He tugged a wicked, jagged knife from the band of his tattered trousers and brandished it. It glittered with malice. “Now, hand it over.”
Pausing, Dorian considered his reply—then decided not to reply at all. Quick as a snake, he shot out a hand, and grabbing the hand holding the knife, Dorian yanked and twisted the arm so far that the man’s elbow almost popped broken, and he fell to his knees screaming.
A movement behind him had him ducking under an overhand punch before spinning to face the next attack, and dropping quickly, swept the man’s legs out from under him.
Grabbing the discarded knife, Dorian wielded it to defend himself and inflict as little pain as possible, but when it was clear they would kill him, the need for survival spurred Dorian forward.
He jumped back when the second man swung a machete in a wide arc, and the jagged point caught the edge of Dorian’s thin coat. Pain lanced up his nerves and blood stained a long line down his arm, but he hardly felt it as the vital energy pulsing through his body blocked the pain.
The third man wavered and, gazing at his two accomplices, shook his head once, then twice, before turning tail and darting away.
Through the ringing in his ears, Dorian sucked in a breath and clutched at his arm, wincing.
A figure separated from the shadows.
A huge man, bearded and menacing, made a beckoning movement. “Ye’ll need stitches with that, lad.”
Paralyzed, Dorian snapped, “Who are you?”
“I go by…Sterling,” the man muttered. “And you are a strong one, aren’t ye? Any other lily-livered lump would have dropped his coins and run, but not you. Unlike the others, you are willfully daft. But… also courageous. You don’t last long in this world if you aren’t.”
Straightening, Dorian asked, “Last… in what?”
“The job I am about to offer you,” Sterling said darkly. “One that will change your life. See, boy, I sense something in you, something dark and scalding, rippling to break free. You fought those men without the faintest plan to save your own skin.”
“You are wrong,” Dorian growled, “I did it solely for that.”
“Oh, look at that,” Sterling laughed oddly. “You have a heart. You could have easily killed two of them, but you didn’t. All the more reason why I want to take you under my wing. Even with that foolish moral code, you would do better than the cold-hearted blackguards who litter these streets like rats.”
Dorian furrowed his brows. “What do you want from me?”
“Right now? Only to get you stitched up. But after that, I am giving you the chance to reap all they have stolen from you,”Sterling replied. “If you stand by me, you become a name they shall whisper of in darkness. You will survive, and one day, you will make them all pay.”
The offer felt too good to be true, but thinking of his father in a cot, barely surviving on a dram of laudanum, and only when Dorian could afford it, instead of the full care he should be getting, rankled him. Not to mention knowing his thieving uncle was out there flaunting stolen wealth.
Dorian promised inwardly to get justice for himself and his father.
He squared his shoulders. “When do I start?”
“Let’s get you stitched up and then we can talk,” Sterling murmured. “I’d imagine you’d want to take care of your old man too.”
Frowning, Dorian asked, “How do you know about that?”
“This is your first lesson, boy,” Sterling chuckled, “When you aim to be the lord of the streets, you’d best know everyone in them.”
The weak rays of dawn led Dorian down the overgrown lane and took him to a small cottage, seemingly abandoned, as its garden was overgrown and there were no signs of inhabitation. Somebushes had grown so mighty that their roots protruded into the path, so he stepped onto the stretch of lawn and walked as silently as a cat.
Pushing at the door, he stopped in the kitchen to rest the fruit down, then went to the back room and found his father still abed. The man, barely three-and-fifty, looked near death’s door.
The pale, peppery spots on his cheeks, his thinning hair, and deep lines down his face, all made the fearsome, imperious Duke of Wolfthorne a far cry from who he once was.
“Father,” Dorian said quietly as he stoked the fire. “Are you awake?”
No sign came from the older man, but his chest rose and fell evenly, telling Dorian that he was alive.
Lips pressed tight, he left the room and went to the kitchen to warm up the last of the stew on the fire pit. He did not want to leave his father before he ate something, but Dorian needed to work that night.
For the last year since his father had lost his fortune and station—stolen, it was stolen, Dorian reminded himself—he’d hired himself out to be one of the sweep’s ‘apprentices’ as a climbing boy and had begun to live a nightmare of coal and dust.
