The Duke's Deception Page 3

  *~*~*

  The air smelled of blood, dust, and the distinctive sharp-sweet smell of tagir, the drug that it seemed half the city was addicted to. Larkin kept breathing steadily despite the alarming stabbing pain that each breath brought with it. He was sitting, he catalogued, with his hands bound tightly behind his back and his ankles bound to the chair's legs.

  His magic was gone, stripped away while he slept, no doubt. He ached all over, though the most insistent pains were in his ribs—cracked or broken, though he wasn't familiar enough with the sensation of either to tell for sure—and his right arm, which felt as though it had been shredded all over again.

  He could hear the low murmur of voices nearby, including the brash, accented voice of the man he typically purchased his supplies from. Larkin ran through the meeting in his head, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. It had seemed to be going as usual: he'd shown up, done the usual song and dance to get in, and then… nothing.

  Whatever had tipped them off to him, it wasn't something he'd done. At least, nothing he'd done at the handoff. Perhaps he hadn't pushed Garnett away quickly enough and someone had gotten wind of it? Or the attack the past week, that could have had something to do with it.

  The chatter came to an abrupt stop, and Larkin tried to keep his body relaxed and his breathing steady as two sets of footsteps clomped loudly across the floor towards him. He probably wasn't getting out of this alive, but he could try. One set of footsteps stopped a short distance away, but the other set came right up to him. Larkin would probably be able to see the man's shoes if he opened his eyes.

  He'd been expecting the punch, but that didn't stop it from hurting. The man's fist hit his jaw with no small amount of force, sending Larkin's head snapping back. He saw stars and briefly thought he was going to pass out again. His mouth was full of blood, and he spat it out, blinking furiously against the bright lights.

  It was a warehouse, lit and protected by magic if Larkin's senses could be trusted. He wasn't entirely sure they could be, but he didn't have anything else to work with. The man in front of him was an enforcer. Larkin didn't know his name, though he'd seen the man before. He was a higher-level enforcer, and he was taking orders from the second man, who was standing well away from Larkin's chair.

  The second man was dressed sharply in well-tailored, expensive clothing. A diamond shone from his right ear and there were more glittering rings on his hands than was necessary, in Larkin's opinion. He wasn't familiar to Larkin, which was both good and bad. Good because that meant he was higher up in the hierarchy than Larkin had dealt with before, and bad because Larkin wasn't having a chat with the man. He was tied to a chair in a warehouse he didn't recognize and beat all to hell in front of the man.

  "Evening," Larkin said, his voice rasping out hoarsely. His heart was beating too fast, and he swore he could feel every bruise and ache on his body. It wasn't helping him concentrate.

  The man in charge stared at him like he was a particularly interesting specimen in a museum of curiosities then laughed loudly. He sounded like a braying donkey, but laughter was better than anger.

  "Evening, your grace," the man finally said, dipping a half-hearted, mocking bow to Larkin's chair. "How fare you?"

  "Oh, I've been worse," Larkin said, spitting more blood to the floor. "You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know who I am, but I don't believe I've made your acquaintance."

  "Aubert Montage, at your service." He grinned, a feral, wolfish expression. Larkin's blood ran cold. What had he done to attract the attention of the head of the tagir trade?

  "Pleasure," Larkin said, making Aubert laugh again. He twisted his hands behind his back, but the ropes were very firmly tied. "To what do I owe this honor?"

  Aubert walked forward, apparently assured that Larkin wasn't going to try anything. What he'd expected, Larkin didn't know, considering he was bound hand and foot and had no magic to his name. He waved the enforcer back, the smile still firmly in place as he approached.

  "Business, of course," Aubert said. He pulled a pair of black gloves from his vest pocket and drew them on meticulously. "Did you know, your grace, that each and every distributor I had in the palace only lasted six months?"

  "I didn't ask," Larkin said. He would have shrugged, but the way his hands were tied restricted the movement.

  "You've lasted a year, which is something of a record," Aubert said, flexing his fingers. "Do you know why you're here, your grace?"

  "Business," Larkin repeated what Aubert had said in response to his question. "Though I admit, this is a new way of going about it."

  Aubert laughed again, throwing his head back. He calmed himself after a long moment, grinning at Larkin as if he was particularly pleased with a new toy. Larkin's stomach flipped unpleasantly, but laughter was better than anger.

  "Exactly," Aubert said. He tilted his head thoughtfully at Larkin. "I absolutely refuse to keep distributors for longer than a year in places that I can't keep an eye on."

  "So you're terminating my services," Larkin interpreted. He hadn't expected that. He'd expected he'd slipped up and given himself away.

  "I am, at that," Aubert said. "Nothing personal. Business is business, and I've not lasted in this business by being sloppy."

  "Do I get a severance package?" Larkin asked. It was entirely unfair that he'd done everything perfectly for over a year, and he was going to die for it anyway.

  "Severance package," Aubert repeated, snickering. He glanced at the enforcer, who cracked a smile, then returned his wolf-sharp gaze to Larkin. "Name it. I can't guarantee it'll happen, of course, but you've made me laugh a time or two. Usually these parties are so dull."

  "Ten thousand gold pieces for my mother's retirement," Larkin said. Ruben would take care of his mother, he knew; it was part of their deal. Still, if she got money from elsewhere, he might look into it and be able to track it back to Aubert. That was, unfortunately, the best Larkin could do at this point.

  "Five thousand ought to do her," Aubert said. He grinned at Larkin again, cheerful and pleased. "I was almost hopin' you'd ask for a whore or something more interesting."

  "If you're offering…" Larkin said.

  Aubert laughed again, shaking his head. "Nah, waste of a bit of flesh. You'll get your mother's retirement. Simon!" The enforcer stepped forward again, giving Larkin another piece of information he'd never have the chance to use. "You know the drill. Make it quick for this one."

  "Yes, boss," Simon said.

  Aubert waved flippantly to Larkin then strode off through the warehouse, leaving Larkin alone with Simon. Larkin smiled pleasantly at Simon. He really should have asked Garnett to stay the night. That was the only thing he really regretted. His mother would be fine between Aubert's severance pay and whatever Ruben gave her. There was a knife in Simon's hand, and Larkin took a deep breath, shutting his eyes because he didn't really want to see what was coming.

  A loud bang from somewhere to his left made his head jerk back up, and he stared in that direction. There were too many boxes of tagir blocking his view, however, so there was no telling what the cause of the noise had been. Simon's hand stopped a few steps from his chair, and he was frowning at the bang—and now there was shouting.

  "I'm not going anywhere," Larkin said, watching hesitation play out on Simon's face.

  Simon took a step towards him, apparently deciding that it was better to play it safe—kill Larkin first, then go sort out the disturbance—but he never got further than that. A knife sank into Simon's chest, forcing him back a step or two. He reached up and grasped the handle of the knife, yanking it out. His jacket was soaking with blood, but he was still moving somehow. He met the black-clad young man who stepped out from between boxes of tagir, but his movements were sluggish and the young man in black was not.

  It was a quick, brutal fight. Larkin refused to get his hopes up as the young man headed over to him, frowning as he surveyed Larkin. The raid could be Ruben's work, or it coul
d be a rival gang's work. Wordlessly, the young man moved behind Larkin, and Larkin tensed, half-expecting he was about to get his throat cut.

  The rope around his wrists tightened briefly before giving way completely, and Larkin couldn't help the sigh of relief. The young man cut him free of his ankle restraints as well then helped Larkin from the chair.

  "There's a little nook not far from here where you can wait," the young man said quietly. "I have to finish clearing the warehouse, but I'll send someone back for you, your grace."

  Larkin nodded, focusing on walking, which was a much more difficult task than he'd thought it would be. It seemed to take forever before they reached the little nook the young man had referred to. It was a shadowed hole in the wall of boxes, a fluke where the neat stacks of boxes were slightly offset. The young man left him there without a word, holding one finger to his lips when Larkin opened his mouth. Then he was gone.

  Larkin could hear distant shouts still, but nothing nearby. He might be safe. He might not be. Closing his eyes, he focused on breathing, waiting for someone to come back for him.