Prologue
Glasgow, Scotland
1788 AD
“Igave yea simple task t’ do and ye failed.”
The blow that took him to his knees was not a surprise, for he watched the hand fist and then felt the blow on his head. Freddie understood the rules of the street and knew who was the boss here. And he knew his own position, too. But that second punch, the one that landed him face-first against the slimy cobblestones, was unexpected. “Not once, but ’twa times.”
The taste of the mud and filth of the street never changed. It certainly never improved—no matter the amount of rain that washed down from the clouds—and, thank the Almighty for a small favor, it never got worse. As he spat out a mouthful and pushed up to his feet, Freddie wiped the back of his hand across his face to clear it away.
The tang of horse shite, cow dung, piss, and a mixture of discarded filthy, used water and refuse yet filled his mouth so he spat again. This one was aimed at the foot of the hulking yet stupid man who’d knocked him down the first two times. Old Baxter did the boss’s dirty work and now he raised his fists and took a step towards Freddie, as the man who ran the gang that controlled this part of the Glasgow streets, bawdy houses, and cutpurses stood in the shadows watching. Albert Sanders stared out of those dead black eyes and nodded. His cronies encircled Baxter and Freddie.
He’d seen this before. Hell, he’d done this before.
It would not end well for him.
“I amno’ a bairn-killer,” he said quietly.
It had taken Freddie the successful completion of hundreds and hundreds of sordid, questionable, illegal, dangerous acts on Sanders’ orders over the last five years since the man grabbed him off the street and took him in to discover he actually did have a limit.
And he’d reached it with this latest order.
A whispered order from Sanders stopped Old Baxter in place, but that gave Freddie no sense of comfort, for the glint of fury that filled the bigger man’s eyes screamed out the danger. He’d seen men lose control of their bodies and shite themselves when Old Baxter gave them that look. Freddie must still have some sense of self-protection within himself for he felt like doing just that right now. His stomach clenched and his mouth went dry.
“Ye are what I make ye to be, Freddie. Ye should not forget that,” Sanders said. “I think ye need a reminder of just who ye are and who ye work for.” He nodded at Old Baxter who clenched his fists as he moved one step closer. “If I tell ye to lift a purse or pilfer a house or a gent, ye do as yer told.”
Another step as tension grew around him. Not just tension, but excitement in those watching and waiting. Blood lust that smelled just like arousal filled the damp, close air around him.
“If I tell ye to bugger someone or be buggered, ye will be buggered.” Freddie tried to swallow but could not. Old Baxter took another step. “If I tell ye to kill anyone, ye kill them.”
The punisher was within an arm’s reach now and Freddie tried to prepare for what was coming. But he really could not. He’d seen the man’s work before and did not believe for a moment that he could withstand the pain coming his way.
“Take him down a peg, boys. Remind him of his place.”
His dogs unleashed, Sanders stepped away from the gang, as he usually did, to watch with his cold eyes.
Sometime later, the strangest thought occurred to Freddie as he lay face down again in the muck of the Glasgow street. Unable to see, his eyes swollen shut from the blows, he tried to lift his mouth out of the puddle where he’d landed. Certain that his nose, his jaw, several ribs, and his left arm were broken, the laugh that escaped him at the momentary realization sounded like the cackling of a raving lunatic. And mayhap he was out of his mind from the pain.
It was different now.
The taste of the sludge was different now.
Blood, his blood, had changed it. Another laugh turned into a gurgling choke as his mouth filled with it all.
And, on that dark night, as Freddie lay in the street, bleeding out from the vicious beating, he swore that no one would ever lay a hand on him again. That he would answer to no one. That he would be the one giving the orders. He would choose who to kill or bugger or steal from.
All he needed to do was to survive this. And to escape Sanders.
For that, Freddie Dubh would have to die.
And so he did just that.
Chapter One
Leith, Scotland
September 1815 AD
