Hunted

Chapter 1

"I'm going to kill you!"

Their coat-clad go-between froze, his hand with the purse of coins already halfway outstretched towards Mark and Wren. All three pairs of eyes locked on the doorway where the fat, florid face of Sheffield shimmered in a sheen of sweat. Like a landed fish, the man gasped great gulps of air that heaved his considerable heft up and down. His fine, luxurious clothing was disheveled and hung askew; his foppish hat was half-off, showing the shining, florid bald spot forming where the blonde hair had retreated. Apparently their employer was not accustomed to strenuous exercise.

A plague on the gods, Sheffield was not supposed to have found out so soon! Mark wracked his brain, trying desperately to figure out how the hell Sheffield learned Mountegrey wasn't dead. The old man must've had finks following 'em to make sure Mark and Wren really killed the fellow. They hadn't. The two had simply drugged Mountegrey to look like he was dead.

Looking at the livid face of Sheffield, Mark supposed seemingly-dead wasn't good enough for this man. Sheffield had wanted his competition in the wine business run to the ground, or buried in the ground as was the case with Mountegrey. Either way, it was obvious he had no intention of paying Mark and Wren. Damned churl.

Backed-up by several lackeys, probably the very same who snitched on them, Sheffield began screaming at the top of his lungs, "How dare you try to trick the House of Sheffield, you common curs! By all the laws, your lives are MINE, and I will make you regret every minute of it!"

Becoming redder and redder with every word, he continued to rant and rage about how their mothers were female dogs who laid with pox-cursed donkeys-or maybe he really did just mean asses, though Mark couldn't decide if he mean asshole people or the actual ass itself-and how they swindled him of his coin and on and on.

Thank the gods Wren had as little patience for the windbag as he did. "Oh for the sake of all things that are holy," he cried as he slipped behind the quiet middle man, "Would you please shut up!" Wren's heavy hand hit hard between the neck and shoulder of the unfortunate lackey who dropped the purse with a curse and a cry. Before the coins could hit the ground, Mark plucked the bag from the air. They'd earned that money, damn it.

Sheffield stood there gaping to be so interrupted. Idiot. Before Sheffield could take another breath to call forth his platoon of buffoons, Wren tugged viciously on the edge of the other lackey's coat, swinging the unlucky sap forward and, possibly accidentally, into the roughest looking man-a term used rather loosely and questionably 'cause Mark would be damned if that fella didn't have more hair than a bear-in the bar, spilling his quarter pinck beer.

Shockingly, the sour-faced beast didn't take kindly to that and proceeded to ram his fist into the mediators's face so hard the guy took out a nearby table in his fall. The mountain men at that table were about as pleased as the first one when all their alcohol was spilled onto the hay-strewn floor; and they responded in much a similar manner as the first. Wren was either brilliant or lucky.

As an earthquake began shaking the floor as the mountains of men rumbled to their feet, Sheffield stalked towards them in all his hose-clad, tunic-vested, high-lord-nobility indignation and swung out at Mark who, of course, ducked. The man's posh, pampered, bejeweled fist met the crass, calloused, filthy face of an unlucky common person. A common person who Mark was betting was going to be a better fighter in the brawl brewing than the noble lilybelly who had never seen a shitpot as dirty as this tavern.

A wicked grin snaked its way up Mark's face to see their uppity employer swear and shake out his hand. The man who's nose was now bleeding from one of Sheffield's many rings roared at the noble. Involuntarily, Marked glanced to the Sheffield's pants to see if the man actually wet himself. Nope, dry. Though he looked more than scared enough to. While Sheffield was quaking and trying to placate the angry drunk stumbling towards him with promises of money (not that the liar had planned to give Mark and Wren their money-mostly dead should have earned most of their payment), Mark managed to nip an arm up and slide two of those ruby rings off of the man's other hand. Idiot didn't even notice.