Page 30 of Wicked Court

“Because you’re soft,” he says quietly, gesturing towards my tailored suit and designer watch glinting in the dim light. “You wouldn’t survive where it comes from.”

I grin in response, walking closer to him.

That’s when I allow my mask to fall.

My smile disappears. The careful amusement I hold in my eyes dissolves under the poison of hatred that spews into my stare, souring my mouth and paralyzing my victim.

He falters, stumbles back, at the sheer force of venom centered at him.

And just as quickly, I pull the switch and my expression brightens. “You were saying?”

My contact pulls down his hood, staring with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion. “Fair enough. I can see you have some ... hidden depths.”

I tolerate staying behind him while he takes us on a path behind the small buildings downtown, my family being one of the original lawmakers mandating that no structure be over three stories tall. On Main Street, that is. Any manors can be as tall as they fucking like.

He turns and continues down the narrow alley, the tap of his boots echoing off dingy brick walls tagged with graffiti.

I follow silently, hands in my pockets, senses alert. This neighborhood has a reputation for being unsafe after dark. Not that I’m concerned. My older brother trained me well in the art of self defense at a young age.

The man who refers to himself as The Broker stops beside a rusty door and pounds twice. It creaks open, a sliver of light slicing across the alley.

He tilts his head, indicating for me to enter.. “After you.”

I roll my eyes at the location. Next thing you know, he’ll have a store of illegal apothecary goods under a bright purple light with a smoke machine going, but I can’t be picky. Not when it took me weeks to track down a broker dealing specifically in black market antiques and documents.

So many illicit brokers have turned to selling Fentanyl mixtures instead for a quick profit. It’s annoying, really.

The room is dim but surprisingly tidy, filled with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books and curios. My contact slides behind a heavy wooden desk and opens a drawer, removing a parcel wrapped in worn velvet. He sets it down between us.

“This is what you’re looking for.”

“Surely, you haven’t found the Heart for me,” I jest.

He doesn’t return the smile. He eyes me warily instead.

My fault, I suppose.

I reach for the parcel, hesitation flickering only briefly, and untie the golden cord. The velvet falls away, revealing an ancient journal, leather cracked and pages yellowed. My heart pounds as I open it delicately. The handwriting in the journal is faded but still legible, with ink splotches as if someone hastily dried it.

As I scan the contents, the broker leans back in his chair, regarding me through hooded eyes. “Well? Are you a satisfied customer?”

His not-so-subtle way of getting me the fuck off his property.

When I don’t look up, he feels the need to fill the silence.

“The ruby,” he says, clearing his throat. “It originally belonged to a witch. Sarah Anderton. Burned at the stake or hanged—not sure which—centuries ago for crimes against the town. That’s her only journal in existence.”

Liar, liar, cock on fire. “Is that so?”

“You’re holding a priceless artifact right there. No one knows it exists.”

I wait silently for him to continue, letting his discomfort build.

“Anderton cursed the necklace before she died,” he says. “Said it would bring ruin to whoever possessed it. It’s all written in there.”

I incline my head, my attention on him unblinking. “You’ve read it, then?”

“I—sure, yeah. Have to authenticate my goods.”

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