It wasn’t the first time one had asked him this. He usually ignored it, but sometimes, if he was in the mood for it, he’d answer, recounting the tale of his goddess, and his father’s story, which deserved to be told. When it was relevant, he’d mention the resistance and the threat they posed to his income.
He checked his pocket watch, then offered the girl a small smile. There was still some time before he was to meet with his client, and there were experiments to be done before he removed her heart—he’d never waste the opportunity for research. So, he’d gladly explain what it was she was dying for while he worked.
The girl’s strength was a stubborn thing, refusing to yield even under the relentless assault of tests and procedures. Her heart was still beating, pumping corrupted blood through her veins, the pulsation of her carotid artery faintly visible beneath the soft skin of her neck.
Her eyelids drooped loosely over hollow eye sockets. He had just finished the corneal examinations, meticulously dissecting each one. He’d also conducted analyses of small bone tissue samples. But he’d found nothing new. No information he didn’t already know.
Ashcroft removed a glove to check his pocket watch again. He was nearly out of time.
He breathed a weary sigh. What was it that made them different? Wielders possessed the same physiological characteristics as ordinary humans, and that irritating fact wore at his patience. Why could wielder bodies handle this substance that pumped through their veins while ordinary bodies had such adverse reactions? How could he make his elixir more stable?
Frustrated, he gathered the remnants of his research and added them to the incinerator before closing the door and slamming the latch back into place.
“You don’t have to do this,” Aine whispered, her voice a dry, rasping plea.
His grip tightened on the latch, and he stared silently at the flames through the small window. He had already explained to the girl why hedid, in fact, have to do this.
Aine was clever, but she didn’t seem to comprehend. They never did.
He crossed back to the operating table, then lifted the thin necklace over the girl’s head and set it neatly on the table. It was a cheap locket. Worthless. But he’d rather not have to dig it from the incinerator.
From the rolling cart, he grabbed the scalpel, ensuring a steady hand before its edge touched her skin. The blade sliced a swift path down her chest, and blood bloomed from the line.
A soft whimper escaped her lips, but the fight had finally drained away.
He could end their lives before removing the heart. It wouldn’t affect the elixir to grant them this mercy. But there was an anger inside him, a sharp yet quiet kind of resentment, and he allowed himself this one small indulgence. He let them feel every bit of pain as their lives slipped away. He enjoyed seeing it on their faces.
For Baellas and her exquisite creations, and for every human killed by Arunas’ foul imitations. For his father. For the life he could have had if his family hadn’t been torn apart.
He placed the scalpel on the table, and after peeling the skin and muscle aside for a clear view of her ribcage, he grabbed the surgical saw and cut through the sternum. It was a tiresome procedure done only to prevent damage to the heart. Once through, he lifted the ribcage open like a door on a hinge.
The girl had gone silent, but her heart still beat steadily in her chest cavity.
Ashcroft moved quickly, severing the blood vessels and watching as the heart stopped beating.
The elixir was the real reason he was here, and now that the heart was free, it was time to finish this.
“I already questioned the vendors last night,” Marlow said as they reached the night market. “As usual, they were ‘bout as helpful as a healer in a graveyard. But maybe someone’s heard something since.”
“I think you’re asking the wrong people.” Felix swiftly sidestepped to avoid a collision with a hunched man who seemed oblivious to his surroundings. When he rejoined Marlow, he flicked an irritated glare over his shoulder.
Head down, the man brushed past a distracted August before slamming into the shoulder of a red-haired woman, sending bundles of silks and velvets flying from her hands. He didn’t so much as flinch. The woman scolded him as she crouched to gather them, but the man pressed on, unfazed.
The way he moved, the complete lack of reaction—something about it felt profoundly unnatural. It made Felix’s skin crawl.
“Alright then, Felix. Tell me. WhoshouldI be asking?”
He turned his attention back to her and the matter at hand. “The ones privy to information beyond the scope of those you’ve already asked.”
She grimaced as she understood. “Why would the nobles give a damn about missing wielders?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t. But they’re quite fond of gossip.” He’d gathered his share of dark secrets spilled over drinks. Rumors blurted out behind closed doors. He had enough dirt to blackmail someone in nearly every noble house in Fallowmoor, should the need ever arise. People underestimated him; figured he could be easily silenced by lush promises or threats of violence before being sent on his way. “One of them must have heard something.”
He considered his options. August was a noble, or at least upper-class enough, but he was from out of town, and he didn’t seem like the gossiping type. Perhaps his cousin? Though the girl clearly didn’t like Felix much. Sarah would be a better option, but he dreaded opening that door again after so delicately sealing it shut.
He glanced back to check on August, who had veered toward a market stall. “Where is he going?”
“Would hate to lose your puppy,” grumbled Marlow, motioning for Felix to go after him.
