Page 11 of Queen Takes Blood
The businessman gestured to the hood of his car. “Do you need better light? We can move to the end of the street—”
“No, this is fine.” Anticipation surged through me, though I tried to temper that hope with a healthy dose of reality. I’d been looking for decades. The chance that I’d find my prize in a back alley behind the Indianapolis stadium…
The third man set the case down on the hood of the car without concern for its paint job. He flipped the case open and stepped back.
Pulling his phone out, the businessman turned on the flash and scanned over the case to illuminate its contents. A smaller, slim black-velvet case lay inside. He opened it as well, proudly shining the light over the carved ivory handle. It was a lovely dagger and sheath, marked with the red Templar cross on the blade. A very nice specimen, probably from the late eighteenth century and made for a Masonic lodge. In our communications, I’d allowed him to assume that I was more interested in the ornamental dagger, but it was the older blade below it that had led me to contact him.
Dark with age and corrosion, the sword looked to be the right length and general design, the same as the pictures that had caught my attention. Octagonal pommel for balance, distinctive cruciform hilt, simple, functional blade. Naturally, the leather wrapping around the hilt had rotted away.
I’d seen way too many expertly made replicas to assume it was authentic. I needed to handle it to be sure. “May I?”
“Of course.”
As soon as I stretched out my hand and opened my fingers, I felt the surge of their curiosity and alarm. Every bent finger on both of my hands had been very obviously and badly broken. Repeatedly.
Muscle man muttered, “Jesus.”
“Jesus had little to do with it,” I said lightly. Wrapping my warped fingers around the bare hilt, I reverently lifted the blade. As soon as I touched it, I knew that it was real. The weight was correct. My body and strength were severely depleted, but my muscles and bones still remembered the feel of a twelfth-century Templar sword in my palm.
Whether it wasmine…
Eyes closed, I held the sword flat before me and ran my fingertips down the blade. Two fullers rather than one, unique for sword design in that era but not enough to be conclusive. My heart thudded, a slow, ponderous beat, my blood sluggish. Letters were etched down the blade. Corroded with dirt and rust but still there.
Payens. An old spelling of the family name that I had used as a young, eager Templar knight centuries ago. Full of pride and still believing in honor. No one had questioned why I’d managed to survive so many battles with injuries that should have killed me. When I needed to “die” I returned home to Troyes for a time and came back as my son for another tour.
Until King Philip put an end to the Knights Templar and had me and many of my brethren thrown into prison as heretics. The torture that I’d endured in Domme paled in comparison to the torment that came when Desideria freed me. She’d entrapped me as her Blood, bound by my solemn oath to never lift a hand against her in violence. I’d killed thousands at her command—but not withthissword.
This sword had ever only known honor. The very same sword upon which I’d sworn my oaths to the Order, and the first thing the king’s dogs had stripped from me.
“Well?” The businessman asked.
I smoothed my thumb over its edge, remembering how sharp it had once been. “It’s authentic, though in rough shape.” I laid it back in the case and picked up the ornamental dagger. “This one’s not quite as old but pristine with an imminently collectable appeal.”
“As I told you on the phone, it’s a package deal.”
“I’m satisfied with their authenticity. I’ll take the set for twenty-five grand as we agreed.”
“I’ve got a buyer flying in from Israel who’ll pay double that.”
Inwardly, I sighed. Why, oh why, did humans have to be so fucking greedy? With a shrug, I turned back toward my car. “Do what you’ve got to do. If you’ve got access to more authentic blades, I have plenty of buyers.”
That was a lie. The only buyer was me. But I was a sure thing if the blade was well made.
“Tell you what. For forty thousand, it’s yours.”
I turned around slowly, my face smooth, my arms loose at my sides. “Tellyouwhat. Sell me the blades for the price we agreed upon before I drove all this way, and you live to see the sunrise.”
Muscle man let out a rough laugh and pointed the gun—that he apparently was very eager to use—at my chest. “You sure about that, old man?”
Letting my breath out slowly, I allowed my lips twitch into a brief smile. Then I blurred. I lunged forward and seized the ivory dagger so quickly that no one managed to move before I had the tip of the blade pressed beneath the man’s chin. “Yes, in fact, I am.”
Muscle man twitched and fired a round off, but the gun wasn’t even pointed at me any longer. Toe to toe with him, I stared into his eyes and let him see the real me.
The Executioner.
Outwardly, my body appeared to be a grizzled old man with warped, ruined hands. He couldn’t see the scars that laced every inch of my body. Or the thick loop around my neck—where I’d been beheaded. I wasn’t even as tall as him, and he probably had five or six stone on me. But it didn’t matter.
I could kill him with my thumb before he could even blink.
