Beatrice Taylor, Bella to her friends (though she felt rather short of those lately outside of herself), was bored. Her father had been annoyed by the intrusion of the duke's men and had confined her to her bedroom as a result. With nothing better to do, she’d gone through her things and rearranged the decorations in her room. Now, she was done, and there was nothing left to do but read, sleep, or try her luck at sneaking out.

She flopped down on her bed and huffed out a frustrated sigh, staring up at the two necromantically preserved heads on her bedstand, their glassy eyes staring back at her unthinkingly. The duke's men had come and confiscated corpses and parts from the industrial-grade crypt in the back of the mansion, but hadn't searched through the house, much less the kitchen or Bella’s bedroom.

Gelle's roasted flesh would grace the Taylor table tonight, though Beatrice herself wouldn't be in attendance in the dining room. She hoped the servants could be convinced to bring her up an extra portion of meat when dinner was served. But that was hours and hours in the future; dinner would not come until after sunset. She sat up, staring with longing at the latched window.

Her father's anger was justifiable, she told herself, summoning up a rare measure of guilt. She'd been the one to order the bodies purchased from the coroner. She wasn't going to apologize. She knew that she deserved to be punished for bringing trouble on her house, but she couldn't bring herself to lasting regret over what she'd done.

Guilt faded, replaced by a sense she was unfairly persecuted. Her father had bought bodies on the sly from the coroner before. He probably would even have bought those particular bodies on the sly from the corner on his own if someone else hadn't beat them to it – the opportunity to pick up a batch of largely-intact bodies all at the same time was not a common one, and it had been unusually economical.

It was simply bad luck that they'd been caught this particular time. And on a personal level, it was worth it. She’d drawn great satisfaction from ingesting the choicest parts of her fallen rivals and mocking the dead women face to face with the fact that they would not grace the duke's bed. If the duke wanted what was left of them in his bed, he'd have to take her there instead. They were part of her now.

Idly, she fantasized about killing the duke’s other intended brides. She'd followed the news related to the wedding closely. Surely it wouldn't be too hard. They were noblewomen – idlers like Ivette and Gelle, with tender soft muscles marbled with fat. It would be easy to poison the wine served at the banquet, or slip something in their food, or to strangle them one by one. They were weak. Soft. Delicate and delectable.

If she killed enough of them, following in the footsteps of the unknown murderer, the duke would surely have to marry her instead. She shook her head. Sadly, she was stuck here until her father decided she'd been punished enough. She could sneak out for an hour or two unnoticed, perhaps enough to go on a short shopping trip; not enough to find out enough. She stared into a pair of glass eyes set in a lovely face and wondered if the duke had sampled Ivette’s charms before deciding to marry her.

Both had been comely women, and the necromancer had done a good job preserving them. Perhaps she should have them animated to speak, she thought to herself. For now, though, they made lovely wig stands. Their hair was lovely, too – both a lustrous golden blonde, Ivette’s showing gentle waves and Gelle’s hair holding lovely ringlets. Perhaps the duke had a weakness for blondes; maybe if she wore a blonde wig to the wedding, it would catch the duke's eye.

Her gaze flickered over to the window one more time. She was so bored.

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Sir Simon watched for a moment as Zephyr melted into the stream of travelers passing through the gate, and then shook his head, having lost sight of the man. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, repeating under his breath what the mysterious man had told him. Think of the ocean. Zephyr claimed it was less risky to return openly in the daylight, as long as one held the right meditations on divine creations in mind. There was no reason the ducal guard would bar a known knight from entering the city; and who was to say when and how Sir Simon had left?

It had been by night, via a boat lowered over the eastern wall and poled through the Foss Islands. He’d just escorted his sister Gelle back to the Golden Fleece from the duke’s foster sister’s ball, where Gelle had danced with the duke with his encouragement. At the ball where Ivette de Greystoke, shy and reserved, had hidden for most of the first half, and then danced with the duke, Sir Osric d’Ivry, and Sir Giles of Northumbria – the latter both ranking him as the sons of nobles.

Though Ivette’s mother had sought to focus the girl’s attention on men of greater rank, her father, Baron Henry de Greystoke, was a fellow fisher. Simon hoped that he’d earned the man’s favor well enough to get his daughter’s hand, especially after doing Henry’s mysterious Yorkish friend Zephyr the favor of putting down Roland d’Ivry… and done himself the favor of ridding the world of Osric d’Ivry, as well. After all, Ivette had danced in Sir Osric’s arms, eyes fastened to his as if nailed in place.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Zephyr’s offered payment for Simon ridding the world of a pair of vile bloodsuckers was nothing material – a spiritual blessing and, after the fact, the promise of a good word in Henry de Greystoke’s ear – but in a certain light, that made him a professional duelist. Some might call him a murderer. Simon hoped that Henry would consider Sir Simon as a great champion and suitable suitor once Zephyr delivered the good news.

After another minute of staring without seeing the vanished Zephyr, Simon nervously adjusted his sword belt one last time and pulled back the hood of his cloak. Then he briskly walked towards the gate, focusing on the thought of waves rippling out to the horizon. The guards posted to either side nodded courteously to him as he walked through; the dog sitting next to the one on the left-hand side fixed him with a curious look.

Simon pushed reciprocal curiosity out of his mind, focusing instead on waves rolling to the horizon, the ocean stretching out in his mind’s eye as he walked through the massive gatehouse. He had not left the gatehouse when his eyes latched on something familiar – those blonde curls! Clearly his sister, though her back was to him. Gelle’s ringlets were unmistakable.

She was holding up a ring in her hand as she argued with a merchant. The merchant frowned and grabbed her by the arm, just above the elbow. Simon dashed forward.

“Unhand her at once!” he shouted.

Startled, the merchant let go, and the woman glanced over in his direction. Dark eyes flickered under dark eyebrows – not Gelle.

It was Simon’s turn to be shocked, but he was in motion, smashing into the merchant as he stared sideways at the blonde curls bobbing rapidly away from him over a billowing cloak, the woman fleeing from the sudden altercation rather than staying to offer her gratitude. Simon picked himself up off of the cobblestones and a hand grabbed at his ankle.

It was the merchant, still laid out on the cobblestones, and he was wheezing as he tried to shout. “Guards, guards! A thief-accomplice! Ahoy Monk Bar, I said guards!”

Simon sighed. He could make this right. He bent over, offering the man his hand. “My apologies, goodsir, but by my honor, I assure you that whatever she ran off with, I will endeavor to make right.”

“It was a short-scale springbow,” the merchant said, grasping the offered hand and standing most of the way up. “With six mage-tempered springs. One of a set of six I brought from Cambridge.”

Simon swallowed nervously. A springbow. He’d never considering buying one – they had no real advantage over a crossbow – but he knew that anything using mage-tempered steel would carry an expensive price. “I have not so much coin on me, but I am staying at the Golden Fleece. You can send a bill there with the fair price and I will settle it.”

The merchant wheezed out a laugh, then grabbed onto his arm. “You must think me new in town. Nobody is staying at the Golden Fleece. Guards! Guards! A thief-accomplice! Guards!”

Simon did not resist as a pair of town militiamen took hold of his arms. “This is all a misunderstanding,” he said as they took his sword.

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“You’ve quite an interesting sword, Sir Simon. If that’s truly who you are.” The militia night captain crossed his arms, eyes glinting ruddily in the dimness. Next to him, a bored-looking soldier held the sheathed sword in question. “A pure silver surface. I wonder if it might even be solid silver and mage-tempered. Enchanted in some fashion. I mislike touching it, even the handle. Gives me the creeps.”

Sir Simon stared silently through the metal bars, his cheeks damp. Bluish-white moonlight poured through the tall stained-glass windows of the chapter house of the militia barracks, but left the high vaulted roof dark. Nor did the moonlight much reach the holding cells lining the northeastern three-eighths of the octogonal chapter house. He did not have any words to say, not that he would say anything to the creature now taunting him.

His treasured sister Gelle was dead. His father, a true master of the sword, dead without a chance to strike a blow against his killer. His gentle mother – murdered by the same. The noble Henry de Greystoke would fund no projects, and his lovely daughter Ivette would never marry Simon. Simon had not been there to rescue them – or would he have died, too, choked by noxious gas in his sleep?

“Don’t want to talk about it? I’m sure the ducal guard will have it out of you in the morning. Ordinary theft is a matter for the city, but if you’re part of the Golden Fleece plot, that will be a matter for the castle.” The night captain smiled toothily. “They’ll have it all out of you. Has Sir Thomas a fortune for you to inherit by claiming to be his son?”

Simon lay down on the stone floor, silently staring up through the bars at the glittering stained glass, seeking an elusive peace of heart. Sir Thomas had no great fortune, only a modest sum of wealth; the only great inheritance left lacking an heir in the wake of the attack was that belonging to Baron Henry de Greystoke.

“So he did have a fortune. But you only proclaimed your identity when questioned… perhaps you are his son, and you murdered him before he could disown you. You’ve been hiding to avoid the duke’s investigation.” The night captain laughed harshly. “Yes, I think you are Sir Simon. With such a disturbing sword, I can believe you a patricide. Perhaps tomorrow night I’ll see your body hanging.”

Simon choked off a sob. The only witness he knew could testify that he left York hours before the attack took place was Zephyr. Naming the mysterious man as his associate would be a betrayal of a fellow fisher – nor was it likely to do good for Simon himself. Simon screwed his eyes shut, seeking sleep.

Less than a mile away, with a full belly and a new toy in her closet, Bella slept happily.