Page 10 of Kill the Beast
“A fight?” Icicle’s eyebrows scrunched together, as if he were having difficulty making sense of her words. “Who in their right mind would hit a lady?”
Lyssa’s grin widened, and her lip oozed blood. “I might be a woman, but I’m no lady.”
Molly saluted her with an empty glass, one battle-axe to another.
“What was the fight about?” Icicle asked, taking another swig of his drink.
“Some asshole in Frederick’s Ale House stole my new coat off the back of my chair while I was taking a piss and slashed it to pieces,” she said. “So, I beat the shit out of him. Got thrown out into the street even though it wasmyproperty damaged. Where’s the justice in that?” She was still furious about it.
“Frederick’s is a festering pit,” Molly offered. “Worst pub in this whole town.”
“Looks likehedid quite a number onyou,” Icicle said.
“This?” Lyssa pointed to her face and smirked. “This is nothing. He’ll be eating mush for the rest of his life.”
Icicle gaped at her. “You knocked his teeth out over a coat?”
“I worked hard for that coat,” she grumbled.
He perked up. “Was it expensive?”
“Not particularly. But it took a long time to track down that troll.” It was meant to test the waters, gauge Icicle’s reaction and the reactions of the pub’s other patrons—and since no one glowered or spat insults or threatened to makeherskin into a coat, that meant the Morningstar was safe enough, for now.
Icicle set down his pint, looking at her appraisingly. “You killed a troll?”
“I did,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s my job.”
“Killing trolls?”
“Killing faeries.”
“Oh.Oh!” Icicle’s brows scrunched together, as if he had realized something of monumental importance. “You wouldn’t happen to know the Butcher, would you?”
She barked a laugh, certain that it was him, now. “Yeah. Iamthe Butcher.”
There was a gasp behind them, and Lyssa turned to see the gangly boy flushing scarlet at her sudden attention.
“Sorry,” he said, pointing to his book. “I just… er… got to the good part.”
Icicle slid off his barstool, yanked off his coat, and took the seat directly next to Lyssa’s, nearly toppling over in the process. Brandy growled, and Lyssa nudged him gently with her foot to remind him to be quiet.
“That is… quite the outfit,” she said as Icicle settled himself again. It was even worse than she’d suspected—a billowing pink silk blouse complete with ruffles down the front and lace cuffs, a pale yellow cravat that covered what little of his neck the high collar left exposed, an emerald green satin waistcoat with peonies embroidered all over it, formfitting orange pants that left very little to the imagination, and heeled shoes that looked more suitable for the polished floors of a palace than the uneven cobbles of a backwater town like Bleakhaven. Lyssa was hardly an expert on fashion, but it looked like an odd mixture of styles from various decades,as though he had brought a book on the history of clothing to his tailor and selected pieces at random to create the ensemble. The only thing it had going for it was the pants. Icicle hadverysculpted legs. If she had to guess, she would say dancing.
“You’re the Butcher?” he asked.
“That’s what I said.”
Icicle beamed at her. “I have been trying desperately to reach you! My name is Al…” He slurred the rest, took a breath, and tried again. “Alderic Casimir de Laurent.”
“Al!” Lyssa said brightly, and his expression became pinched.
“Please, don’t call me Al.”
Lyssa ignored him, turning an accusatory look on Molly. “You said you didn’t know him.”
