Page 149 of Fractured Fates
“I’m sorry,” Andrew whispers, “I’m really sorry, Rhi, I had no choice.”
“Ahh look at that. He’s sorry,” the voice says, now dripping with sarcasm. “Beat it kid, before I …”
Whoever the man stood behind me is, he doesn’t need to finish his threat. Andrew turns on his heels and sprints away, soon lost in the shadows and the swirling sea mist, his footsteps dying away on the sidewalk.
I turn around.
The man behind me is bathed in shadow but I can see he’s tall and broad. Easily twice my size.
“Who are you?” I ask, strangely calm. “And what do you want?”
The man chuckles and steps into the light of the flickering lamp above him. “You don’t know?”
He’s younger than his deep voice suggests. In his mid-twenties perhaps. His hair is jet black, swept back from his face, and his skin is olive. Several scars cross his face, one running the length of his cheek, another slicing his eyebrow in two.
A heavy silver chain rests around his neck and underneath it crawls tattoos, many more scribbled all over the skin of his hands and his arms. Hoops hang in a line along the lobes of his ears and his fingers are covered in heavy silver rings.
“Marcus Lowsky,” I say and the man shakes his head and chuckles.
“No, little mouse. Not him. Want to guess again?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Shame.” He steps forward, his gaze flicking down my form, his tongue sliding along the rim of his lower lip. “I like to play games. I was hoping you did too.”
“Who are you?” I repeat, taking a decided step backwards. “And what do you want?”
From the corners of my eyes, I assess my surroundings. The road I’m standing in is a dead end; the man in front of me blocking my exit. There are two doors on this street though, one on either side of the road. If I could blast him, perhaps I’d have enough time to run. But am I better running the way I came, or opting for one of those doors?
“Ahhh you’re gonna run,” the man says, cocking his head to one side, an excitable smile playing on his lips. “I love it when they run. It makes things so much more interesting.”
“I don’t know who you are, but I’m not interested in playing any games with you. My friends will be here any minute and–”
“Rhianna Blackwaters,” the man says, stepping forward another pace, “I’ve been watching you for some time now. Let’s not pretend you have any friends. Well not if you want to count the one who just handed you over to me.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
He takes another step closer, so we’re only a foot apart.
“Watching you,” he says, tipping his head to one side, then the other, “sending you gifts.”
“Gifts?” I frown.
“You didn’t like my gifts, little mouse?” He fakes a pout. “I put so much thought into them too. I know how much you love pigs so…” He grins at me widely and a gold tooth glints in the far recesses of his mouth.
“That was you,” I whisper, fear slowly slipping down my spine. The ham, the pig’s trotter. Winnie was right. It wasn’t anyone in the school. It was this man.
As I stare at him, he plunges one hand into the pocket of his jeans and tugs out an object. For a moment, I don’t understand what it is. Then the lamplight catches it and a blade glints silver. My knife.
“You work for the Wolves of Night, for Marcus Lowsky.”
“I am the Wolves of Night.” He takes another step towards me, spinning the knife in his fingers, and I realize I’m frozen to the spot, that his words have weaved a magic around me without me even noticing, and now I’m held here, unable to move, unable to run, unable to fight. “I am their knife, slicing through the night, silent and deadly. I am their angel of death, delivering vengeance swiftly and … well …” he chuckles, flicking his thumbnail against the blade, “sometimes not so swiftly. Sometimes I like to take my time.”
He runs his tongue along his lower lip for a second time, slowly as if he’s teasing me, and though I’m frozen in place, I feel that hook in my stomach, tugging at me.
The man frowns.
“Lowsky wants you dead, little mouse.”
