Page 84 of Ashen Torment

Make it disappear.

Yet the instant my servants touched it to carry it away, something inside me snapped.

I nearly broke their arms.

“Neither have I,” he mutters, tracing the edge of the window with his forefinger, “I did nothing but reflect on what will happen today. Perhaps we will get some clarification or one more piece of information.”

“Dа.” The word comes out of me rough, almost a grunt.

He stretches his foot and brushes my boots.

“We’ll make him tell us everything he knows.”

“I seem to hear a threat in your voice. That’s not like you.”

“Strange hearing that from you.”

I settle into the seat without deigning the remark an answer.

The carriage slows, jolts once, then stops. Before us stands a warehouse of dark planks, barred windows, and a stench of rotting fish that invades the nostrils even before stepping down.

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you certain he is here?”

“Yes.” He fixes his collar. “It’s the place where Gideon Hale traffics in his most... murky affairs.”

I set foot on the ground. The air is biting, our breath leaves our mouths like smoke. In front of the warehouse stand a few men: broad shoulders, frayed jackets, hands stained with God knows what. They watch us without daring too much, but the hostility is palpable. Further off, motionless, a tall and massive man awaits us.

“Mr. Hale,” Lucien announces, placing his hands behind his back.

Hale spits on the ground, then approaches with a heavy step.

“I wonder what the Ashfords could possibly want from me.”

I’m already tired of the tone.

“You worked for our father,” I say, my voice cut by the cold and a patience now worn thin.

He sizes me up, then looks at Lucien. “For a short time.”

“We want to know about the Blackford contract,” my brother says, as composed as he is obstinate.

Something snaps in his gaze. Rage mounts from his neck to his temples.

“Contract...” he hisses through his teeth, “...you mean the scam.”

He gives a blunt nod to his men. One opens the warehouse door, Hale steps aside slightly, signaling us to follow him inside.

The smell of mold and rotten wood hits me as soon as I cross the threshold. The wooden chairs look on the verge of collapse, a table overflows with yellowed papers and piled files. Hale seats himself slowly, inviting us to sit with a nod, but we remain standing.

He smirks. “Such delicacy.”

Lucien cuts straight to the point. “The contract—”

Hale shrugs with indifference. “It happened many years ago—”

“Sixteen years ago,” I correct him.

“And why does it matter to you now?”