Ruler of Scoundrels (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 2)

by Carrie Summers

  “Are you okay, Glint?”

  “I lost two more people, Myrrh. No explanation. No threats ahead of time. One was found sitting in a darkened booth in a basement tavern. The other never got out of the cot he rented in a Crafter’s District bunkhouse.”

  “Did I know them?”

  He shakes his head. “I have no answers as to who or what is doing this, and I have to be away in the coming days. Emmerst plans to put a vote before the council declaring my father dead or otherwise gone for good. If it passes, I’ll need every waking moment to secure that official council appointment so I can press for selecting a Maire who won’t ruin the city.”

  Myrrh thinks of the responsibility she feels for her syndicate and everyone in Rat Town. She knows Glint views his people the same way. No wonder he’s upset at the thought of abandoning them at a time like this.

  “Do you have someone to help run things while you’re away yet?”

  “I’m trying to teach Resh. He’s the most levelheaded among my leadership.”

  Myrrh nods. The big bald thief was her most stalwart advocate when the others in Glint’s inner circle argued against accepting her.

  “I’m so sorry about your people,” she says. “Speaking of the murders, I did remember one other thing.”

  She pulls out the trinket from Cobalt’s shack and drops it into his open palm. Glint pinches the metal charm between his thumbs and index fingertips and rotates it to examine it from all sides.

  “It was tacked over Cobalt’s door.”

  “I’ve never seen this symbol. Or maybe…” He hesitates then shakes his head. “It’s almost as if I should remember it, but I just can’t place it. Probably my imagination.”

  Myrrh shrugs. “I’ve definitely never seen it before.”

  He lets his hand flop back onto the bed, the charm loosely curled in his fingers.

  “Maybe it would be worth checking the scenes where the others were killed,” she says.

  Glint sighs and brings his other arm up so his forearm covers his eyes. “I’m tired, Myrrh.”

  Myrrh isn’t sure what to say. She’s never seen him like this. She moves closer, uncurls his fingers, and plucks out the charm. The metal is warm from his skin, and it clicks when she sets it on the nightstand.

  As she starts to recline into the chair again, he snatches her wrist. With a gentle tug, he pulls her close. She takes an awkward perch on the edge of the bed.

  Glint moves the arm off his forehead. His eyes are pained, his brow steepled as he looks at her.

  “I don’t know how to stop the deaths. I don’t even know where to start. What if the killer comes for you? I can’t stand the thought of someone finding you dead in this room.”

  “My guards go everywhere with me.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not enough. No one sees the killer. We have no notion of his methods.”

  “It has to be enough. We can’t do anything else until we have a lead.”

  Suddenly, he grabs her arms and draws her closer. She squeaks as she scrabbles a foot forward to keep from falling onto him. Glint pulls harder, threading an arm around her back until her torso is pressed against him. Her spine uncomfortably contorted, Myrrh rotates her hips and gets her legs up on the bed. She tries to push up on hands and knees to put some space between them.

  Glint’s arms are steel. Desperate. He clings to her as if she’s the only thing keeping him from falling. As Myrrh finally manages to get an elbow down, pressing her torso away from his chest, Glint’s fingers slide into her hair.

  She swallows, sure he intends to pull her head down and kiss her. Her impulse to resist weakens, but then he suddenly shifts, holding her tight as he rolls atop her.

  Looking down at her, Glint’s trembling, his breath shallow.

  “We could leave,” he says, voice rough. “Sail away together. Leave all this behind.”

  “You’re drunk,” she whispers.

  His lips touch hers, gentle for a heartbeat, and then crushing. His body shakes as he exhales, hot breath on her cheek.

  Myrrh’s belly is on fire, her nose full of the scent of sandalwood. He tastes of the rich oak and deep raspberry notes in the port. Every inch of him presses against her.

  Myrrh aches to give in, but he’s not himself. It can’t be like this.

  She lays her hands against his cheeks, feels a hint of stubble on her palms. Gently, she raises his head. His teeth graze her lower lip as his mouth leaves hers, leaving her lips cold and wanting.

  She can feel his heart thudding. His pupils are so wide they’ve nearly swallowed his irises.

  Ever so slowly, the deep vulnerability in his face hardens. Glint’s fingers untangle from her hair. As he first props himself on his elbows, then rolls off her, his expression is achingly melancholy.

  Myrrh shivers in the sudden absence of his body.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I lost control.”

  “It’s the liquor. It makes you impulsive.”

  His eyes pierce as he rolls his head to look at her. “You could have a couple glasses. Forget about your responsibilities for a few hours.”

  For a moment, she yearns to do just that. Then she shakes her head. “My council is gone. It’s only me holding Ghost syndicate together now. And I have to be ready to track down Noble the moment he pops up.”

  He shakes his head sadly. “So serious and dedicated.” She notices he’s slurring a little bit.

  “People will get hurt if I don’t do my job.”

  “You really need to take some lessons in hedonism from the city’s other crime bosses.”

  She sighs. “Maybe someday.”

  He snorts and looks away. “Right.”

  She wants to argue that she does know how to relax and have fun and that it’s not always about responsibility and burdens for her. For a moment, she wants to snatch up the glass of port and chug it just to prove her point. It would be nice to let go for a few hours, and a few drinks would provide a good excuse for selfish choices.

  But then she thinks of Hetty Rikson and the dull look that still sits in her eyes. As often happens, the image of the adolescent boy who died during her barge heist flashes through her thoughts. Her choices have real consequences, and she can’t pretend otherwise, even for a few hours.

  She lays a gentle hand on Glint’s cheek. His eyelids are looking heavy now, and she doubts it will be long before he passes out. For all she knows, he won’t remember much of this tomorrow.

  “You shouldn’t travel home alone, especially not in your condition,” she says. “The city’s too dangerous this time of night.”

  His words come slowly, mumbled from the edge of sleep. “Are you offering to share your bed?” A half smile curls the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m offering one of our spare rooms. And a pitcher of water to help with tomorrow’s headache.”

  His eyelids finally sink shut. “Well, a man can always hope.”

  With some difficulty, she manages to get him upright. With mostly closed eyes, he shuffles beside her, arm draped over her shoulder. Myrrh pulls the door open and recruits help from the sentry at the end of the hall. To the man’s credit, he asks no questions as they half-carry Glint to an empty room and lay him down.

  Myrrh casts a last glance at Glint’s sleeping form before she shuts the door and heads to bed.

  He leaves before she wakes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  LATE AT NIGHT a couple days later, a commotion downstairs rouses Myrrh. She’s on her feet and strapping on her sword belt within moments. Graves, the upstairs sentry for the night, raps on her door.

  “We have word that one of the Whites has surfaced. A guy named Hemlock and three goons turned up for drinks at the Oaken Keg. The brewmaster sent his apprentices to tell us.”

  Myrrh yanks her door open so they can speak better. “Send word to Warrell. Tell him I need the squad he put together.”

  Graves nods and disappears
. As Myrrh secures her hair in a tight braid, the downstairs door opens and slams shut, letting her know that someone has hurried off to do her bidding.

  She closes the door to her room then pulls open a hidden drawer in the back of her nightstand. The three packets of etch and the brazier are tucked into the far corner. She grabs a packet and the burner, then restores the nightstand to its position against the wall.

  Careful not to spill, she taps the crushed leaf into a little pile in the small brass container. As she lowers a candle flame to the herb, she listens for more noise from downstairs, but the safe house residents and guards seem to hold their collective breath. No doubt some want to ask what’s going on, but she sees no benefit in spreading word of her plans. Though she doubts Noble has sympathizers inside Ghost syndicate—they’d have to be pretty stupid not to realize how much better their situation is now than it was under Slivers—there’s no point in taking chances.

  As the edges of the dried leaf bits start to smolder, she pulls the candle away and leans down to inhale. Like before, the smoke burns her throat and lungs. But the brazier is gentler, the smoke cooler. She waits for a moment before exhaling and intaking another lungful of the smoke. After three more breaths, etchings seem to spring from the walls and floor, the room suddenly full of the ghosts of others’ passages.

  Myrrh quickly fits a tight lid over the burner to snuff the flame, then steps into the hall. Inundated with the sensory deluge from the etchings, she props a shoulder against the doorjamb to gather herself.

  Once she no longer feels overwhelmed, she stands tall and strides down the stairs.

  Myrrh stops short when she glances at Nab’s room. She feels as if an icy fist has just pummeled her in the gut.

  Last time she used etch, the echoes of the boy’s presence were a thick fog around his bedchamber. Now she sees only a hint of his presence. If that. Stomach vaulting into her throat, she races across the floor and throws the door open. At the last instant, terrified she’ll be greeted by his skinny body lying dead upon the sheets, she has to quell the impulse to flee instead of look.

  It’s a small relief to see that the room is empty, the bed unmade. But there’s no sign of his trail anywhere within.

  Just because he’s not here doesn’t mean he’s okay. Or alive. Myrrh’s heart thrashes inside her chest. Why didn’t she pay more attention? She hasn’t seen him in days, and all she thought to do was ask casually now and again if anyone had seen him.

  Oh, sixes. If the killer preying on the city’s thieves has snared Nab, she’ll never forgive herself.

  “Mistress?” Graves asks. He opens his mouth to continue but then comprehension dawns.

  “I’ll send people to search for him right away, Mistress,” he says.

  Myrrh closes her eyes to stop the world from spinning, then presses her fingers to her temples.

  Her whole soul aches as she speaks her next words. “It will be light in a few hours. We can start searching then. For now, if Noble’s people are out in force, we can’t afford to make ourselves vulnerable.”

  Graves shuffles back and forth as if trying to decide whether to try to comfort her. After a moment, he seems to think better of it and clears his throat. “I’ll start organizing for a dawn search then.”

  As Myrrh shuffles back into the main room, her eyes drift to the top of Nab’s door frame. Her blood turns frigid.

  Tacked to the wood is a charm, a diamond pierced by crossed daggers.

  Her knees buckle. Graves just barely manages to catch her before she falls. Black flickers at the edges of her vision while she tries to get herself under control.

  “I just need to sit for a moment,” she finally manages to say.

  ***

  Time seems to move in fits and starts while she waits for Warrell and his squad of fighters to arrive. She feels the stares of the brewer’s apprentices and hears the nervous shuffling of her thieves, but she can’t bring herself to care if they’re bothered by her behavior. If they feel she’s unfit to lead because she’s breathless at the thought that Nab might be dead, let them find someone else to bind the syndicate together.

  At some point, Piebald slips into the kitchen and returns with a sliced apple. She doesn’t look up when he sets the plate on the end table beside her. A distant part of her knows she needs energy to take on the night’s tasks, and absently, she picks up a slice and takes a bite. The taste doesn’t register. She feels as empty as a used whiskey flask.

  The knocks, three groups of three taps, startle the apprentices. Graves strides to the door and lifts the bar. Warrell steps inside wearing a hardened leather jerkin atop a mail tunic. A pair of short swords are sheathed at his hips. Behind him, she spots the shifting shadows of the crew he’s assembled for this job.

  Myrrh realizes her second bite of apple is still sitting on her tongue. With a shaky breath, she stands, chews and swallows the fruit. Her cloak is on the hook by the door. She motions to the brewers’ boys, who hurry over.

  “You’re safer if you stay here tonight. Take the spare room.”

  They share a glance but seem to think better of arguing.

  “What can you tell us about Hemlock and his people?” she asks.

  The taller of the two boys—the elder, if she were to guess—touches his brow. “They came well after midnight, Mistress. I was sweeping the hearth when they came in. The room got real quiet. Hemlock was obvious by his shining eyes, but the other three were just ordinary thugs.”

  He casts a nervous look at the men and women that lurk at the edges of the room, dark eyes shifting, blades loose in their sheaths. Maybe he’s wondering if they took offense at his choice of words.

  “No altercations?”

  “Pardon, Mistress?” His ears turn red at the tips, no doubt due to shame over not knowing the word.

  “They didn’t try to start a fight or anything?”

  He shakes his head quickly. “They headed straight to a table in the back corner. Francie was scared to death to go back there and take their orders, but they didn’t hassle her none. Just asked for mugs of ale. That’s when Reginald—he’s the bartender—that’s when he grabbed me and told me to wake Gerran and run here to fetch you. Said we had to go together to be safe.”

  “Did you check whether they were still there when you left?” Warrell asks, his low voice rumbling.

  The boy taps his fingers against his thumbs then quickly shakes his head. “Sorry, sire. Went straight out the back.”

  Warrell claps a hand on his shoulder, causing the boy to take a step to keep his balance. “Don’t worry lad. Just asking so we know what we’re walking into.”

  The big man casts a look at Myrrh. “Ready then?”

  She nods. The sooner Noble is dealt with, the better. And right now, her dagger needs someone to bite.

  Chapter Seventeen

  HEMLOCK IS STILL inside.

  All the way between the safe house and the Oaken Keg, Myrrh had a sinking feeling that he would have already left and she’d have used up a dose of etch for no reason.

  Well, not for no reason. She did discover that Nab is missing and quite possibly dead.

  But Hemlock’s still drinking, according to the thief she sent inside to ask. The bartender said to tell her he can’t make sense of it. The Slivers crew isn’t causing trouble, and they aren’t drinking all that fast either. They’re just sitting there like they’re waiting for something.

  Maybe they’re waiting for her.

  Taking a breath of the cool night air, she checks that her dagger is loose in its sheath. A glance at her squad of protectors shows alert men and women who are ready to defend her no matter the threat. Warrell meets her gaze with a stony stare, then nods.

  Including Myrrh, there are eight Ghost members in her crew. She sends two through the door ahead of her then steps into the tavern.

  At least a score of candle lanterns spill light through the room. The lamps decorate the tables and hang from
chains bolted to the ceiling. There weren’t so many last time Myrrh visited this particular tavern, so either the proprietor has lit them in honor of Hemlock’s appearance, or they’ve been burning extra candles since Noble became a threat. Either way, it’s easy to spot Hemlock among the crowd. He’s sitting with his back to the room, his face turned to the darkest corner in the tavern. A wide-brimmed hat sits low on his head.

  Myrrh catches the bartender’s eye as three more of her people enter behind her and fan out. The final two members of her squad remain outside, watching the exits in case Hemlock makes a sudden move.

  The bartender swipes a faded blue towel over the bar and gestures toward Hemlock with his chin. He’s obviously nervous; the muscles in his neck look like a barge’s anchor lines under the strain of a strong current. But he’s done well to keep the situation in the room under control. It’s less crowded than usual. No doubt, some patrons decided to head elsewhere after the Slivers crew arrived. But many people have returned to their drinks and conversations.

  When Myrrh starts walking toward Hemlock’s table, however, silence ripples outward from her in a wave.

  The White’s underlings track her movement, flat expressions betraying nothing. She meets their stares with a mask of her own, forming a mental image of their etchings so she can follow their trails if necessary. When she reaches the table, she circles around until she’s within Hemlock’s sight—putting her back to the wall at the same time. Her guards approach from various positions around the room, stopping when they form a protective wall between the table and the rest of the tavern. Their hands rest lightly on the pommels of their swords and daggers.

  “Hemlock,” she says as she sits.

  “Myrrh,” he returns.

  Aside from a brief introduction the night Myrrh abducted the Maire and left his palace open for Slivers to loot, she hasn’t spoken to the man. The storm drain where they were introduced was nearly pitch black; this is the first time she’s seen his features. She keeps her gaze on his face until she memorizes it, but the real purpose is to make sure she has a fix on his etching.