“I do not suppose I can talk you out of doing this again,” Mavis said quietly.
She twisted to face him, fire flickering in her belly. Looking into his eyes was almost like looking into a mirror. They were both of slight height, their hair was a matching shade of blonde, and their copper eyes were lined with gold. They greatly resembled their parents, but the world had ceased searching for them so long ago that it no longer mattered.
“The innocents who live in these godforsaken streets need to be protected.”
“Aye. But why do you need to be the one who protects them, Mar?” her brother asked.
A familiar question. And she always answered it the same. “Because I am the only one who can.”
Mariel left her brother to finish clearing up the tables while she changed into a pair of black trousers and a matching black tunic. She armed herself as best she could. Hidden daggers in the folds of her clothes. She pulled her long golden hair into a high bun and slid another tiny dagger into the strands.
And then she took to the mud-slick streets.
The night was deep and quiet. Both moons were obscured by a blanket of dark clouds, and shadows hugged every corner of the claustrophobic streets. In the far distance, the golden spires of Dalais Castle rose above the dilapidated buildings of Drunkard’s Pit. Up there, the nobles swished through their magnificent hallways, drenched in luxury. Down in the depths of the slums, innocents were murdered for pocket change.
Mariel had once been a high fae, second in line to the throne. When the war had begun, she’d been forced to flee and hide amongst the commoners. The Selkirks had stolen the crown, killing every member of her family. They’d pulled it off by slowly getting their own spies inside the castle. And then they’d signalled the attack at a feast by placing a severed boar’s head in front of Mariel’s father’s seat. For a long time, Mariel had kept her head down, doing nothing more than existing amongst strangers, dying her hair brown. But she had been quiet long enough. The real Mariel had roared to life several years ago. If her mission to clean up these streets ended with her head on a pike, then so be it.
Mariel kept to the shadows as she edged down the street toward the sagging house at the nearest corner. The murderer was none other than the local smithy, a male called Dwynn. Mariel knew the lad well. She had bought from him. She had traded wine for steel. A pang went through her heart at the thought of what she must do, but she would not back down from the challenge, regardless of who he was.
The most dangerous criminals were the ones she thought she knew. They existed quietly, lulling everyone around them into a false sense of security. This would not be the first familiar face she saw in the dark night. And, as much as it pained her to admit, she knew it would not be the last.
As she inched closer to the smithy’s door, a shadowy figure whispered out into the streets. Instantly, she went still. The form was large and muscular and drenched in black garb. Thick hands twisted into fists by his side. Mariel’s heart thumped. It was the smithy.
He strode down the street, his boots sinking into the mud, and Mariel quickly followed after. When he came to a bend, he swerved to the left. Then, he suddenly stopped, cocked his head, and twisted toward her. She minced into the shadows of the building to her left, but it was too late.
“Someone is there,” he said quietly, bright green eyes flashing in the dark. “Show yourself.”
Mariel stepped out of the shadows.
The smithy did not look the slightest bit surprised. “So, it is true then. You work for the Bloody Dagger, the vigilante.”
“That is not what I would call myself,” she said simply, focusing on his dark tunic, searching for a weapon. So far, she could see none, but that did not mean he held no steel. It could be hidden elsewhere on his body just as hers was. “Although it must be true what I have heard about you. You prowl the streets at night, seeking easy prey. I have to admit I am surprised, Dwynn. I thought better of you. Your smithy runs well. Is thieving for airgead coins really necessary?”
“You do not know of what you speak.”
“No?” She arched her brows. “Then it was not you who murdered a boy on Scarp Street several evenings past and stole the contents of his pouch?”
Dwynn sneered. “I admit to killing the boy, but I am no thief.”
Mariel blinked, staring at the smithy. “You did not wish to steal his airgead? Then, why did you kill him?”
“Ask the High King,” he said with a laugh, and then turned to stride away from her.
Confusion rippled through her. “Ask the king? What in the name of the Dagda does Sloane have to do with your murdering?”
He continued to walk with his back facing Mariel, clearly unconcerned about what she might do. “Like I said, ask the High King.”
She narrowed her eyes, and a dagger flashed into her hands. “You will not get away with murder that easily, Dwynn. Do not underestimate me.”
Dwynn stopped and twisted toward her. He shook his head. “You do not want to do this, Mariel. Who will supply you with your endless stream of blades if not for me? Most smiths will not trade. Others will require coin. Coin you do not have.”
“Perhaps not,” she shot back. “But I will not stand idly by while the innocents of Drunkard’s Pit are murdered, in the High King’s name or not.”
“You risk committing treason?” he asked, lifting his brows.
“My mere existence is treason.” She hissed the words and stalked toward him. Whipping another dagger from her waistband, she shook off the sheath.
“Mariel…” Dwynn’s eyes widened and he took a step back, as if he truly had not expected her attack. That was how she always got them. No one ever suspected the quiet, kindly tavern owner with curvy hips. Her infamy only extended so far. Many knew they could find the Bloody Dagger by speaking to her, but they did not truly believe she was the one who stabbed in the night. She was merely the go-between. The real wielder of vengeance had to be someone else, they always thought. Someone larger and stronger than she.
