refused to give it to me. I’ve been arguing with the man for the better part of an hour. He says that he was told to hand it specifically to you. I assume he was paid handsomely for his promise to make sure it was delivered appropriately.”
“It’s fine,” Lazarus said, holding up a hand as the man leaned forward, preparing to launch into an apology. Gulliver settled back, casting a concerned look his way, but thankfully he didn’t say more. “Did you do what I asked? The boy?”
Gulliver nodded. “I did, sir.”
“Good.”
Lazarus turned his gaze away, letting the carriage fall into silence as he watched the city’s passing scenery. Dumas was older; the buildings tall but worn, the streets cobbled and sinking. The people were old-fashioned as well, both in their clothes and their culture. But the girl … the girl was new. New to this city, he assumed, but perhaps not new to this country. Her voice had the briefest lilt to something foreign. If her features were anything to go by, he’d say she was a native N’skaran. How she’d ended up with Olivier and now in the Dark Masquerade … it puzzled him.
The coach lurched around a corner and came to a slow stop in front of the Iron Queen Inn and Tavern. Gulliver exited first, holding the door for him. Lazarus’ boot splashed into a small puddle as he stepped out of the carriage and towards the dwelling.
Inside the boisterous tavern almost all conversation stopped. He had a way of silencing a room without a word. With a harsh squeak of the innkeeper’s wide frame against the smooth wood of the bar, the short, rotund man made his way over to Lazarus.
“My lord,” the innkeeper began.
Lazarus didn’t let him continue. “You have a message for me,” he stated.
The innkeeper nodded profusely, reaching into his stained and frayed apron to produce a letter. Lazarus took it, and without a glance back at the innkeeper, walked off towards the stairs leaving Gulliver to hurry after him.
The Iron Queen Inn’s rooms left much to be desired. The windows were thin. The bed hardly long enough to fit a man of his size—not that he would be sleeping much in this place—and the noise below was a constant dull roar in the back of his mind.
After dismissing Gulliver for the night, Lazarus sat down and began to remove his boots. He leaned back in the wing-backed chair, reaching for the decanter of spirits he’d had delivered. Pouring himself a hefty serving, Lazarus lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, letting the burn of the alcohol slip down the back of his throat and he considered his options.
There was no doubt in his mind that the girl—Quinn—was the same girl that Olivier had wrote to him about. She had skin paler than the moon and eyes the color of ice crystals. He saw more brands adorning her body this evening than had been clear in the market earlier in the day. The marks of many masters, and yet none had tamed her. Something about that amused Lazarus, as if any human master could bring her to heel. No. It would take someone with a finer touch and a might of their own. Someone that she couldn’t strike down in a rage when her magic would get the better of her.
Quinn was something more than just a pretty face, though she tried to hide it. There was a darkness that didn’t simply cling to her, it came from her and she embraced it … to a certain extent.
Lazarus thought about the black opal around her neck. A cheap trinket crafted by those without magic of their own in an attempt to control the torrent that wreaked havoc inside her. It wouldn’t last her long if she lost control again.
He sipped his drink as thoughts of the woman in white held him.
A soft knock brought Lazarus to his feet. He closed the distance between his chair and the door in several long strides. One click of the latch and a twist of the handle and the wooden panel swung open.
“You called for m-me, sir?”
Lazarus stared down at the thin man that had been following the stage master all night, waiting in the wings. Lazarus nodded and stepped to the side, allowing the other man entrance. Caine’s gaze darted around the room before he hesitantly moved inside, his left leg dragging a bit behind him.
“Take a seat,” Lazarus said, gesturing towards the chair