by Parker Foye
Tabitha had surely never been long-winded in her life. She allowed nothing to reach excess. Her oak desk had only a single chair, leaving guests to stand. Her beautifully carved bookshelves were empty. The window, overlooking York Shambles, had no curtain.
Tabitha herself was a tall bird of a woman, a corvid of some kind, with bright eyes and sombre dress. Kent first met her when the country had been in mourning for the late king, and it’d taken Kent months to realise Tabitha wore black out of habit and not for occasion. Kent had taken up the habit himself, to better hide bloodstains. He’d often wondered what Tabitha needed to disguise, sitting behind her bare desk, but Kent had spent his youth begging for scraps and his adulthood fighting for them and knew better than to ask how dirty someone’s hands could get.
Taking his usual place by the naked window, Kent leaned against the wall, needing the scrim of fresh air eking in through the window seams. Cloves made him sneeze, but they were the price of dealing with a warden as strong as Tabitha. He scratched his nose as he watched fingers of orange and pink light reach across the sky, waking the city. Some market holders were already arranging their stalls in the Shambles for the day’s trading. Beyond the Shambles, he could see the prison. He turned his back on it.
Tabitha had steepled her fingers together and rested her chin on her fingertips. Better to look down her nose at him.
“Your work at the river displayed your usual finesse, I hear.” Kent grunted an affirmation. Finesse. “I might have another job for you. How keen are you on removing that thing?” she asked, pointing to Kent’s collar.
He felt his face go blank, like one of the carvings on the cathedral. His heart hammered against his bones. Tabitha knew how badly Kent wanted the collar gone, as it had forced him to crawl to her desk in the first place. He swallowed.
“Job pays good?”
“Enough I could purchase the final ingredients for the casting, if you’re successful. And if you’re certain you still wish to pursue—”
“Will do it,” Kent interrupted. He’d taken a step closer to the desk without realising he’d moved, eager to get his agreement to Tabitha’s ears. At her raised eyebrows he retreated to the wall. He swallowed, throat moving against the collar, and cast his eyes down. Bad dog.
After a beat, long enough Kent risked glancing at Tabitha’s unreadable expression, she continued. “I’ve been approached to retrieve a lost item from the pack in the north and return it south. The pack guards their territory with fang and claw, and it is my understanding they’ve grown attached to this particular trinket, particularly in the wake of recent losses. You may have to meet strength with strength alike.”
Wading into pack business wouldn’t be Kent’s first choice, but at least he knew why Tabitha wanted him for the job. He raised his head, more confident. “Am your best fighter.”
“If ‘fighting’ is what you wish to call it,” Tabitha muttered. She withdrew a piece of paper from her desk and laid it facedown, her hand poised above it. She met Kent’s eyes. “Will you take the contract? You’ll be far from home.”
What could hold such value to justify reaching out to Tabitha? At her price? Because if she could afford to finally free Kent from the collar, her percentage should allow Tabitha to buy the city. Ingredients for castings were rare and expensive, as Kent discovered when he first researched getting the binding removed, and he’d all but given up by the time Tabitha started throwing scraps his way. Alone, he’d have spent his entire life researching magic and come up short. With Tabitha’s knowledge, and the money generated from working her contracts, they’d come close to setting Kent free in two years.
Those two years in Tabitha’s pockets had been long enough Kent had forgotten what fresh air tasted like. The contract offered a breeze on his face, a whisper in the unending dark.
Kent didn’t give a shit what the packs had or who wanted it. Kent would deliver.
He pushed away from the wall and stabbed a claw through the upper part of the paper, careful to make his point but not scratch Tabitha’s desk.
“I’ll do it,” he said. Tabitha released the paper, letting Kent slide it free, and leaned back in her chair as he studied the sketch. Bigger than he’d like. He grunted. “Tricky to move.”
Tabitha tilted her head in acknowledgement, more like a bird than ever. “If you are unable—”
“Didn’t say can’t. Can. Trains,” Kent said, aware he missed words, but Tabitha nodded in understanding. He’d spent a long time silent, after a longer time when his voice wasn’t heard no matter how loud he shouted, and unless he planned his words they eluded him. He made an effort to speak in a measured tone. “When does contract need completing?”
“Before the next full moon, for obvious reasons.”
Because the pack in the north were wolves, and Kent would stand no chance against them under the full moon. The previous full moon had been weeks ago, leaving less than a week to travel north, retrieve the “trinket,” and bring it to Tabitha. Tight, but he could do it. Would do it. Kent nodded, folding the paper and stashing it in his inside jacket pocket for safekeeping and later identification.
“Will be done.”
“Then I’ll reach out to my contacts in preparation for the casting. Take the wardings you need from the usual place downstairs.”
A thrill shot through Kent’s body at the thought he could soon be free of the hated collar. He clamped down on the anticipation. So much could go wrong. Hope was for idiots.
At the door, Kent paused and turned around. Tabitha hadn’t moved from her last position, watching him from under hooded eyes. He tapped the pocket where he’d stored the paper.
“Name?”
Tabitha pursed her lips and looked away, out the bare window. The sun cast her face in gold. “His name is Hadrian.”
Kent nodded and left the office, affecting ignorance when the scrawny kid twitched away from him. Kid didn’t matter. By the next full moon, Kent would have his collar removed, and he’d be able to walk among people without pulling stares like iron filings toward his freakish magnet. With his hair to cover his ears, and his hands in gloves, no one would know unless they looked twice. He’d lose the hated name. Finally bury the last scrap of a boy long dead.
He drummed his claws over his chest, where the pocket with the paper pressed against his heart. One good deed. One lost cub to bring home, and Kent would be free.
I’m coming for you, Hadrian.
Copyright © 2017 by Parker Foye
Acknowledgments
With grateful thanks to the team at Carina Press and my editor, Anne Scott. Thanks also to Laura for reading an early draft and giving valuable feedback, despite moving cities at the time! It takes a village.
Also available from Parker Foye and Carina Press
Wolf in King’s Clothing
Also available from Parker Foye
Beating the Bounds
Pastures New
About the Author
Parker Foye writes speculative-flavored romance under the QUILTBAG umbrella and believes in happily ever after, although sometimes their characters make achieving this difficult. Originally from the UK and currently based in Canada, Parker travels on a regular basis via planes, trains and an ever-growing library.
Website: ParkerFoye.com
Twitter: @ParkerFoye
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ISBN-13: 9781488084430
Ward & Weft
Copyright © 2017 by Parker Foye
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