In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 20

Mr. Robert Moreland waited in the dark alley.

His back was pressed against the cool brick building of the Knock & Bull Tavern in St. Giles - the air dank with the smell of unwashed skin and bile. One black trousered leg clasped over the other, his arms crossed over his chest in a negligent stance.

To anyone passing by he looked like a man lost in thought, one ripe for the taking, oblivious to his surroundings.

Those would be wrong.

As the man currently stumbling along the alley could attest, his nose bleeding stark drops against the pavement, limping, as he blurrily stared at the morose sights of St. Giles.

Most rarely saw him, though. He had taken to wearing all black the day he had been scarred for life. It hid the monstrousty of burn marks along his arms and body, the smooth skin next to angry blots of red.

And it was one man's fault that he had to resort to such dramatic attire. Fury filled his breast and clenched his hands. It hardly diluted his anger that the man breathed no more. That Moreland had been the one to feel the man's life shrivel into a husk as the man gasped for breath between Moreland's fingers.

But it hadn't been promises and empty apologies on his lips.

It had been sputtered curses and vile oaths, words that were washed away as his eyes went blank, his lips turned blue.

A man stumbled, half drunk and undoubtedly empty of pocket, breaking into Moreland's thoughts. He watched in mere fascination as the man tumbled haphazardly towards Madam's brothel across the street. The sight was interrupted by a woman passing by his alley, her bright red skirts swirling as she dragged a willing gentleman behind her. She giggled, her hand cupped to the man's ear, as she pressed her lush bosom to the man's forearm. Moreland imagined it was naughty things on her lips, for the man growled, grasping her bottom, before they disappeared from sight.

A couple of dandies were next, and stopped, taking out cartons of snuff and inhaling the sweet and bitter grains, their laughter cocky. They turned about and saw him, despite the cloak surrounding Moreland's body and his ability to seep into the poor and deprived morals of the city.

Drunk from ale, noses dusted in powder, they wobbled, giving him narrow-eyed stares. Casting his person an intensified glance, looking to see how much blunt he might have upon his person.

It only took a straightening from his lean - a step, then two - as his half scarred face came into the light. They mumbled apologies, skittering away, their tailcoats tucked between their arses.

Even drunks knew when they were outmatched.

Moreland waited a little longer until a whistle sounded. He gave no reaction, moved not an inch, as the sound floated down the empty walkway. A tumble of trash and old cloth, a lone leaf, flew past his boots and he stepped on it with a crunch, as he moved to the end of the walkway.

He felt for the sliver between two rocks, and parting the loose brick, welcomed the scratching noise as he lifted it to remove a slip of foolscap in its hidden depths.

He shoved the rock back in and opened the missive. A distinctive scrawl by a shaking hand, illegible handwriting, marred the tanned paper.

It haz ben done.

Moreland inhaled, his muscles tensing in anticipation. Soon, he knew. Soon, he could finish the ruination that he desired most.

Smiling, he headed to the right, deeper into the poverty ridden streets. He was expecting a guest.