Page 4 of Fangs

He takes my hand, presses it to his lips, and leaves.

I return to the window. The sun comes up over the village I’ve always hated, and with it comes the reality that I’ll never see anything beyond these woods.

In the corner of my room, the shadows wait. I wonder if they will follow me to my new home.

The Bargain

Where is he?

My stomach twists into another tight, nauseating knot. The rusted clock on the mantle ticks too loudly, every strike a warning that scrapes against my nerves.

I can’t believe it. After seeing Joe Tallow he went straight back to the tavern instead of coming home?

It was supposed to be our last day together in this house—the only home I’ve ever known.

I don’t even know what to pack, or where he will live once we lose the cottage. His weak lungs will never endure the harsh conditions of working as a slave to that Order.

I press my forehead against the damp glass of the windowpane, straining to see through the gloom. The street below is empty save for the dark puddles that shiver under the wind. My chest aches with a toxic blend of terror and furious resentment. I’m so tired. Tired of counting pennies. Tired of scraping grease off cold soup bones. Tired of waiting for a man who trades our bread for another throw of the dice.

A metallic crack echoes from the front room. I jump, heart leaping into my throat. The heavy wooden bolt on the front door splinters violently inward.

I don’t even have time to scream before the door slams against the wall, hanging off its hinges. Three tall, heavy figures spill into the tiny entryway, shaking rain from dark, high-collared coats.

None of them is my father.

“Who are you?” I choke out, backing up until my spine hits the brick of the hearth. “Get out!”

The taller man in the center steps forward. He isn’t bundled in rags like the rest of our neighbors. His coat is fine dark wool, though his knuckles are scarred and wrapped in iron bandaging. He smells of rain, stale tobacco, and expensive wine.

“Lucille, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice smooth as oil poured over sharp stone. He doesn’t look at me like a person. He looks at me the way an appraiser looks at a pile of junk. “Where’s your father?”

“He’s not here.” I force my chin up even as my legs threaten to give out. My fingers frantically search the mantle behind my back and close around the cold iron handle of the coal shovel. “Leave now, or I’ll call the watch.”

The man pulls a heavy leather-bound book from inside his coat and flips it open with one hand. “Call them. They’ll tell you the same thing I am. As of midnight, your father owes ninety thousand sovereigns to the Order. He put up his signature, his property, and his freedom as collateral.”

The number hits me like a physical blow. Ninety thousand. We don’t even have nine.

“That’s impossible,” I breathe, knuckles turning white around the iron handle. “He doesn’t have that kind of money. You can’t take this house—it was my mother’s!”

“It’s ours now,” the man says simply. He nods to the two men behind him. “Clear the girl out. Throw her things in the street. We’re turning the old man over to the stone quarries to start working off the interest.”

“No!”

Before the first brute can reach me I swing the iron shovel with everything I have. It strikes him full in the chest with a heavy, sickening thud. He grunts and staggers back. I don’t wait. I swing again, catching the second man across the arm.

“Get out!” I scream, the rage finally snapping through the fear. “Get out of my house!”

“Grab her!” the leader snaps, his composure slipping into dark irritation.

I kick violently as the largest man lunges. My boot catches him square in the shin. He curses, but his arms close around me like iron bands, trapping my arms against my ribs. I twist, biting down on his wrist until I taste copper, but he doesn’t let go. He violently twists my arm back until the shovel clatters to the floorboards.

I’m shoved hard against the wall, the breath knocked entirely out of my lungs.

“Spirited,” the leader mutters, stepping closer and brushing a stray strand of wet hair from my face. I yank my head away, glaring at him with pure hatred.

He rubs his chin, evaluating me again.

Not as junk this time.