of this shtick. Does this hurt?”
I grabbed his nose and gave it a sharp snap, causing him to jerk back and howl. “Bloody hell! What are you doing? Oh.” He took a stuffy-sounding breath. “I guess it was broken.”
“You’re welcome.” I stood up and looked around, wondering what we were doing there, and more to the point, how we were to get out. “This really is the nicest dungeon. Those cots have memory foam mattresses. And look, I think that walled-off area is a bathroom.” I went behind a closeted section of the dungeon, noting with approval the clean toilet and sink. “Yup, that’s what it is. No shower, though.”
Gregory was gingerly feeling his mouth when I emerged from the toilet area, pulling away his fingers to glare at them. “How bad is it?” he asked, and grimaced.
“Not bad at all. The toilet is clean, and the sink means they must have running water—”
“No, not how bad is the privy. How bad is my mouth?”
I tried very hard not to notice how enticing his lips were. The man had just fought off at least ten attackers and had the battle scars to show for it. I would not embarrass myself by staring with blatant lust at his mouth. “Not bad at all,” I said nonchalantly. “It’s very nice and all, especially when you smile, but I wouldn’t give up ice cream for it. Not unless, you know, I had to.”
He stared at me as if the ice cream in question was coming out of my ears. “What are you talking about?”
“You asked me if I liked your mouth. I said I do. What’s the big deal?”
He showed me the tips of his fingers, then bared his lips at me. Just to the right of his upper two front teeth, a dark gap showed. “I meant how bad was the damage? Does the missing tooth make me look dashing and dangerous, like a pirate, or creepy and disturbing, like a crack addict who lives under a bridge?”
