With an elegant flourish, Thale takes off his top hat and puts it aside by the decanters. His hair is black and wavy, but has a white streak in front. Pulled back and tied with a black thong, his hawk-like features announce exactly what he is.
A man who rules by the fist and the firearm.
“Nothing will come of this,” he announces.
“So there is naught to worry over, is there. Meet my eyes.”
“You are the one dodging mine.”
“Are you saying you’re ready?”
With three long strides, he plants himself before me and bends down so that our faces are on the same level. In a derisive voice, he says, “Should I brace myself.”
“No, that’s what I must do.” I put my hand out to shake. “Have we a deal?”
“You’re a trusting sort.”
“Not at all. The working women here are very well cared for. They’re healthy, comfortable, and confident as they move around. Given your clientele, I know this is because you protect them so—”
“I am done talking. The time for games is over.”
Taking a deep breath, I shift my eyes up and meet his—
The gasp explodes out of me, and I go for my throat as I taste copper. Staggering to the side, I put my hand out as the air going down into my lungs bubbles through the blood that rushes out of the open slice running nearly from ear to ear. As I suddenly pitch forward, I head for where the decanters are, to the table. Slapping my hand down, the glass he drank out of goes flying and shatters as my fingers shove to the edge and seek a specific spot under the top.
Where there’s a hidden latch.
Still gagging and weaving, I free it, and a drawer shoots out from under. Without looking inside, my palm locks on some kind of grip and I pull out asilver pistol. Swinging the heavy weapon around, my legs splay out and I fall back against the table, the bottles rattling—
It’s the man with the beard. He’s standing over me, but what’s in his hand makes no sense. I guess it’s a knife, but it’s unlike any I’ve ever seen before. An icicle? Like the ones that form on the roof edge in winter?
Surely I’m not seeing this right—
The bearded man’s mouth is moving. He’s taunting me as I struggle to hold the pistol up. My strength is declining fast—the silver weapon drops from my grip, and I put both my hands back up to my throat. I look down. The diamond pin on the tie is a ruby now from my blood, which is puddling under me.
“You bastard,” I hear myself say in Thale’s voice.
The bearded man kicks the silver pistol out of the way. Then he straddles my legs—
I groan and try to put an arm up to defend myself. He slaps it away, and lifts his fist over his shoulder. The wound across the front of my throat is deep enough to be a mortal one, but the death occurs when the man plunges his arm down.
The pain is so sharp, but it doesn’t last.
Or rather, my inability to breathe becomes the only thing I know. I can’t draw a breath, and my lungs are burning so badly, I retch to try to clear the blood out of my mouth. The bubbling froth that erupts from my lips is hot, my skin feels cold, my chest goes numb.
The last thing I see, as my vision recedes to a pinpoint, is the man leaning down and plucking the blood-soaked diamond from my tie—
All at once, the vision is over.
The death is done.
I come back into my body, and have a moment of confusion as I realize I’m on the floor and there’s broken glass shimmering all around me.
Looking up, I expect to see Thale standing over me. He’s not.
He’s stumbling back from me, and when he bumps into the bed in the middle of the room, he lands in a bouncing sit.
His face is drawn into a mask, and he is pale as milk. “Get out. Get… the fuck out.”
