Kit sat on the desk and regarded the old man's body. She'd appeared moments after Calm's discovery. Upon hearing that it hadn't been him who put the victim's lights out for good, she had lost her zest for sticking around, but he wasn't ready to go, not until he made sense of this.
Was another contractor working the same job? This was a good score and there were plenty of knives looking for work. Throat-slitting had been a time-honored tradition in Othir since the days of the emperors, long before Caim had set foot within the city limits. The viciousness of Nimean politics was legendary throughout the world, and it hadn't lost any of its ferocity with the rise of the Church. But Mathias usually made sure he had exclusive rights before farming out an assignment. In fact, he was obsessive about such things. It was just good business.
Caim leaned against the victim's desk. Curled sheets of parchment were stacked on the cherry surface, held down by brass equestrian paperweights. The inside of a glass tumbler was smeared with a glazy film. He smelled it. Ground fennel root, a tonic for headaches. A ceramic frame rested on the shelf above the desktop with the portrait of a young girl with striking green eyes. She sat in an elegant pose, black tresses curled around her heart-shaped face, gloved hands folded upon her lap.
Caim looked back at the old man. He didn't look much like a fabled general. He more resembled a scholar with his long, somber features and aquiline nose. The loose folds of his nightgown showed where his chest had been hacked open. Hacked was the operative word. The cuts looked like they had been made with a meat cleaver.
He bent down closer. Some blood was pooled in the old man's lap, but not nearly enough for such a traumatic injury. And the carpet beneath the seat was dry except for a few coin-sized dots of blood. The victim's eyes were open wide, the muscles in his face tensed. Both hands hung straight down at his sides. No signs of rope burns, but rings glittered on both hands, one gold band set with a large beryl. Caim frowned. A Gutter-bred thug wouldn't have missed those pieces, which would bring a good price at any fence in the city. There were no other signs of distress, so either the old man had been taken unawares, or he had let his killer do the bloody work without a struggle.
Or he had been dead before he was cut open.
Caim searched for other means of death. A quick inspection ruled out strangulation, poison, and blunt force. He knew of a few poisons that left their victims paralyzed, but they were expensive and difficult to procure. In any case, why use poison when you intended to carve up your victim afterward? The only reason was to send a message. But to whom?
'Caim?' Kit said.
He walked around to peer over the victim's shoulder. The angle was poor. The killer must have worked from the front, or he had an accomplice. Possible scenarios played through Calm's head as he came back around to the front. He squatted beside the corpse and reached out with a gloved finger. The flesh around the wound was discolored, turned almost tar black, and the hole was deeper than he first thought. The victim's breastbone had been shattered by the impact. Forget about a meat cleaver. The killer must have used something heavier. Like what? An axe? It seemed to Caim as if he had seen something like this before, but he couldn't remember where. He slid his fingers deeper into the wound, ignoring Kit's ewww of disgust, and made another discovery.
The old man's heart was gone.
Kit twirled a piece of silver hair in her fingers. 'Okay. The job is done. Let's just get out of here before someone finds us with this old relic.'
'No one's going to-'
The door opened. Caim had a knife out before he was fully turned. He checked his movement as a girl entered. No child, but a lady in the first bloom of womanhood. Her delicate frame was wrapped in a high-necked nightgown; its diaphanous panels glowed bright in the wan light of the bedchamber. Wavy midnight hair curled about her ivory shoulders to frame aristocratic features. Her eyes, twin gimlets of emerald, pierced the darkness like jewels of green fire.
'Father, I want you to reconsider-' She froze as she saw Caim.
Then, her gaze fell to the old man in the chair. She lifted a hand to her abdomen as she swallowed a sob and opened her lips.
Caim leapt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
osey stared up at the sheer white canopy draped over her bed and tried to get comfortable on the feather- down mattress, but sleep was the farthest thing from her mind. Her stomach twisted in knots. Despite cudgeling her brain for the past two days, she hadn't found the solution to her dilemma. At supper Father had told her that her ship was set to depart tomorrow morning with the rising tide. Tomorrow!
After Father had retired, she had called for the carriage and went to vespers-not to the basilica that, despite its gold-plated finery, she found cold and forbidding, but to her childhood parish off the Forum. Though small and unassuming with plain plaster walls and a simple altarpiece, the priory at St. Azari's exuded a comforting atmosphere, like having Father's arms around her as a child. Safe. Protected. However, not even the familiar hymns and solemn liturgy had been able to quell the angst raging inside her. Unable to find solace in prayer, she'd returned home as despondent as before.
Before bed she had written a letter to Anastasia, an earnest apology splashed with genuine tears. In it she explained how sorry she was to miss her dearest friend's wedding. With every word her heart moved farther away from her father's love, and by the end she could almost say she hated him. Despite her agony, Josey realized he was doing what he thought was right. As a dutiful daughter she ought to respect that. Instead, it made her want to fight him all the harder. She was not a child any longer. She could decide things for herself.
Finally, she could take the tumult inside her head no longer and got out of bed. She didn't pause to light a taper for fear she would lose her ire in the delay, but marched straight from her room in the dark. She hesitated for a moment in the hallway as she considered what to say. He had defeated all of her logical arguments for staying. How else could she sway him? For a moment the specter of apprehension almost overcame her. She could wait until morning, appeal to him when he was rested and most inclined to indulge her. No, I must do this now.
She tiptoed to his bedchamber. The door was partway open, and a faint light shined from within. He was awake, likely reading as was his habit at night. With a deep breath, Josey grasped the knob and pushed open the door. She began her argument right away, before her willpower could falter.
'Father, I want you to reconsider-'
The words died on her lips as the ghastly scene unraveled before her. The dull glow of the fireplace showed Father sitting at his worktable, his head thrown back. A deep, red wound gaped in his breast like an obscene second mouth. Over Father hovered a man clad in muted gray and black from head to toe. A gush of hot bile filled Josey's throat. She put a hand to her middle as her stomach threatened to void the remains of her supper. Terrified, she began to scream.
The man in black leapt.
She had never seen anyone move so swiftly. His movements were sure and quick, almost graceful. Before Josey could get the scream out of her chest, he had seized her with one arm and clapped a gloved hand over her mouth, bruising her lips.
Josey stood rigid with terror, the taste of leather in her mouth. The killer's hands were strong, too strong for her to break their hold, but when he dragged her toward the bed, a will to resist bubbled up inside her. She shook and flailed, kicked with her feet. The man in black lifted her like she was a child and thrust her down on the firm mattress. He let go for an instant and she clawed to get away, but a heavy weight pushed her flat onto her stomach. The sound of ripping cloth presaged her hands being yanked behind her back and bound in strips of torn blanket, and the same for her ankles. A wad of cloth was forced between her teeth and tied behind her head. She lay on the bed, chest heaving, straining to hear a sign, a clue of what the killer intended next. Suddenly, the weight was gone from her back. She waited for something dire to happen.
'Now we can go,' the killer said.
Josey twisted her head around. Was he talking to her? She wasn't about to go anywhere with him! Yet the
