Page 7 of What We May Be

Chapter Two

Jefferson Marshall was a legend.

A legend for his oft-cited treatises. For the gilded awards lining his office walls. For the well-placed students who had crossed the threshold of his lecture hall. Marshall’s scholarship and his progeny were an institution of their own.

Standing slouched and unconscious, a gag in his mouth and a thick rope noose around his neck, the man known as the Kingmaker seemed anything but legendary.

He awoke slowly, attempting to open his eyes, but his eyelids dragged, and his legs ached as if he’d conducted a day full of lectures. And there was some sort of pressure around his neck, scratching his skin like the rough wool of a cheap overcoat.

Inhaling, the strong stench of hay and manure assaulted his senses, causing him to gag against the cotton between his teeth and depressing his tongue.

The dense fog clouding his mind dissipated instantly.

In the dim light emanating from below, Marshall’s well-trained mind quickly surmised he was in a barn on a raised wooden platform above horse stables. He attempted to look at his feet and met resistance. His eyes flared with panic, and he lifted his hands. He clutched at the thick, braided rope around his throat with tingling fingers. The more he tugged, the tighter it became.

Shifting to the gag that strangled his cries for help, he fumbled for its knot behind his head, stilling when his fingers brushed the hang knot at the base of his neck. He turned his gaze skyward, following the rope to where it disappeared into the rafters above—the symbol of his imminent mortality.

Mortality that grew closer when a terrifying sound echoed out of the darkness, chilling him to the bone.

The first cackle was muted, far away, but then it became louder, more hysterical.

Panic made his palms wet and caused his fingers to slip on the knot.

If he could just get rid of the gag…

Working with renewed resolve, his focus was rewarded when the gag slipped from his mouth and fluttered silently into the abyss below.

Relief coursed through him as he took his first unencumbered breath, oxygen filling his lungs with air and his heart with hope.

Now for the knot at the base of his neck…

Abruptly, the manic laughter stopped, replaced by a far more dreadful sound.

The swoosh of the trap doors opening beneath him was the last thing the legendary Jefferson Kingmaker Marshall heard before swinging to his death.

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