Page 18 of Immortal Rose

My brow furrowed. He can’t mean . . .

“His name is Cecil Branson,” I said in a flat voice. “He’s a guard here at Fairgate.”

“And?” the man prompted.

Oh, God. He knew. He knew all of what I could do.

“Go on, tell ’im what a friend I’s been to ye,” Branson said, a warning glint in his eye. “How capable ol’ Branson is.”

I’d die for this. I’d be beaten within an inch of my life, and if I survived that, he’d make good on his earlier threat. But the way he was cajoling me, sweetening his tone to impress the rich gentleman, overwhelmed reason with revulsion.

“I assure you,” the stranger said to me, “this will be worth your while.”

I decided then that, if nothing else, I would enjoy this. If it was my last act in this accursed world, I would drag this monster to hell with me.

With a shudder, I forced myself to focus on Branson’s essence again, teasing out each sickly thread of it, until I feared I might truly vomit.

“He lives at the edge of Riverside, in the dwelling that overlooks Ravenwell Bridge,” I began, “where the men from the nearby market dump their unsold, rotting offerings.”

With the fire burning behind me, I must have looked like a terrible enchantress from the fairy tales. Branson turned wan as my words sank in. “Ye overheard one of the other guards speaking of it—”

“He waters his ale, either unable to pay for a full pint or unable to handle more,” I continued, clucking my tongue. “Shame, that.”

The stranger made a noise of amusement that pulled Branson’s outraged focus. “Will ye let the bitch speak to me in such a way?” he snarled.

“I think I will,” the stranger said. “I’m rather enjoying myself.”

“Mr. Branson stole the boots he’s wearing off someone he found near the taverns of Nine Veils,” I said. They smelled of expensive shaving soap, of the damp bricks of the old buildings. “Likely the stockings, too.”

His eyes bulged. “I’m no thief, you lyin’ cu—”

“Perhaps,” I interrupted, relishing my final bow, “but you are weeks away from death. Of that, I am certain.”

The guard’s jaw hung open. Even the stranger couldn’t completely mask his surprise. It was an unspeakable pleasure to finally crack that mask of arrogant nonchalance.

“Venia’s Curse, I’m afraid,” I said. The smell of his innards slowly wasting away—it was unmistakable. “It won’t be long until you start showing signs of the pox on your face, and then what will you do?”

The noise the guard made was inhuman, born of pure, unyielding rage. His face flooded with crimson as he raised his truncheon like a club and lunged. I threw my arms up to protect my head, curling in to brace for the fatal strike.

It never came.

I risked a look up through the curtain of my matted hair.

The stranger had caught Branson’s arm and held it aloft, the grip punishing enough for the guard to gasp and nearly drop the truncheon.

“If you attempt to strike this woman again,” he began in that velvety voice of his, “I will use that little stick to give you the most unholy thrashing of your existence, until not even God recognizes the bloody pulp of your remains. Do you understand me?”

Branson quivered, his face mottling with purple. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

“Do you,” the man repeated slowly, as if speaking to a small child, “understand me?”

“Y-yes,” Branson muttered, staggering as the other man forcibly released him.

“Good.” The stranger flicked his fingers in a way that reeked of titled nobility. “You may go.”

The guard panted, shaking. He obeyed—but not before sending me a look that promised murder, and worse.

Waiting for the door to slam shut, the stranger crossed back toward the fireplace, occupying the other chair. We sat side by side, separated only by a small tea table, facing opposite directions.