Shadow's Son (15 page)

"I missed you," she said. "What did you find out?"

Caim put the jar down. He wanted to drink more, to get completely
wrecked and forget these past couple days, but he needed all his wits
about him.

"Mathias is dead."

Kit rushed around to face him. Her fingers brushed across his hands
like faint cobwebs. "What happened?"

"Someone cut his heart out while he slept."

"Oh,
Caim!"

He poured out the whole story. Once he started talking, it all gushed
out of him, like pus from an infected wound. Afterward, he felt a little
better. The wine helped too.

"So are you going to listen to me now?" Kit sat cross-legged on the
kitchen table. "Will you leave Othir? Tonight?"

Caim let out a long sigh. He didn't feel like fighting, but he couldn't
walk away from this problem. It was too big, cut too close to the bone.

"I can't yet, Kit. Mat was a friend."

"What's the girl got to do with this?"

He tried to explain it to her, but he could tell by her rigid expression
that he might as well be talking to the table. Why, why, why, she asked,
until finally he collapsed in a chair, exhausted.

"I give up, Kit. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just chasing my tail,
but for as long as I can remember I've been running from something. I'm
tired of looking over my shoulder."

Kit set her hands on her tiny hips. "That's what I'm saying. A new
start, someplace where nobody knows-"

Before she could finish, a scream came from the bedroom, followed by
muffled pounding. Caim leapt across the room and swung open the door.
The old man's daughter was pulling frantically on the bindings that
secured the window. The feeling of dread returned as Caim stepped into
the room, so intense that he ducked his head between his shoulders. He
crossed the narrow room and pulled the girl away from the window. Her
screams sliced away the last remnants of his euphoria.

He dragged her out into the kitchen and wrestled her into the chair.
She started to rise again until he stood over her. Sucking in deep breaths,
she stared up at him with a sullen expression. Her eyes were red and
swollen, and her hands were clenched into tight fists. For a moment, he
thought she might try to attack him. The image in his head made him
smile. The girl glared with a hard set to her mouth. At least she had
stopped screaming.

Caim turned away and filled a kettle with tepid water from a jug. He
had thought the girl was pretty before, but unconscious she had been only
a distant presence, like the moon on a frigid winter night. Now, awake
and animate, she was even more breathtaking. He squeezed his right hand
into a fist until the fingernails cut into his palm. He had to keep his head
on straight. He was a hunted man. He had to play this smart.

With one eye on the girl, he lit the stove and put the kettle on to boil.
He had a feeling he was in for a long night. Maybe Kit was right. Maybe he
should have dumped this problem in an alley and left for greener pastures.
He shook his head. No, he was too stubborn, or too stupid, to give up that
easily. One thing he knew for sure. He wasn't letting this girl out of his sight
until he found out what was going on. He owed Mathias that much.

His hands tightened around the lid of the tea tin.

osey concentrated on her hands, clutched together in her lap. She
had always liked her hands. They were small-boned, with long,
tapering fingers. Her nails needed painting; the pink lacquer was flaking
off at the tips, but besides that, they were very nice hands.

The killer's hands, however, the hands that had murdered her father,
were wrapped in hard sinew. Tiny scars dotted his knuckles. One long cicatrix started on the back of his left hand and ran up into the cuff of his
shirtsleeve. She stared at it as he held out a cup to her.

"Take it," he said.

She grasped the round porcelain cup with both hands. It was deliciously warm. A pleasant green tea smell rose from the rim, but her
stomach quailed at the idea of ingesting anything given to her by this
beast. She let the cup rest in her lap.

He glanced at her temple. "Does that hurt?"

She shook her head to prove it didn't. His voice sounded different
than she expected, more normal.
He's not normal. He's a cold-blooded
murderer.

Her teeth clenched together so hard her jaws ached, but she knew if she
didn't keep them clenched she would start screaming again. Everything
about him repulsed her. His shoulders were too broad for his frame; his wrists
were thick and ropy with muscle. His face wasn't uncomely, but it had a
stoniness that made her think of the statues that decorated the walls of the
new cathedral. Although she considered herself a good, pious woman, the
sight of the immense edifice disturbed her, especially the stern faces of
the statuary, which didn't resemble the kindly saints of her imagination.
The killer had the same hard look about him. His chin was too sharp to be
handsome. It made him look sinister, like a fox out to pilfer unattended chicks. And his eyes. They were chips of granite, cold and impervious. She
looked away and tried not to think of his gaze upon her.

The apartment was modest, barely larger than her bathing chamber.
A shoddy table and the single chair in which she sat comprised the only
furniture. The boards were bare wood, but clean-swept. A thick mat sat
in the far corner. Leather bags hung on long cords from hooks set into the
ceiling. Were they some sort of crude torture device? Metal bars of various lengths leaned against the wall. The kitchen area was likewise spare,
with its antique coldbox and simple oven, some cupboards. Something
unexpected rested on the countertop, a book. She couldn't make out the
subject, but its illuminated pages were held open by the blade of a dagger.

A thought struck her from out of the blue.
He lives alone.
Strangely,
she wondered if he was lonely. Then, he turned to fetch a cup for himself
and she saw the huge knives strapped to his back. One of them had stolen
her father's life. In her imagination, she ripped the knives from their harness and plunged them into his neck.

"What's your name, girl?" he asked, startling her with his brusqueness.

"Who were you talking to before you grabbed me?" Josey congratulated herself on how steady her voice sounded. She started to lift the cup
to her lips, but then set it back in her lap.

"I was talking to no one."

"I heard you through the door. You were talking, but I didn't hear
anyone else."

"You and I are the only ones here."

She nodded to herself.
So he's either lying to me, or he's a madman who
talks to himself and kills defenseless old men.
Her fear was receding. In its
place rose a gush of burning anger from the pit of her belly.

"What do you want with me? If you're after a ransom, you ruined
your chances when you killed my father."

He watched her with his stony eyes. "The only people I killed were
the men intent on doing away with you."

"I saw you standing over him!" She couldn't stop shaking. The cup trembled in her hands. "I saw the blood and ... his chest. I saw everything!"

"Yes." He was remarkably calm in the face of her rage. "There was
blood and the old man was dead, but I didn't kill him. He was already
dead-"

"Liar!"

She threw the cup at him. He dodged faster than she had ever seen
anyone move. The cup shattered against a cabinet door, spattering hot tea
and pottery shards across the wall. She steeled herself for his rebuke, but
he stood there and sipped his tea.

"I had the contract on his life," he said. "And I would have killed him.
It was under false pretenses, but I suppose that matters little to you. Still,
I'm telling you the truth. Someone else had been there before me."

"Am I supposed to believe you?" The scorn in her voice made her feel
invincible. He could hurt her, even kill her, but he couldn't stop her from
speaking her mind. "Was there a whole legion of assassins waiting to kill
my father? He was a harmless old man, well loved and respected by
everyone."

"Not by the person who killed him, nor the client who hired me.
That's two fairly serious enemies. A bit much for a man loved by
everyone."

The dryness in his voice made her want to claw his eyes out. She
crossed her arms across her breasts. She didn't have to listen to this. Her
father was a good man. A great man! He had connections to the palace
and all the best families. Now he was gone. Moistness crept into her eyes
when she thought of how she wouldn't be able to attend his funeral.
Who will attend mine?

"You killed Markus, too," she blurted.

"Your servant? I never touched him. He's still alive for all I know."

"
Second Prefect
Markus, one of the Sacred Brothers you murdered when
you were abducting me. He was the betrothed of my dearest friend."

"Those tinmen were after you, not me. I saved your life by stopping
them."

"Markus would never hurt me. He was my friend, and you killed him
like he was nothing."

He regarded her for a long moment. Her stomach quavered. Was this
it? Was he going to kill her now?

Instead, he asked, "What's your name?"

"What does that matter?"

"I'd like to know."

She straightened her posture. "I am Josephine Frenig, daughter of Artur Frenig, seventeenth earl of Highavon. Now, what of you? What are
you called?"

"It makes no difference."

"What's fair for one is fair for both. Since you surely mean to murder
me, it should be of no consequence to you."

"Caim."

"Caim." She had to choose her words carefully. "If you have any shred
of decency, you will release me immediately, or at least allow me to write
a letter to my father's friends."

"And if I intend to murder you?"

Josey's tongue dried up in her mouth, but she forced her lips to work.
"Then be done with it, craven."

He shook his head. "I didn't take you just to kill you here."

"Then why? Why did you do it?"

He glanced at the wall over her head. He hesitated before saying, "It
all comes back to your father. I didn't kill him, but someone wanted him
dead. You must know someone who wished him ill, someone jealous of his
success."

"No."

"A business partner? Some lady's husband?"

"No!" she shouted, and then sat still, frightened by her own anger.
"He had no enemies. No lovers. Just me. He was a good and decent man."

"Decent men have plenty of enemies. I know." He started to pace back
and forth past the table. "What was your father's position?"

"He was the exarch of Navarre when I was a girl. Afterward, he
received the Golden Sword for his service and retired to a life of ease here
in Othir. He was a great man. Infinitely better than a lowborn killer."

If the comment stung, he gave no indication. "Yes. That could be. It
almost makes sense."

"What does?"

"Never mind. Was your father involved in any overseas ventures? Did
he belong to a social club?"

Josey remembered the nightmare of the people in funny robes
meeting in the basement of their house, but shunted the memory aside.

"I don't know. I don't think so. He spent most of his time in the
study, writing letters to old friends. Nothing to do with me."

Caim didn't seem to be listening, so she stopped talking and studied
him. Now that she had a better look at him, he didn't appear like she
imagined a killer would. He was strong, but not overly big or brutish. In
fact, his features were rather refined. He might have even been fetching if
put into proper clothes. When he turned to look at her, she quickly
glanced away, a shudder racing through her insides. He had a gaze like a
corpse.

"No," he said to the air over her head.

"What?"

"Nothing."

The man was clearly deranged. What would he do next? One thing
was sure. If she remained here much longer, she would never leave this
dingy apartment alive. There was a window behind her, but it was shuttered and locked like the one in the bedroom. Josey glanced at the door
across the room. It had to be the way out. There was a slide-lock holding
it shut, but if she could distract him long enough to work the bolt ...

"Do you want more tea?" he asked.

"Yes. Have you anything to eat? I'm famished."

He nodded with his back to her. "I might have some victuals about if
you're not too particular."

While he rummaged through a pinewood pantry painted with faded
flowers, Josey slid off her slippers. They were soft lamb's wool, but she
would move faster and more quietly in bare feet. As she watched his back,
something stirred in the shadows above his head. She froze as a long, sinuous shape emerged from the corner of the ceiling. Without a sound, it
glided down the wall. A violent shiver ran through Josey. It was the most
revolting thing she had ever seen, a serpent of pure blackness, and it was
headed straight for Caim. She almost called out a warning, but clamped
her lips shut.