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Jon didn’t know what to do with his time. Staying at Madam Dreary’s amongst all the bevy of beauties that were at his beck and call had its upsides. On the other hand, the call of duty rang clear, for the young Dock Master needed to get back and give a report. Magistrate Harper would be waiting. But that was true only if Zandor failed to convince him the need for action.

  But he was too afraid to leave the confines of the whorehouse. Plus time spent there had plenty of good points. He laid back against soft cushion, enjoying the velvety joy of the couch and contemplated finding some more wine.

  Jon decided another day would be fine. If Zandor did what they hoped, Jon would be in the thick of things, bartering between the two sides for the betterment of the conflict. The young Dock Master didn’t want anyone to get hurt, only to resolve the situation.

  Time passed; perhaps he slept. His eyes fluttered open. There was a smell in the air that seemed odd. Jon sat up, his mind befuddled yet weary. It was not the sweet perfumed hint of the girls or the scented candles they used for the gentle ambience of the stable. Rather it was a tangy, sweaty smell that reminded him of an unwashed, masculine body.

  A large man stepped through the entryway. The thick sequenced beads crawled over his rather massive shoulders.

  Jon started to stand up, but the man raised a hand and made a motion.

  “Easy there, bub. Don’t get too excited.” The large man walked around the room, keeping a sideways glance at Jon though his demeanor was casual. “Nice place here, huh? Yeah, not too shabby at all. I wouldn’t mind a spot of fun here myself. Been a while.”

  He stopped and felt one of the couches, glancing at Jon with a smirk. “Bet you’ve had some fun around here, being a young fella and all. Heh. Well, buddy boy, the fun times are over.”

  Jon stood and faced him, unafraid. “I know you. You’re a murdering dog. You were there that day at the market and killed that man. Jerrod, is it? Giorgio told me all about you. I’m not afraid of you.”

  The man’s face grew grim, and Jon felt a tremor to his courage. “That’s my name. And you’re Jon Baumgartner. Funny you mention Giorgio because that’s the pig I wanna talk to you about.”

  Jon was finished talking. Grabbing the closest thing possible, a pillow, he tossed it at Jerrod. He barked a laugh, and Jon sprinted out of the room. Beads stung his face, but that didn’t stop his flight. The loose hallways, made of curtains, flew by his face. His breath pumped as if someone were jumping up and down on his chest.

  Then he tripped, smashing down onto the floor. Jon had enough physical presence of mind to put his hands forwards and land on them instead of his face, but the jolt was painful. He might’ve dislocated a shoulder. He rolled, sucking his teeth, and tried to get into a seated position but met a sharp surprise.

  The tip of a short sword greeted him, placed at his throat by an expert hand. A thin, short man dressed in black held it. At first Jon thought it was Zandor, but realization struck; they caught him again.

  The assassin was calm and collected as if he were about to trim a hedge. Jon felt sweat trickle down his forehead. If he moved even the slighted bit, his life was over. A moment later, Jerrod walked through the curtains, looking annoyed.

  “Knew it would be this way. You look like a fighter. That’s fine.”

  Jerrod punched Jon straight in the nose. It flattened under impact, splaying across his cheek. Jon’s head snapped back like a sharp chop on a tree, and he landed flat on his back. Blood flowed. Holding his crooked nose with his hand, life’s blood flowed free, and he coughed as the fluid choked him. Jon gagged and rolled on the ground.

  Jerrod kicked him in the side. Hard. Stars alighted in his eyes as the air blasted from his lungs. He writhed in pain and tried to suck in a breath, but it was difficult. Jerrod grabbed his hair and yanked him to a sitting position.

  Jerrod was too strong to resist, and he pulled Jon’s face close to his and twisted Jon’s head to the side until he felt his hair would rip from the roots.

  “Now you’re gonna tell me what I ask, and you’re gonna be quick about it. You understand me?”

  Jon could smell the man’s breath, dank and thick with recent whiskey. That was a dangerous combination for any man. Jon steeled himself and felt the trickle of blood build in his throat.

  The young man balled up a thick grip of phlegm and blood and spat in Jerrod’s face. The beast didn’t bother to wipe it off. Instead he made a face of the purest hatred and hit Jon so hard in the jaw, his world went black before he felt the bone snap out of joint.

  It was some time before he woke.

  Chapter Five

  No matter what Giorgio did, the dog continued to bark.

  “Easy, boy. Settle down!”

  The dog barked. The dirty thing started and held its arms around its body, looking frightened and confused.

  They, along with Marston, resided in one of the lesser known and scrubbier looking safe houses, a broken down flop house near the fighting pit.

  Marston was uneasy. The Elite was still a part of their gang, and so were several others, but the lack of recent results was wearing their patience. He held his arms crossed and kicked at the ground as Giorgio squatted down in front of the girl.

  “Do you know me, little one?”

  The phantom girl, Melissa didn’t answer. Her face was sallow and drawn. When he had first encountered her, she had seemed much healthier and full of life. Her face flushed with blood and energy. Now she looked wane and drowsy. Giorgio prodded her further, mentioning Muldor and her father, but she didn’t seem to understand.

  Marston tsked. “You’re wasting your time, Gi. Why’d you bring me here? She’s a dreg. Put her in the orphanage. She can’t help us.”

  Giorgio frowned as the girl stood and stared at the floor. “You don’t know what she can do. We can use her.”

  “How?”

  Giorgio didn’t quite know. The dog barked, and he fed it some scraps. It calmed but the animalistic tension in the air came from all corners. Giorgio’s frayed nerves threatened to overwhelm him, but this newfound prospect had the potential to reinvigorate their cause.

  He looked back to the girl, then to the dog, and then went to Marston. “Maybe we can give her a scent.”

  Marston shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Like a bloodhound. Listen to me.”

  The plan was simple, but first they needed an item, something that would help them hone in on their objective. Giorgio told Marston to rally the rest of the Elites, and soon the men ran about town. They tried to find Castellan’s route for the day and if there was any way they could get close enough to get what was needed.

  There was. The veteran thief was proud of how well orchestrated the plan was, and felt satisfied as it went into motion. Castellan planned on surveying the marketplace as he initiated some new policies there. Giorgio sent some thieves dressed as beggars to cause a stir at the market and to get as close to him as they could.

  It went well. Castellan made a political statement in front of everyone. He stated his plans to combat the amount of beggars and homeless in Sea Haven, which everyone could help. The usurper patted one of their heads, and the thief nodded and cried and palmed an item off of Castellan’s body. A small handkerchief would serve Giorgio’s purpose.

  Back at the safe house, Marston and Giorgio were joined by Anders, and the young thief looked excited. His enthusiasm did not encourage Marston, but Giorgio didn’t care. They got what they needed.

  The thief took the scrap of cloth and held it out to the girl. The other men watched on with confusion. The girl looked frightened. She peered around the room at the other men, but Giorgio told her to focus on the item instead. He held the handkerchief out to her. She hesitated but did as requested.

  “Your father,” Giorgio said. “Your father was killed by this man. You can find him and can get revenge for the destruction of your family. Do you understand?”

  Marston made a face. “Gi, what the hell are—”

  �
��Be quiet, Marston. Little one, do you understand me? Your father, Sam Carver. This man Castellan killed him. You can take his life force as you did the man in the alley. Take this and feel his energy. Take it from him.”

  She perked up at the mention of her father and studied the cloth. The young girl grabbed it with pale hands. The veins stood out in stark relief against the thin skin. She sniffed the cloth, almost like a bloodhound. Giorgio had a smile as she held it to her face.

  It seemed impossible, but she could feel the imprint that any person put on an object. She breathed heavy, faded into a paler, more ghost-like version of herself, and the other men gasped. Anders said a prayer under his breath, and Marston cursed.

  Giorgio smiled. The girl snarled and griped the cloth tight in her hand with feral eyes. The dog whimpered and backed away.

  “Easy, boy. Everything’s fine.”

  If this worked, things would be more than fine.

  * * * * *

  Madam Dreary told him the bad news. Her trilling voice held true disappointment and sadness.

  “Sorry, love. My girls aren’t fighters. You knew the risks. They came in, beat him around a bit and took him away. I’m sorry and feel horrible, my dear, but things happen.”

  Muldor grabbed her hand and gave a genuine squeeze. “Think nothing more on it. You and yours have helped us in this conflict. We continue to thank you for it.”

  It was time to meet again with Cutter back at the storage center. The old man was on their side without any equivocation. His switch over was faster and easier than Muldor’s. The Guild man explained the situation, and the old man didn’t seem surprised.

  “We could have used him in the negotiation process. Janisberg representatives will not be pleased one of their Dock Masters is imprisoned and tortured by the likes of Jerrod,” Cutter said and sucked his teeth. “But it is too late to worry on it. The die is cast, one way or another.”

  “Agreed. If Zandor has the militants up in arms, then it is too late to worry over this kidnapping. My heart goes out to Jon, for this is not his fight or fault.”

  Cutter sat forward and rubbed his face. “What of Lord Peterson?”

  “Nicoli is with us, as I see it. His hate for both Castellan and Jerrod is well documented. I believe our enemy pushed him beyond his threshold. He blames Castellan, with good reason, for the death of his charge.”

  “Ha! Perhaps he is not as dense as I once assumed. These noble types, ah, they are not often well appointed.”

  “The police are another matter and a cause for concern. There is little chance to release Cubbins. I believe now he would be another powerful ally. I have thought of paying off his subordinate, Dillon, but there is no way to approach him. They are run by direct interference from Jerrod and his men.”

  “Well, they are lying, cheating murderers after all. Hmmm. The police have dug their own graves, let them lie in it.”

  “Agreed. When it comes to blows, we will fight them along with the others. The City Watch is another matter. I don’t believe Castellan will even consider them a ready force for use. We can, in fact, get to Raul.”

  “Don’t be too certain, Muldor. The City Watch is organized and will swing one way or another when the battle starts. How certain are you Raul Parkins will join us?”

  Muldor thought. Raul might not be the best man. “Jeffries. I will speak with him instead because Raul never leads the fire brigade or other City Watch responsibilities from the front. It is always under the command of his lesser. It is common for Jeffries to organize the Watch into action.”

  “Good. Pay him off if you have to, and I will cover it on my end.” Cutter pulled a small coin purse out from under his desk and handed it to Muldor.

  It was heavy, and Muldor eyed the old man. “Strange of you to be so accommodating. Forgive me to question your motivations.”

  Cutter looked old at that moment, older than Muldor had ever seen him. “I don’t blame you if you don’t trust me. But they killed Turner. I’m an old man. What could I have done?” Muldor said nothing. “Believe me, Muldor, I am with you to the end.”

  Muldor inclined his head in supplication. “Very well. Is everything else in place?”

  Cutter stared at him and scoffed, back to his curmudgeonly ways. “You tell me, Master Muldor.”

  Muldor blinked. “You know to what I refer.”

  “The thieves are leaderless, divided. Even those who side with Giorgio know not what to make of things. I can send others back on their regular assignments if you wish.”

  “No. It will arouse too much suspicion on Castellan’s part. The Guild Master would notice the change in personnel at the docks, for he is in close contact with the Dock Masters. But perhaps I have a job for Giorgio, one that will give him confidence.”

  “Will Peterson do as needed?”

  “That shouldn’t be a concern.”

  Cutter raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t?”

  “I retract the statement. Won’t be. He is ready to move with us.”

  “And his men? One can’t be too certain.”

  “Everything will be fine.” Though Muldor didn’t believe all of it.

  * * * * *

  Castellan paced up and down the hallways of City Hall. After normal working hours, it was calm and pleasant, very dissimilar to the chaos that raged outside in the city. The recent turmoil piled on his mind, making him twitch and squirm when he ought to be still.

  “There will be order when we are finished.”

  His only answer was the echoing thump of his boots on the wooden floor. Many guards remained on duty outside, patrolling the perimeter, but they were ordered to stay outside after hours. It was uncouth, and he would have the council’s chambers respectable.

  The open space afforded him some solitude. After all the hard work, all the sacrifices they had made in order to reach this pinnacle. Weeks ago the Guild had been shut out of these offices, yet now Castellan had free reign. Now that they had the strength, it was necessary to use it for the good of all people. The city depended on him. The people needed a savior.

  “Oh, there is so much more to do! So much more. The people will beg for it before long. We must cleanse it all.”

  Castellan stopped. There was an abnormal chill in the air. He turned around and felt a presence in the hallway behind him. An ethereal apparition floated down the hallway towards him. There was no fear or apprehension in Castellan’s mind, only a slight curiosity.

  “What have we here?” The Guild Master gave a little huff of satisfaction as it neared. Its features became clearer. “A lost little girl. And what do you want, child?”

  The specter swooped down the hallway at him; its countenance grew fierce. It lashed out at him with icy talons, but it was easy to side-step it.

  “So you mean to harm me, is it?”

  Pulling his sword he slashed at it, catching it on the hip. Its cry of pain was agonizing to hear, but Castellan smirked.

  “Silly girl. Enchantment is your nemesis. You cannot harm me, for I am protected by the Arc Lector and his God. Leave me or be destroyed.”

  It backed away, cowed but not beaten. It hovered and readied for another attack. Castellan transfixed, his face a mixture of curiosity and pity.

  “Trouble me no more. Be gone, foul spirit! I do not wish to hurt you.”

  Grimacing, he stepped into his next attack, a quick, straight jab at the creature’s center. It dodged out of the way, already fearing his blade. Its movements were as fluid as the wind. It snarled and came on.

  The sword cut the air before the specter, testing its reactions. It remained wary but aggressive, floating forward within range then out again. But Castellan made contact. He smiled feeling only pity for the creature.

  “This is not what you are accustomed to facing, my tormented one. Allow me to end your suffering.”

  The next cut swung back, missed, but struck again. The ghost slipped his attacks and slashed back at him. Missing, it went up, near the ceiling. Its legs trailed dow
n below, and the sword scored a hit on them. It moaned in pain.

  Castellan rolled when it wailed. It came straight at him, too fast for him to dodge, and his gauntlets took most of the impact. He sprang up to his feet and sliced two, three cuts in the air, hitting nothing.

  “You are a most curious spirit, my troubled one. From whence do you come? Eh? Why bedevil me? What evil has brought you here?”

  Curiosity was enough to continue the fight, so he cut again at the tendril legs, but she hovered back out of reach. Castellan held his sword overhead and charged forward, but she swooped down before he could bring the blow to bear.

  The move was surprising. He pivoted on the spot and kept the enchanted sword close by. He caught the spirit by the twisting motion; its hand caught by the blade. It screeched in agony. It had enough, so it floated down the hallway away from him.

  Castellan chased after it. It was very obvious to him the spirit needed someone to end its pain. He ran after its amorphous body, down the hallway and onto the first floor. He never lost sight of the poor creature.

  * * * * *

  Giorgio knelt down, outside the back exit to city hall. Marston and several other thieves were close by. Nervous energy made his hands damp and his stomach turn. He hadn’t eaten all day, and he wouldn’t take food if it were offered to him at knife point.

  Most of the thieves were busy keeping the guards occupied on various hit and run distractions. It was to annoy and waste time more than harm. Giorgio felt pride at their actions. There weren’t many left, but they still fought hard.

  They’d tried breaking into Castellan’s private home to disastrous results the previous day. One thief was killed, and the security increased around the yard. Marston said the only way to get at the man was to attack him at city hall, and so here they were.

  The little girl, the specter, was easy to manipulate into position because she listened to Giorgio. Though the thief was struck with guilt using her, it was also obvious she wanted to strike down the villain responsible for her father’s death. It was only right. A preternatural energy filled Giorgio, and he didn’t need much food or sleep any longer.