Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,48
giggling. The woman’s disheveled hair fell across her pudgy face still caked with day-old make-up. The man caught her by the arm, spun her toward him, and drew her in for a kiss, but she pushed him away, admonishing him with the shake of her finger.
“You got your money’s worth already,” she said playfully.
The man dipped his fingers into a pocket and pulled out a copper. The woman smiled and kissed him, took the copper and tucked it into her bodice.
Whores. No wonder the town’s women gave them up so easily—he didn’t have to spend a penny to get the information he needed to find them. Normally, when a one-eyed man in well-used armor asks questions, it takes money or threats to get an answer. The threats Suath didn’t mind handing out, but he didn’t like parting with his coin.
The man watched the dark-haired harlot disappear into the shack, waved good-bye as she entered. He stared at the closed door for a moment before spinning on his heel and striding toward the bush hiding Suath. The mercenary pounced, dagger opening the man’s throat before surprise registered. Blood spurted from the wound, thirstily absorbed by the dry dirt the same way the water had been.
Messy.
Suath chastised himself as he concealed the man’s corpse in the bush where he’d hidden. The door of the hut opened and the mercenary squatted by his victim. The dark-haired one came out and walked past, oblivious to the mercenary and her dead lover concealed in the brush, unaware of the bloody dirt sticking to the sole of her foot. She went to the well and retrieved some water then drew a cloth from her bodice and dipped it into the pail. She hiked up her dress and removed her undergarment. Suath stared at the patch of black hair between her legs, quelling the stirring he felt as she bathed her woman parts. No time for lust, this was the time to make his move.
The mercenary emerged silently, the dagger in his hand still dripping blood. She didn’t notice him until he was too near for her to react. The cloth dropped from her hand, her mouth opened.
“No sound.” He flashed the bloody blade before her eyes. “Or you’ll get what your boyfriend got.”
Tears came quickly to the woman’s eyes, the corners of her mouth pulled taut, but she did as he said and kept her tongue still. Suath pressed his blade against her throat, the keen edge drawing blood to trickle down her alabaster skin and blossom into a rose as it soaked into her lace bodice. The mercenary pushed her toward the door; she went without resistance.
“Open it,” he whispered. She did and they stepped into the dim interior. “Call your friends.”
He tightened his grip on her arm and felt her flinch. Tears ran down her pretty face and he fought the urge to lean close, lick them from her cheek. Nothing tasted so sweet as tears shed in fear. She opened her mouth, throat working against the knife held there, but no sound emerged. He squeezed again and she whimpered.
“Despina,” she called, voice cracking. “Aryann.”
No one answered.
“Again,” Suath growled. Her hair smelled of sweat and honeysuckle. He wanted to bury his nose in it.
“Despina. Aryann,” she called again, voice steadier but high and tight. “Can you please come here?”
The old one came first, wiping her hands on an apron strung about her waist.
“Leigha? Are you all right? You sound as though...”
Her words and steps halted as she saw the knife at the dark-haired one’s throat. The young blonde came after her, but the old one put out her arm, keeping her behind her.
“What’s happening?” the blonde asked.
“Don’t speak,” Suath commanded, his voice calm and even. No point inciting them, they would be panicking soon enough.
“What have you done, Leigha?” The old one remained composed in spite of the scene before her.
Not the first time she’s been threatened with a blade.
Grown men had pissed their pants at the sight of him, yet she kept calm. The old whore showed more balls than most. The pudgy one shook her head in answer to the question sending a fresh trickle of blood down her neck.
“What do you want?”
“The vial.”
The pretty one peered out from behind her grandmother’s broad back. “What does he mean?” she squeaked, tears flowing.
The old one’s gaze held steady on him as she answered, her voice still even and firm.