Page 130 of Savannah Royals
Paul
The room spins around me.
Matthew, Matthew, Matthew…
His name echoes with everythumpof my heart. I reread the note, the parchment crisp beneath my trembling fingers. As I do, shock and fear harden into ironclad resolve. My hand clenches into a tight fist, crumpling the offending message within.
Paul wants me to be frightened, to rush to the Catacombs—the place where everything began—in a blind panic, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. No one steals from me, certainly not Paul. He’s taken enough.
Deadly calm now, I reach for my battle armor. I pick up Cleopatra’s collar necklace and secure the heavy weight around my throat. I slide on the cobra ring, directly over my red queen of diamonds tattoo. Before I depart, I pause to admire the deadly glint of those serpentine emerald eyes. The blade of the ever-present dagger in my boot throbs with my first step.
Paul thinks I’ll come crawling back to his den like the old days, playing marionette to his puppeteer. But in his descent into madness, he’s somehow overlooked the most important thing. The veryfirstthing.
I am a wolf.
I’veforgottenthedank,omnipresent darkness of the Catacombs. The heaviness and static tension. There’s a cloying quality to the air down here, an almost alkaline, sulfuric dampness that leaches into my nostrils, burrowing its way into my brain and lungs. Part distant memory, part ubiquitous reality.
My footfalls are quiet on the limestone floor. I move with prudence, knowing even the smallest of sounds can echo resoundingly throughout these subterranean tunnels. My eyes are wide, unblinking, as I scan the dim passageway. I pause before every offshoot, listening, peeking, finally—carefully—moving.
As I near Paul’s hideout, just beyond the final bend, I come across a stray drunkard—spine leaning on the limestone wall, head tipped back in a lolling snore. Hardly unusual and not necessarily threatening, but an unacceptable variable on this most macabre of missions. I sink to my haunches and slide the dagger from my boot. I press the tip into the soft flesh of his neck, just below his chin, increasing pressure until his eyes startle open.
“Scram,” I hiss. “If you value your life, make haste.”
His stuporous eyes alight on my glittering obsidian and emerald collar, greed piercing through the dullness of slumber. But one unwritten law in the Catacombs trumps all others: the one wielding the blade makes the rules. The man scampers to his feet without protest and staggers away as fast as his liquor-laden legs can carry him. He isn’t quiet, so I wait calmly until the echoes of his retreat fade to nothingness. Until the quiet drip of a stray seepage nearby is all I hear. Only then do I look to the ceiling. It’s nigh impossible to see, but experience knows there’s a fissure up there, slanted and treacherous. Just large enough for a pack of child-thieves to crawl through day after day. Coming home.
Home to the place where everything began.
AsIslipinsidePaul’s den, my gaze darts—instinctive and automatic—to my corner.
Empty.
I check Paul’s corner next, and there he is, waiting for me. He’s seated on the floor with his legs bent, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Several days of dark stubble coats Paul’s chin, and his left eye blooms black and blue. Diagonally across, in Abe’s corner, is Matthew, also seated but half-doubledover, his hands and feet bound together. Near hog-tied and quite effectively neutralized. I start for him, taking in his rumpled hair and bloodied face.
Theclickof a revolver halts me in my tracks.
“Kat.” Matthew is the first to speak. “Get outta here! Go—”
“I shoulda gagged you when I had the chance,” Paul interrupts.
I turn to face him, slowly. He’s risen to his feet and crossed half the space with his characteristic silent tread. The barrel of his revolver is trained on my face.
“Hello, darling.” I offer a saccharine smile, and Paul snorts. “Playing with guns now, are we? Fascinating.”
“Nice of you to join us, Lady Katarina.” He tosses me a lopsided, maniacal smile of his own.
“Pleasure.” I tilt my chin up. “Bringing a revolver to a swordfight, Paul? I’d like to say I’m surprised, but how does the saying go? Lie down with dogs…”
“And what did you bring, little wolf? Perhaps something laden with diamonds and rubies—legitimateones, I sincerely hope.”
“I already gave you the necklace, Paul.”
“You gave me afake.” He spits, moving one stride closer. Instinctively, I take a step back, maintaining the distance between us. In my eagerness to help Matthew, I’ve committed a cardinal sin; Paul now stands between me and the exit.
“Why do you believe that?”
“Because Ray’s not nearly as smooth as he thinks he is,” Paul says, shaking the gun in my face. “Heliedto me. Foryou. You’ve turned everyone against me. First it was Abe, my best friend. You took him from me, flashed your smile and split your legs to win his loyalty, like a dog. Then it was my mark.” He swings the gun toward Matthew, gesticulating wildly. “Same story there—a sweet smile, a few whispered promises, and you swept him out from underfoot. And now at the eleventh hour, even my goddamnbagman—the man who should worship at the altar of my payment—has thrown his lot in with you. He’ll have to be dealt with. All because you’re a goddamn snake charmer, a viper. I should have put you down like a mutt ages ago.”
The gun is trained back on me, and Matthew starts shouting. I can’t make out his words, the thunderous pounding of blood in my ears is far too loud.
