Page 9 of Monstrous Travels as Wicked as Sin

Percy was aware of Dubois in his peripheral vision, baying for his blood as he pretended to protest against being dragged from the room by even more security, but Percy was unable to follow because of the strong arm that tightened around his neckand jerked him backwards. Percy threw a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs three times and met nothing but solid muscle.

It was a cheap shot, but Percy knew Joe might, by that time, be in a room alone with a deadly painting, so he flicked his wrist, releasing his dagger from its holster, and dug the blade into the man’s thigh. He aimed for the edge, trying to avoid any major arteries as best he could, but the man inadvertently flinched and Percy took a larger slice than he had intended to.

“Fuck! Sorry.” He turned, smashed the man’s head down hard onto his knee and let him drop, unconscious and not in excruciating pain. For now.

The other guests had been forced out of the room with Dubois. There were four large men writhing on the ground, and Percy was just about to make a break for it when he heard the click.

He paused, back to the gun, blood dripping from his dagger.

“Zet het neer,” said the shaky voice.

Percy guessed he was being asked to put the knife down. So he had a decision to make. Do that and risk a fist fight against a gun? Risk being hauled off to jail over this and leave Joe to deal with everything by himself? Or drop, aim, and fling the dagger into the man’s neck, killing him in one clean blow. Because if Percy let him live, if Joe couldn’t do it all by himself, how many more people would Dubois kill with the painting?

And above all, was this stranger’s life worth risking Joe’s?

With that final reflection, the man’s fate was as good as sealed.

CHAPTER SIX

A LESSON IN MURDER

Percy slowly, very slowly, lowered himself towards the floor. He could hear the laboured breathing of the man behind him. He could all but feel the gun on his back.

He would have to be fast. A very quick roll to the left, a half turn, and fling the knife at the neck. Failure to murder would invite a fatal response, so a clean death was the only option.

Percy played the moment over in his mind. He would get one brief glance only. It had to be exact.

The muscles of his abdomen, his thighs, his right biceps tightened as a steel-cold calm settled.

But then, “Percy, don’t!” came a familiar whisper from the shadows.

Joe, who had silently descended the stairs from a bedroom above, knew that look on Percy’s face.

Percy scowled into the darkness. He could hardly get involved in an argument right now. He could hardly slow his slow descent any more than he already had. But he’d also had his concentration thrown off. And it had been a nice night so far, and he didn’t want to piss Joe off by killing an innocent in front of him.

Then, in a flash, his troubles turned to humour with a slice of brown leather, and Joe’s ridiculous idea that he could wrest the gun from the hands holding it with a flick of his whip.

He did manage to get the whip out into the room, but unfortunately it clipped his own shoulder first, resulting in some loud swearing, the redirection of the gun, a bullet slimly missing Joe as he slipped down the stairs, and the flop of misused weaponry onto the floor.

With a pleased chuckle, Percy did his roll, but took a little more care with his bewildered target, throwing the dagger into his right arm instead of his neck. He had weighed his chances that would be his good arm, and either way, the gun fell to the floor. Percy lunged forward and slid it back to Joe, then leapt up and smacked an elbow into the man’s face. “What the hell was that?” Percy laughed.

Joe’s eyes went to the flaccid whip. “You made it look easy.”

“It is easy,” said Percy. “It’s all in the wrist.” He winked suggestively at Joe as the man attempted to stumble to his feet.

“Could you please not sexualise my whip?” said Joe.

Percy looked him over with smouldering eyes. “You sexualised it the second you touched it.” Then he turned back and broke the man’s nose with a thoroughly disorienting headbutt.

“Percy, no.” Joe winced. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Percy, immaculately, confoundingly unhurt, took the man in a headlock and hauled him across the room. He shoved him against the sill of the broken window, picked up his legs, and tossed him into the moat.

Joe was at Percy’s side in a second. “What did you just do?” Searching frantically, he pointlessly repeated, “What did you just do?”

“Come, Ignatius. We have a painting to steal.” And he made for the stairs, but hearing no footsteps behind him, he sighed heavily, forced to turn back to Joe, half hanging out the window.

“Where is he? What if he can’t swim?”

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