Page 3 of Til Death Duke Us Part
He didn’t have to say Well, yes, you should be ashamed because the wicked twist of his lips said it all.
“Tell me why you’re here,” she said, “and I won’t tell the constable. Unless you’re here for nefarious reasons. Then—” She shrugged.
“How’d a woman get to be a grave digger?”
“My husband was one. Then I had to dig a hole for him, and I just kept at it. How’d a transcendent get to be in an alchemist graveyard at night?”
“Someone dies”—he smirked, ignoring her question—“and you get the job?”
“And who had to die for you to get your position?” Transcendent titles and magic were passed down from eldest son to eldest son, only one man from every family of the peerage for every generation claiming all that power, and only after his father’s death.
He lifted a single brow. “Touché.” He stood, shook his head, and reached up for the ground to pull himself to freedom.
She’d been right. He didn’t need a bucket.
When he was free, she whipped out the knife she always kept at her hip and brandished it in his face. “Tell me why you’re here or I’ll call the constable. The choice is yours.” She would never allow these souls to be disturbed. He disrespected them with his running and falling and shrieking and likely stealing.
No more.
“What will it be?” she demanded.
With a world-weary sigh, he shifted his weight to one leg. “You’re a very tiresome woman. I may do as I wish.” He flicked his hand—the slightest of movements—and the light from her fairy orb dimmed. And a thick fog rolled across the graveyard.
Another glamour. This one blinding. Not even the remaining light of her dimmed orb could cut through the thick fog.
She did not see the hand wrap around her wrist. But she felt it—large and warm. No glove. Muscle flexed around her wrist, almost crushing it.
“Release the knife, little one.” The toff’s voice was like silk, and it curled around her like the fog.
“No.” She clawed at his hand where it held her with an unforgiving grip.
He didn’t even flinch. But he did tighten his hold. “Release…” Tighter. “The knife.” Tighter.
She yelped, whined, animal sounds caught in her throat. “Please…” Her hand seemed to open on its own, and the knife fell into the fog. She heard the soft thud as it met earth. The grip on her wrist loosened, but not enough for her to break free. The body so close to her rustled, moved. Crouched? Then disappeared entirely.
She snatched her hand out of the air and cradled it against her chest as she knelt and searched with her good hand for the knife. Gone.
“Damn you.”
“Good evening, Mistress Soil.”
“Damn you.”
A deep chuckle, then footsteps stalking across the ground, softly, swiftly.
“You cannot simply do what you want!” she cried out. The night swallowed her words.
“I always do.”
She could imagine him walking backward to face her, sweeping a low bow as he went, unfolding his long body and topping it with a smirk.
She ran toward the voice, froze. She’d fall into a grave if she ran in this fog. And she wasn’t as tall as he. And she didn’t have her bucket.
“Damn you!” she hissed. Then louder, because she had to, “What are you after?”
The fog was lifting, disappearing. It had begun to shimmer, waver, little bursts of light popping through. It had been a glamour, and now it was gone. The moon cast its yellow glow across the graveyard, and her fairy light was gone. She peered into the darkness after him.
No idea where he’d gone. But she had to catch him. She shot off toward the back of the graveyard where the richer alchemists were buried. The robber was a transcendent; he didn’t need money. But the deep edge of the cemetery was where all grave robbers went. At least those who knew.
