Page 18 of The Duplicity of Thieves

“Of course not,” I sigh.

We walk through the cobblestone streets. It never ceases to amaze me how there are always people roaming around. Crowds of them are going about their own business or socializing. Stafford’s pub in Asphodel is a mimic of the one back home. Ody’s sits just outside of the Remnant community and is the centerpiece to a hub of trendy shops and restaurants.

It’s busy, per usual, and we’re dressed too fancy not to draw attention. We squeeze between patrons and head to the back office. Stafford’s private workspace is exactly how one would imagine it. Burgundy walls filled with memorabilia. There are filing cabinets stacked with papers. Half of them look a century old.

“You should clean this place out.” I pick up a few pieces off the top of a dusty stack. “You can’t find shit.”

“Don’t touch that, lass.”

Staff strides over to a metal door locked with a bunch of security devices. It leads to a vault full of valuables either waiting to be transported or waiting to be sold on the black market, and money, of course. He types in codes and turns locks until it finally clicks, and he swings it open. Muffled shouts erupt.

Sometimes it holds captives.

“You’re a hoarder,” I call out behind him. “I’m going to hold an intervention.”

I lean casually in the doorway of the vault as Staff opens the secret wall in the back. He was busy earlier. I descend the stairs behind him into the basement. I’m welcomed by the scent of blood and fear. A man with a bag over his head is tied to a chair in the center of the room, surrounded by bright heat lamps. Staff pulls off the cover and pale green eyes beg me to let him go. That this is a mistake. Dirt cakes his face and is clumped in his purple hair. A oily red gag has been placed in his mouth, tied tightly at the back of his head.

“What’s this one in for?” I study the guy. Tribal tattoos that look like he did them himself cover his arms.

“Was braggin’ ‘bout a dagger. Matched the description of the one ya saw that night.”

The dagger that killed Kate and Killian. Revenge prowls around me, scratching up my legs and clawing into my soul. That dagger took everything from me. Stafford may not know the details of it all, but he knows enough to keep an eye out. He knows I want to get to the bottom of what happened even though I say I don’t.

“He was, was he?” I walk into the ring, rip the burlap sack from his head, and take the small knife Staff offers me. It’s covered in flaking blood and rust from past sessions. The man starts to protest, yanking at the ropes that are already making his wrists welt.

Staff leans against the wall, watching me with a smirk.

“You gonna jerk it?” I tease him.

“If you insist,” he snickers. “Watchin’ ya work is like seein’ Magic.”

I slide the knife down the man’s cheek. Tears streak themselves through the dirt and I slice the fabric gagging him, not-so-accidentally nicking the skin. Blood dribbles in the corner of his mouth and slides across his lips, coating his teeth with red.

“You’re the Rem Dog,” he whispers in terror.

I clutch my chest with dramatic excitement. “So you’ve heard of me?”

“Please,” the man whimpers. “Please. I have a family. What they say ain’t true. You got a heart. I know you do. I don’t know nothin’ about no dagger.”

I crouch in front of him, the knife poised over the rope securing his legs. “A family? Oh no, Staff, that can’t be. I can’t kill a man with a family,” I say with bewildered eyes.

“That’s right.” The man trembles. “Hayden is seven, and Deerak is—”

I tilt my head. “What’s your name?”

“Th-Th-Thad,” his voice shakes.

“Figures,” I snort, driving the knife into his calf. Staff covers Thad’s mouth with his hand while he screams. His emerald eyes are giddy with the thrill.

“I knew a Deerak once,” I reminisce dreamily. “Met him the same night my family was murdered.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Thad’s muffled voice struggles through Staff’s grip.

I give him a skeptical look. “I don’t believe you.”

With an evil grin, the darkness surges forward, wrapping me in its breathtaking embrace. The knife in my hand seems to work on its own in my nimble fingers. The sound of the flesh on his stomach splitting, alongside his screams, is like music to my ears. It’s a high, holding life in my hands and feeling the blood trickle through my fingers.

I straddle his lap, lightly running my nails over his cheek. His chest rises and falls with choked breaths trying to muddle through the pain.

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