Page 30 of A Vocation of Violence
“Henry ‘the London Lion’ Lewis,” Night Horse said, answering the question before I had the chance to ask it. “Darcy’s opponent for Sunday’s match.”
Drumft exchanged not threats or pleasantries, but an envelope sealed with an umbral insignia with Lewis’s manager—a man to whom shadows seemed to cling like tendrils of suspicion.
“I thought Drumft was investing heavily with Jorah into Darcy’s victory,” I said.
“As did we all.”
“Then…why put money on the opposition?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.
“Most likely it’s not a bet but a bribe,” Night Horse replied, narrowing his eyes in thought. “The question is, for what purpose? To ensure victory, or defeat?”
“Surelythishas nothing to do with Vivienne’s murder,” I whispered, my gaze not leaving Drumft’s clandestine conversation. “That envelope wasn’t large enough to contain a sufficient sum for a life.”
Night Horse made a wry sound in the back of his throat. “Surelyyou’renot so naïve as that.”
“I heartily beg your pardon?” I huffed, scowling up at him. “I hardly think?—”
“Anywhere there is competition between men, there will be murder,” he stated with a finality that rankled my skin.
“Competition? That’s ridiculous. This is a game. A folly. A?—”
“Life is a game, Fiona, survival the prize. It is why the path to alpha predator is so blood-soaked and brutal. And humans, for some unfathomable reason, stand at the top of it all. The best killers this world has yet seen. And we will find any reason to do it, even one so stupid as nicked pride. So do not ascribe men the nobility of women. You will be forever disappointed.”
I stared at him for a moment, forgetting where we were. What we were doing. I couldn’t think of a thing to say, so I opened my mouth and let the first thing that slipped out be my response. “You might be the only honest man I know, Aramis Night Horse.”
His response was an enigmatic nod. I didn’t know if he agreed, unburdened by the false modesty of my people, or if hewas too polite to disabuse me of the notion. Either way, we said nothing else on the matter.
Instead, Night Horse brought the conversation back to the vocation at hand. “Men like Drumft, they’ve never known the grave’s embrace, the stench of war. To them, this—money, power—is their battlefield. And they’ll slay as mercilessly as any soldier to keep their coffers full.”
I felt a sick twist in my gut, the idea that Vivienne’s life—a woman of such vivacity and cunning—could have been snuffed out over a pittance or pride at a boxing match was abhorrent.
My heart quickened as I considered the implications. A bribe to sway the match, to tarnish the reputation of one and elevate another?
“It figures Drumft’s up to his elbows in muck,” I said, the words tasting of ash and resolve. “We must tread carefully. For if he’s willing to tamper with the integrity of a fight, who knows what else he’s capable of?”
“Men have long spilled blood over less,” Night Horse continued, his eyes like chips of obsidian in the gloom, reflecting the brutality before us. “Their pride, their legacy—gambling offers them a battlefield without the inconvenience of war. It’s all about conquest, be it land, coin, or another man’s will.”
His words wove a tapestry of dark insight, a world where survival was not just against nature but against the mediocrity that threatened to render one insignificant. My own past whispered to me then, a grim reminder that violence was as much a part of me as the very blood coursing through my veins.
Drumft adjusted his lapels as if to signal the meeting was over, and took his leave with a dramatic whorl of his cloak.
Night Horse’s eyes met mine, a silent pact forged in the crucible of shared determination. We would unravel this mystery, brick by sordid brick, until the edifice of lies crumbled beneath the weight of truth.
“Keep your wits sharp,” he murmured as we melded into the evening’s gloom. “Drumft is a serpent that will elude you if you let him.”
“Let him slither,” I breathed, feeling the weight of the city’s oppressive darkness settle on my shoulders. “We are the hawk, and hawks have keen eyes indeed.”
“You are a raven,” Night Horse corrected me.
“A raven?” I wrinkled my nose. “Aren’t they sinister portents of death?”
“To these people, not to mine.” He shrugged. “Ravens most often appear after a death has occurred and are an important part of the death cycle. They are loyal. Intelligent. Communicative. Resourceful.” He looked down at me for a moment, and I could imagine he forgot about the task at hand when he gazed at me like that.
I certainly did.
“They’re beautiful,” he said before turning to lead us back out into the dark.
I’d admit to finding it thrilling, walking as a phantom in Night Horse’s realm. Every step we took was measured, every breath controlled, as we slipped unseen into the murky night. Our quarry moved ahead, unaware of the specters at his heels, each footfall leading us deeper into an abyss of corruption and secrets.
