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The man swallows once more.

“There we are.” I pat his cheek. “Progress.”

In the distance, I hear Edward’s voice rise, in anger. Good.

That means Olive has cornered him. I roll my eyes to myself. Finally. I glance toward the abandoned office where they disappeared, then back to my captive.

“Do you know,” I say, hauling the man to his feet, “I believe this may be a rather productive day.”

He stumbles beside me, stammering. “Where are you taking me?”

“To my handsome Alcott Afton,” I state.

The man fights against the rope I’ve found in the alleyway.

“No. Please no. No. No!” He begins to beg and shout.

I grin. “Oh, you have heard of him.”

His silence answers for him. How delightful. I drag him away from the alley, careful to avoid the scattered pears, onions, unconscious bodies, and one very judgmental chicken. Behind me, Edward and Olive remain undisturbed. For once, the world has been kind enough to allow two wounded people a private room and a terrible argument. I intend to keep it that way. Even if I must murder half the market to do so. Though preferably not. The paperwork would be dreadful.

21. Four Monsters and A Hostage - Edward

Kingdom of Cards

The barn smells of hay, blood, damp wood, and secrets paid for in sovereigns.

Lazarus Graves stands near the worktable with the pleased discomfort of a man who knows he has done something useful and irritating in equal measure. His coat is torn at one sleeve, his boots are muddy, and a smear of something I elect not to identify darkens his cheek. Alcott and Lazarus have already had their…“fun” with the captive. The hostage sits bound to a chair in the center of the barn. Alive. Unfortunately for him, that appears to be a temporary condition.

Alcott circles him with the delight of a child with a new toy. Olive stands opposite us, arms folded, face calm enough to frighten any sensible man.

She has not looked at Lazarus once. Lazarus, however, has looked at her approximately every six seconds. “Olive,” he says carefully, “before we begin, I would like to once more express my sincerest—”

“No,” she remarks coldly. His mouth closes. Such a rare miracle.

Olive’s gaze remains fixed on the prisoner. “You are not forgiven, Lazarus. Shut it.”

Lazarus presses one hand to his chest. “I understand, darling.”

“You took Jack.” Her icy words slide down my spine.

“I did.” He sounds like a puppy who was caught chewing a shoe.

“You took Lord Mire,” she hisses.

“Technically, Alcott and I assisted with Lord Mire.” His long, explanatory rambling halts as her eyes cut him like…well, like a sickle.

Lazarus clears his throat. “Yes. Poor wording, very poor wording.” His hands shoot out in a nervous gesture.

Alcott smiles from behind the prisoner’s chair, “I thought the wording was quite accurate.”

“Not now,” I mutter.

Olive’s attention shifts to me. A mistake, because every time her gaze lands on me, I feel as though my lungs forget their purpose.

“And you,” she says.

My spine straightens. “Me?”