Page 3 of Kill the Beast
Clarke’s expression soured. “The bounty hunter we hired to get rid of the troll at Prince’s Pass? What do you want?” He shook his head, waving her off with greasy fingers. “No, no. Forget I asked.Whatever it is, my office will handle it. I have far more pressing matters to attend to at the moment—finishing this sandwich, for example.”
Lyssa snatched the sandwich out of his hand and took a bite before tossing the rest to Brandy, who swallowed it whole.
“Now you don’t have a sandwich, so my thing takes precedence.”
Clarke slammed his hands down on the table, rattling the silverware. “How dare you, you insolent bitch!”
“You can afford to have another one delivered to you later, I’m sure. Right now, you and I have business to discuss.”
“I told you, my office will handle it!” he roared.
“I have already been to your office,” Lyssa explained slowly, rolling up her shirtsleeves to expose the tattoos on her forearms: Ungharad’s flaming sword on her right, and a butcher’s cleaver crossed with a blacksmith’s hammer on the left. “They were unable to assist me.”
“So they sent youhere?” Clarke snapped, and in his expression Lyssa saw the promise of hell to pay. But her squabble was not with this man’s long-suffering secretary or cowering accountant, and she refused to let them be punished for telling her where to find him.
“They didn’tsendme anywhere, Mr. Clarke. I am a hunter. A good one. And you made for very easy prey.” She blew a stray hair out of her face. “You know, you should think about changing up your routine a little. A man with your wealth can afford to be spontaneous once in a while. Variety is the spice of life, after all. Isn’t that what they say?”
“What do youwant?” he demanded.
“I want what I am owed.” She removed the lid from the covered platter and dumped the troll’s head onto Mr. Clarke’s plate. Slime and au jus went flying, spattering every inch of the tablecloth—and Mr. Clarke. So much for the napkin.
Clarke tore said napkin from his collar and threw it on the floor. “You—”
“Your office refused to pay me what was advertised,” Lyssa spat. “They said the amount had been set at your behest, and they hadn’t the authority to give me a penny more.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t—”
“No?” Lyssa pulled the bounty advert out of her shirt pocket, the paper crinkled with dried troll blood, and unfolded it slowly before slapping it down on the table. “Here is the price that was advertised.” She took out the check she had received from Mr. Clarke’s office and slapped it down beside the flyer. “Here is what your accountant gave me.”
He looked at her incredulously. “B-but the difference is only a shilling!”
“A shilling I earned,” she growled, her anger spiking atonly.A shilling meant a hot meal with good meat in it. A place to sleep out of the cold. And the more shillings she collected from rich assholes, the more jobs she could do for destitute widows free of charge.
“But—”
“One thing you must understand, Mr. Clarke,” Lyssa said, putting the check back into her pocket, “is that I do not forget or forgive those who have wronged me. Robbing me—even of a shilling—is a tremendous wrong, in my book, and I suggest you balance our account while I am still willing to accept late payment. After that…” Lyssa grabbed the back of his head and forced his nose to the bounty advert. She unsheathed one of her knives with her other hand and slammed the point into the table an inch from his face, pinning the paper to the wood. “I will take something of equivalent value from you. Like your head. I am quite good at cutting them off, you see.” She forced him to turn, so that he was looking at the faerie monster she had killed for him and his suspension bridge. Its tongue pressed against his mouth, and he let out a whimper. “Or perhaps I could make you into something more useful than a mere trophy. The rest of this troll is being stitched into a coat as we speak. But you have a nice hide as well, supple and smooth.” She caressed his cheek with the back ofher hand, and he flinched violently. “Would you like to be a new set of gloves? A pair of boots? Oh, I know! Undergarments! So that you can kiss my ass all day long.”
“All right,” Clarke gasped. Lyssa let go of him and he sat up, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his expensive shirt. “I… I don’t have anything on me. I do most of my business on credit. But if you come by my office tomorrow—”
“Not good enough, Mr. Clarke. Brandy?” she said sweetly, and the bullmastiff’s ears pricked up at the indication of a command to follow. “Kill this man. Try to leave enough of him intact for undergarments.”
“Wait!” Clarke cried, cringing when Brandy growled at him. “T-take the silverware! A single fork is worth more than a shilling!”
Lyssa leaned against the table, her face an inch from his, and he shrank from her. “This establishment is not in my debt. You are.” A feral smile split her face as she looked him over. “Give me your belt, and we’ll call it square.”
He fumbled with the belt and surrendered it to her without argument. It was a fine thing, tooled with an elaborate, interlocking pattern of stylized wolves, the buckle genuine silver. Worth far more than all the forks in the entire restaurant, but Clarke’s expression suggested that he deemed the cost justified, if it meant this would be the last he saw of her.
Lyssa slung the belt over one shoulder, like she had just won a prizefight. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Clarke,” she said, plucking her knife out of the table and saluting him with it. “Think of me the next time you have a faerie that needs killing.”
CHAPTER
TWO
THE STREETS OFWarham were bustling, despite the cold. Lyssa strode down Hollyhock Avenue, picking stray pieces of rosemary from her teeth with a sliver of bone. She had pilfered a whole roast chicken and two treacle tarts from one of the tables on their way out of the Kingmaker, and had shared the meat with Brandy while they waited for the pawnbroker to assess the value of William Clarke’s belt. One of the tarts kept them occupied while the tailor put the finishing touches on Lyssa’s new troll-fur coat, and the second one went surreptitiously to the tailor’s assistant, who looked all of ten years old and was far too thin.
The indignant diner Lyssa had stolen the food from was one of the Billingsly boys—he and his brothers had thrown stones at Lyssa and Eddie once when they were children—and when he objected, threatening to have her thrown in jail for larceny, she’d plopped the troll’s head into his lap. A bit of slime on his clothing was the least he deserved; the torrent of vomit that had followed was merely a delightful bonus she hadn’t anticipated.
All in all, the afternoon had been quite a success.
