In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter Seven

Lord Henry sighed as the study door closed behind him. A sliver of moonlight shone through the slightly parted drapes, highlighting each step he made into the deep burgundy carpets. Heading towards his desk, Henry lit a flint, lighting the wick of a candle. He placed it in its holder.

The evening had not progressed as planned. Sweat dripped down his forehead, dampening his collar. A tremble began in his hands.

"Ah, Henry. Not well done of you to keep me waiting."

Snick.

Henry froze at the raspy voice. It was one he wasn't particularly prepared for. He pasted a tight smile upon his lips, his boot heel imprinting in the carpet as he twisted about to face his unannounced -but expected- visitor.

Snick.

A shadow sprawled lazily in the Louis XIV armchair, residing in front of his escritoire. Henry swept his arms behind his back, his fingers linking together, white knuckled, behind his back, as he took in the familiarly attired cloaked figure.

The man's left hand, gloved in fine black leather, rapped steadily on the wooden arm, his fingertips a drum ticking away the moments. His right hand...

Snick. Snick.

The knife flickered in rapid succession as it was released into the air, landing in the man's palm with that whispered snick! Henry's pulse skittered, but he kept his face expressionless, his dampened palms twisting behind the small of his back. Henry watched helplessly, as the knife made another revolution, silver-tipped handle flung, the blade dipping precariously end over end, before the handle landed crisply into the man's covered hand.

Snick.

Clearing his throat, Henry began haltingly, "My lord. I d..did 't expect you quite so soon-"

"Have you gotten what I asked for?"

Henry swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His eyes darted about the contents of the room, settling on the curtains masking the confines of his appointed study, to the papers scattered across his mahogany desk, lingering on the bookshelves, its content littered with tomes. An unfinished cheroot balanced limply beside an empty tumbler of bourbon.

His guest had been here for quite some time.

Appearing as if nothing was amiss, Henry walked to the sideboard, adding a finger of liquor to his own glass. His back still turned, he took a fortifying sip, bolstering his courage. Best to get the appointment over with.

"I conversed with him earlier in the evening. While we haven't come to terms, I think, in time, he will see reason -"

The man's boots hit the floor, and Henry twisted about, his face coming inches from the man's chest. The knife was no longer in the man's hands, he saw, because instead, the knife's hilt punctured where the man had sat but mere moments ago, a tear inflicted down the middle of the expensive upholstery. Henry's eyes came back to his benefactor. He couldn't see his eyes for the larger man was outfitted in dark clothing - the floor-length cloak that puddled at his black knee-high Hessians, black trousers, a black shirtwaist. The hood of his cloak pulled low over his features. 

The butt of a pistol glinted, when the man drew back his cloak, the weapon readied. "Are you saying, Henry," he purred, "that you did not complete my request?"

The man spoke pleasantly enough.

He was merely a lion lazing for the kill. The man's hand wrapped around Henry's throat, and Henry found his back thrust against the rose-papered walls, his feet dangling. Delicate china rattled from the impact and a tapestry shuddered before it lost its placement and tumbled to the floor, forgotten

"You have not upheld your end of the bargain, Henry." The man increased the pressure on his throat, the leather of his gloves creaking. Its coolness contrasted with the wealth of anger in the man's bearing. His strength. Henry couldn't breath. His lungs seized as he gripped the man's thick wrist, helplessly kicking. He sought purchase for his weight, anything to cease the black spots sparking at the edges of his vision.

"Do you know what happens when someone doesn't meet their end of the bargain?" The yawning void that was the man's face leaned closer, his liquored breath heating Henry's ear. "Hmmm?"

Henry shook, for he did know. He didn't give second chances.

"I take everything from you," the man rasped, confirming Henry's thoughts. The man chuckled, his voice like cobblestones grinding under a carriage wheel. "Every piece of coin you have swindled, every inch of your precious jewels and antique vases." The man paused. He could hear the smile within the man's shadows. "I collect on every ha'penny I have allowed you to keep. And then I strip every piece of your skin from your bones," a fine tremor had taken hold and Henry knew his time was short.

His benefactor wasn't finished. "But I think I'll start with that lovely niece of yours. And unlike your pathetic attempt to force her will to yours, I will succeed."

The man released his neck, Henry crumpling to his knees. "My...att...empt?" Henry gasped in short spurts, as his watering eyes sought the man's above him. Another wracking cough shook his frame, his body aching. His chest seemed to be drawing putrid air, boiling his airways and incinerating his throat. Henry didn't get a chance to inquire further. Had Simpton not acceded to his wishes?

The sting of bourbon, a hint of intertwining opium, reached Henry's nose before his collar was yanked and he was forced onto his knees. The man's leather-clad hand grasped his chin firmly. "You don't wish for me to succeed."

Henry was released, and he choked some more. He watched as his benefactor strode to the armchair, grasping the hilt of the knife and wrenching it from its resting place. He passed Henry, the curve of the blade picking negligently beneath his nails. And then he was gone.

They were out of time.