Page 3 of Bought for Blood

In my cell, I sit on the cot and put my back against the wall between us, where the concrete holds a degree of her warmth. It doesn’t reach the cold in my feet, but I’ll take what I can get.

“Something special,” she says. “I heard.” Her voice comes through low, pitched under the hum of the lights, the way we’ve learned to talk.

“So did half the ward. He wasn’t quiet about it.”

“Hah.” It comes through the wall short and rough. “I’ve been promised ‘special’ before. By better liars than that dickhead.”

“How’d that go?”

“I’m still here.”

Still here. That’s supposed to be a comfort.

Down the aisle, Monday’s gloves snap twice. Another arm hits the table. The lights hum the same note they’ll hum all day.

“Yeah,” I say. “Still here.”

Boots start down the aisle, heavy, slow, stopping at doors instead of passing them. They pause at mine.

I don’t know what “special” means, but it won’t be good. Nothing good ever happens in here.

Chapter 2

Bastien

The wine is a 1947 Cheval Blanc, and it tastes like…wine. I set the glass on the arm of the chair and push to my feet.

The fire has burned to coals. I should add wood. Instead, I cross to the window and stand there, hands braced on the stone sill, looking down at the same lawns that were there the last time I bothered to look.

My shoulders are tight, have been for weeks. I roll them, feel the muscle pull across my back. A hunt would loosen it, but there hasn’t been one worth the trouble in longer than I care to count.

The house is quiet. Two floors down, Yves crosses the kitchen flagstones and stops near the pantry. The board by the door creaks the way it always does. Beyond the walls, just the trees.

My phone lights up on the side table behind me.

“Yes, Yves.”

“A visitor, my lord. He didn’t call ahead.”

“Name.”

“It is Monsieur Crowe, my lord.”

Three hours in this room, and I haven’t had a reason to leave it. I’m not looking for one.

“Send him away.”

I don’t go back to the chair. I stay at the window, one hand on the sill.

Footsteps in the hall outside. Voices. Yves objecting.

“His Lordship is not available, monsieur. I must insist…”

“He’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

The door opens behind me, and I don’t turn.

“Je vous demande pardon, mon seigneur. Il a insisté.” Yves is breathless.