were wrapped in hard sinew. Tiny scars dotted his knuckles. One long cicatrix started on the back of his left hand and ran up into the cuff of his shirtsleeve. She stared at it as he held out a cup to her.
"Take it," he said.
She grasped the round porcelain cup with both hands. It was deliciously warm. A pleasant green tea smell rose from the rim, but her stomach quailed at the idea of ingesting anything given to her by this beast. She let the cup rest in her lap.
He glanced at her temple. "Does that hurt?"
She shook her head to prove it didn't. His voice sounded different than she expected, more normal. He's not normal. He's a cold-blooded murderer.
Her teeth clenched together so hard her jaws ached, but she knew if she didn't keep them clenched she would start screaming again. Everything about him repulsed her. His shoulders were too broad for his frame; his wrists were thick and ropy with muscle. His face wasn't uncomely, but it had a stoniness that made her think of the statues that decorated the walls of the new cathedral. Although she considered herself a good, pious woman, the sight of the immense edifice disturbed her, especially the stern faces of the statuary, which didn't resemble the kindly saints of her imagination. The killer had the same hard look about him. His chin was too sharp to be handsome. It made him look sinister, like a fox out to pilfer unattended chicks. And his eyes. They were chips of granite, cold and impervious. She looked away and tried not to think of his gaze upon her.
The apartment was modest, barely larger than her bathing chamber. A shoddy table and the single chair in which she sat comprised the only furniture. The boards were bare wood, but clean-swept. A thick mat sat in the far corner. Leather bags hung on long cords from hooks set into the ceiling. Were they some sort of crude torture device? Metal bars of various lengths leaned against the wall. The kitchen area was likewise spare, with its antique coldbox and simple oven, some cupboards. Something unexpected rested on the countertop, a book. She couldn't make out the subject, but its illuminated pages were held open by the blade of a dagger.
A thought struck her from out of the blue. He lives alone. Strangely, she wondered if he was lonely. Then, he turned to fetch a cup for himself and she saw the huge knives strapped to his back. One of them had stolen her father's life. In her imagination, she ripped the knives from their harness and plunged them into his neck.
"What's your name, girl?" he asked, startling her with his brusqueness.
"Who were you talking to before you grabbed me?" Josey congratulated herself on how steady her voice sounded. She started to lift the cup to her lips, but then set it back in her lap.
"I was talking to no one."
"I heard you through the door. You were talking, but I didn't hear anyone else."
"You and I are the only ones here."
She nodded to herself. So he's either lying to me, or he's a madman who talks to himself and kills defenseless old men. Her fear was receding. In its place rose a gush of burning anger from the pit of her belly.
"What do you want with me? If you're after a ransom, you ruined your chances when you killed my father."
He watched her with his stony eyes. "The only people I killed were the men intent on doing away with you."
"I saw you standing over him!" She couldn't stop shaking. The cup trembled in her hands. "I saw the blood and ... his chest. I saw everything!"
"Yes." He was remarkably calm in the face of her rage. "There was blood and the old man was dead, but I didn't kill him. He was already dead-"
"Liar!"
She threw the cup at him. He dodged faster than she had ever seen anyone move. The cup shattered against a cabinet door, spattering hot tea and pottery shards across the wall. She steeled herself for his rebuke, but he stood there and sipped his tea.
"I had the contract on his life," he said. "And I would have killed him. It was under false pretenses, but I suppose that matters little to you. Still, I'm telling you the truth. Someone else had been there before me."
"Am I supposed to believe you?" The scorn in her voice made her feel invincible. He could hurt