Digger had buried the third murder victim. Had some fool drunk passed out on his cart? The air was getting stuffy. He felt a knot in his stomach and knew drinking the wine was a mistake. He got up and went outside. Someone had moved his cart closer to the rear entrance. And a man in a dark overcoat and yellow shirt was sprawled out facedown inside the cart.
“Hey! Up! Out of there!”
But when Digger placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, he felt something sticky. The man’s clothes were covered in blood. Digger turned him on his side to see his face. The lifeless head lolled to one side, the eyes and face locked in an expression of surprise. Pureblood. His throat had been cut. The body was still warm.
He pulled out a tarp and hurriedly covered the corpse just as a couple approached the back of the bar and vanished inside. The alley had too many shadows. Any number of people might be lurking now that the sun had set. Digger pushed the cart to the far end of the alley, his eyes searching. He saw no blood on the ground, but perhaps it lay in the other direction. There were more tourists coming that way and he didn’t want anyone else seeing the cart.
From above he spied movement.
A shadow on the rooftop had ducked away. Cat or bird, most likely, but he didn’t hesitate. Bounding into a back lot, he mounted exterior steps and climbed an overhang to a second-floor doorway. He reached the roof in moments but once he was up top there was no one there.
He went to the opposite side of the roof and paused to listen.
The activity at the Dragon and Rose was the loudest thing to hear until the evening bells of the distant church chimed, marking the call to evening service. He took a moment to scan the rooftops. Saw nothing. Perhaps it had been only a cat.
He sniffed the air. Diregloom smelled of woodsmoke.
As he climbed back down, he realized he had another body to bury. Contacting the sheriff or the city watch would only lead to trouble.
Monty would be okay with the crowd inside the bar. It was too late to do anything about it, not that his brother or Lady Sofia would let him clear the place. Whatever fixation the tourists had with the bar couldn’t last.
But why leave this new victim inside his cart?
The body was somehow a message to him and him alone. He wheeled his burden out onto the street and once again began the trek to the cemetery. He couldn’t ignore the sensation that he was being followed and watched. But he saw nothing every time he took a moment to steal a glance behind him or up at the tops of the homes and businesses lining the street.
Whoever had done this crime was not only taunting Digger but also flaunting his skill as a hunter. And until word got out that someone was murdering purebloods, this killer had free rein and would certainly strike again.
Chapter Eleven
THE SHOVEL LAY ON TOP of the corpse. Digger wanted it in reach in case any guards stopped him. That and the blood-soaked tarp should prove his credentials without having to suffer through an inspection. But it had been hard enough when there were still fel serving on the watch. No doubt with word spreading about the murders, the watch would be on edge.
Whoever this new dead pureblood was had to disappear, and Digger needed to get to the graveyard.
His mind kept turning over the same question. Why was he being targeted by the killer? Who would benefit from getting him arrested? The fact that both he and the cart were at the bar meant trouble was coming for all of them unless Digger did something.
The first two victims had been patrons at the Dragon and Rose. The third was just an opium pusher.
He had no idea who was in his cart now, but would learn what he could once he had a chance to examine the body. He had to cross the city first. Find a place in the cemetery. Without a notice from the city watch, he ran the risk of being asked questions by Xavier or his daughters. The daughters were more relaxed with their scrutiny and were easier to pay off, but he didn’t trust any of the three. The dead man would be missed. And questions would eventually make their way to East Hill Cemetery.
He avoided eye contact with the few pedestrians moving about on the street. Most did the same with him. It was one of the few blessings of his occupation. Digger found it interesting how many fel were out at night now that there was no curfew. It meant his kind made for even more convenient suspects.
The sheriff knew this. But Digger believed it would be dangerous to share anything with the lawman.
East Hill was swathed in fog. With the sounds of the slums behind him he heard nothing but the clack and crunch of the wheels as they rolled over stone and gravel. It didn’t escape his attention that while he was caring for the body, Monty was vulnerable. He consoled himself that Hellard and Isabel were also looking out for his brother, but both had their own affairs.
As the cemetery gates came into view a hooded figure appeared, walking his way. Digger veered off but the stranger kept coming straight at him. The figure’s shape looked off, and he swayed about like a stalk of grass in the wind, his head and shoulders shifting from side to side. The man was too tall, too thin, and his hands were in his pockets.
Digger stopped the cart. Gripped the shovel. “Stop right there.”
A small hand emerged from a fold in the cloak. The cloak parted below the hood and the sister with the eyepatch peered out.
Digger let go of the shovel. “I nearly clobbered you.”
She pressed a hand to her lips. “Follow.”
She ducked back inside the cloak and resumed her wavering gait. He pushed the cart after her. She was heading south along a rutted sandy lane that led away from the graveyard. Every moment the body was in the cart carried a chance of running into someone who would ask questions. He stopped the cart and caught up with her. Grabbed the cloak at her elbow and threw it off.
Both sisters were tucked underneath, the two-eyed sister riding piggyback on the other. They both hissed and scrambled to pull the cloak back over them, but Digger held onto it.
“Stop it. Tell me what you want.”
The two-eyed sister climbed off her sibling.
The one with the eyepatch grabbed the cloak and tried to pull Digger along. “Must hurry. They’re looking for you.”
“Who? Who is looking?”
“The sheriff and the watch, of course.”
“Why? What did they say?”
The two-eyed sister took Digger by the arm and likewise tried to get him to move. “Found something, the sheriff did, and was once again asking about you. Seems he’s expecting you at the cemetery.”
Digger returned to the cart and grasped the handles. When he glanced back at East Hill he saw the glow of lanterns beyond the gate.
One Eye beckoned. “Come, Digger, come.”
He followed the sisters. “I have a body here.”
The sister with the eyepatch gave Digger a grin. “Why else would Digger come to our hill at night?”
They led him down to a dirt lot near several cottages where a handful of fishermen lived with their families. Nets were laid out, as were bundles of ropes and an upside-down rowboat with a fresh coat of paint. A pair of dogs with pointy ears came racing up but neither barked as they sniffed the sisters. But they bristled as Digger approached. The closest dog started to growl.
The two-eyed sister gave Digger a reproaching glare.
“All right, easy there.” He reached into his pocket and produced two walnuts. He cracked them open and crouched and let both dogs eat from his palms. Then both canines fell in behind him as he took the cart and followed the sisters to the opposite side of a small barn.
Grass and acacia trees marked the edge of the cliffside. They were on the easternmost side of the island. Below were rocks and a few narrow beaches, poor sites for landing anything but the smallest of boats.
Digger checked the opposite corner of the barn and confirmed it was just the three of them. “What did the sheriff say?”
The two-eyed sister was petting one of the dogs. “He spoke with our father. Wanted to see the notices of the day. Had some of the bodies you
buried dug up. Was looking for something.”
“Did he say what?”
She shrugged. “The sheriff didn’t say. But he also wanted to know whether there were other unaccounted burials.”
“Are there?” Digger asked.
“We know how to keep secrets. Even yours.” She moved around the cart. “So what did you bring us?”
He pulled the tarp back to reveal the body. The bloodstains looked black in the moonlight and the young man’s skin was devoid of color. Digger went through his pockets and found a silver pocket watch. He offered it to the nearest sister.
“I’m out of coin. Will this buy your silence?”
The sister took it. “Pretty. But someone might come looking for such a prize.”
“Then you better sell it quickly.”
The watch vanished into a pocket.
Digger kept examining the body.
There were two wounds on the neck. The assailant had slashed twice with something quite sharp. The man’s left ring finger was missing, having been cut off. Was it just jewelry the murderer had taken, or something specific like a signet or wedding ring? Digger discovered nothing else of note, except for the fact the man wore nice clothes. Another minor nobleman from the mainland, no doubt. A tourist.
He needed to dispose of the body. But where? The island had few places where someone could be buried. The incinerator was guarded by its owner. Even if he could steal a rowboat, even weighed-down bodies had a way of bobbing back up to the surface to drift with the tides, which might take them anywhere. Plus a fishermen might snag him. He had to get out of there and take the body with him.
A final option sprang to mind. Hellard’s trolls.
Even as he pondered it he wasn’t sure if it would work. The troll he had encountered in the catacomb games had been starved and had still only gone after the contestants once they had fish guts all over them. Plus it meant taking the corpse back across town to the bar.
But at that moment he felt he had no choice.
Both sisters watched him with open curiosity.
He covered the body back up. “Were there any pickup notices? Will my absence tonight be missed?”
The one-eyed sister leered. “No notices. No pickups. Just your drop-off, which we presume will need to go elsewhere.”
“And what decision will poor Digger make?” the second sister asked.
“The less the two of you know, the better.”
He covered the body back up and took his cart along a trail that followed the southern edge of the island before cutting inland and down the broken streets between the oldest of the apartment houses. He couldn’t think of any other options besides the trolls.
He could only hope they had an appetite.
Chapter Twelve
THE AUDIENCE IN THE Palace Theater wasn’t throwing anything at Hellard now.
The fel who had struck him was lying flat on his back. The other two had stopped fighting each other and both were now facing him.
They spread out. Enough scenery cluttered the stage that neither could easily flank him. The one who had been practicing with the stick appeared more confident, so Hellard went for the other one. He caught the weapon as the fel attempted an overhand strike and twisted it out of his grip. He tossed the stick aside and smacked his opponent with the flat of his axe. He went prone. Hellard kicked him over.
The one with the stick came at him and cracked him across the shoulder. Hellard tried to backhand him, but missed. He tossed his axe at the stick wielder’s feet. The fel stumbled. Hellard charged and grabbed him, gripping his arm and throat and lifting him up.
“I’m going to eat you!”
He dropped the fel hard onto the stage and slammed the heel of his hand down next to his face. Then he rose and planted a foot on his chest and pumped his fists in triumph.
The audience thundered its approval.
Hellard gave a salute and moved to grab the bag of coins.
The men in front with the clipboards were taking furious notes and whispering with Red Eye.
The mock queen mounted the steps to the stage. “Bravo! Bravo! I think we have a feel for who among our monsters wants the prize the most. Let’s hear it for the ogre!”
The applause which followed was joined with a scattering of pennies that rained down around Hellard. He began to scoop them up. The prize coin purse held a dozen tencoins. With the pennies alone he’d have enough to float a hungry pair of trolls for a week and also pay for dinner. The silver was real money, and the possibility of finding a rental where he might hide his trolls was suddenly within his grasp.
“So ends our preliminary round,” the queen said.
Hellard looked at her and at his three battered opponents. “Preliminary?”
A pair of girls in skimpy outfits came traipsing down the auditorium aisle from the lobby. They wore lavish feathered headdresses and had trays around their necks. They began handing things out to the spectators. The men and women of the audience began to don sequined masks.
“What’s going on?” Hellard said. “I’m done for tonight.”
The mock queen kept up her broad smile and spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Work with me here. It’s not over.”
“Like hell it isn’t.”
He began to head past her towards the steps leading offstage.
“I wouldn’t do that. There’s at least three crossbows pointing at you right now. You stay put.”
“That’s not the deal.”
“Honey, this is show business. But look at it this way. If you make it through the rest of tonight, you’ll have enough to buy a real axe, a plus-sized bed, a better wardrobe, and season tickets to our theater. Right now, though, you’ll want to be a good boy and stay right where you are.”
Hellard squinted as he surveyed the dark spaces of the theater. Were there guards he hadn’t seen? With the bright lights it was hard to see clearly.
The theater girls were making new rounds throughout the crowd. They were handing out knives.
“You all know the rules of the contest,” the mock queen said. “Knives only and whatever you can find in the game area. If you’re only coming along to watch, please listen to our usher and stay behind the velvet rope as you head outside to the viewing area. And Red Eye has signaled that betting is now closed.”
Hellard took a slow step towards her. “What rules are you talking about?”
She raised a warning finger, then pointed up towards a chandelier. In the shadows of the rafters was a man holding a crossbow.
Hellard assessed the stage. It wasn’t much of a game area. But a score of men with knives would be trouble. He moved to pick up two of the dropped wooden swords. He didn’t know if the fel he had defeated were part of what was to come, but none of them were picking themselves up fast enough.
The mock queen clapped her hands. “To the main event!”
Stagehands pulled the scenery away and cleared a path to a back door leading off the stage, where twin lanterns with sparkling wheels threw reflective light everywhere. The door swung open. The rest of the stage fell into darkness.
“You want a story like a proper round of catacombs?” the mock queen said. “Save it for your kiddies and their beddy-bye time. This is a tale of survival. A hundred coins to the victor, be they monster or man. Let’s give our ogre friend, oh, let’s say the count of ten.”
He didn’t know what fate awaited the monsters on the floor, but he wanted off the stage. He didn’t relish the idea that he was in some poor man’s catacomb game, but for right now he had to play along until he could manage his escape.
He charged for the door as the mock queen’s countdown made it to seven.
Beyond lay a short stairway down, which led to a garden in a massive courtyard. Tiny candles burned everywhere. A narrow path forked before him, leading past potted trees and scarecrows made of sticks and straw.
“Six...five...four...”
He took a right turn and charged headlong but ran into a wa
ll of ropes. He pulled at them.
“Three...two...”
The ropes didn’t give. He considered climbing, even as he heard a cheer almost drown out the queen’s voice.
“One!”
They were coming. A parade of footsteps were already crossing the stage. The ropes were attached to a metal frame high above the courtyard. He followed the wall, knocking over a few plants as he went, until he discovered a new trail through the garden. He continued to make his way between rows of ferns and almost trod upon a spiked plate made of metal. He stepped over it and dismissed the idea of using it as a weapon. Too heavy.
The path looped back to a central clearing, where a high pole surrounded by a ring of stakes supported what turned out to be a rope cage over the courtyard.
“There he is!”
A group of audience members came running from the direction of the theater into the clearing. They paused. Hellard swished a wooden sword in front of him. No one wanted to be first, it seemed.
But then a woman with pigtails and a purple mask appeared holding a bow and a single arrow. “Look what I found! Move! Let me shoot!”
Hellard backed away to the cover of the plants. Taking a new trail, he hopped over another spike plate and reached an open circle of flagstones. More of the tiny trees were planted all around, the walls of foliage thick enough that he couldn’t see through them. From all sides he heard people coming his way. A few spectators were climbing the outside of the rope wall and were pointing down at Hellard.
“He’s down here!”
From the gloom, a masked man rushed Hellard and slashed at him with a knife. Hellard pivoted and blocked the blow, dropping the second wooden sword down on the man’s skull and knocking him to the floor. More knife wielders moved in, the woman with the bow leading one of the groups. She drew the bowstring, aimed, and fired.
Hellard grabbed the fallen man and raised him like a shield. The arrow struck him in the back and the man let out a muffled groan. Hellard threw him. His makeshift missile collided with the archer, knocking her down.
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