Price continued to shake his head as he and the other thieves left Hadrian and Royce on the bridge and headed down the streets on the far bank.
“Well, that was pleasant, don’t you think?” Hadrian said as they retraced their steps, heading back up the hill toward Capital Boulevard. “Nice bunch of guys. I feel a little disappointed they only sent four.”
“Trust me, they were plenty dangerous. Price is the Diamond’s First Officer, and the other two quiet ones were bucket men. There were also six more, three on each side of the bridge, hiding under the ambush lip, just in case. They weren’t taking any chances with us. Does that make you feel better?”
“Much, thanks.” Hadrian rolled his eyes. “Duster, huh?”
“Don’t call me that,” Royce said, his tone serious. “Don’t ever call me that.”
“Call you what?” Hadrian asked innocently.
Royce sighed, then smiled at him. “Walk faster; apparently, we have a client waiting.”
She awoke to a rough hand on her thigh.
“Whatcha got in the purse, honey?”
Disoriented and confused, the girl wiped her eyes. She was in the gutter beneath the Tradesmen’s Arch. Her hair was a filthy tangle of leaves and twigs, her dress a tattered rag. She clutched a tiny purse to her chest, the drawstring tied around her neck. To most passing by, she might appear as a bundle of trash discarded on the side of the road, or a pile of cloth and twigs absently left behind by the street sweepers. Still, there were those who were interested even in piles of trash.
The first thing she saw when her eyes could focus was the dark, haggard face and gaping mouth of a man crouching over her. She squealed and tried to crawl away. A hand grabbed her by the hair. Strong arms forced her down, pinning her wrists to her sides.
She felt his hot breath on her face and it smelled of liquor and smoke. He tore the tiny purse from her fingers and pulled it from around her neck.
“No!” She wrenched a hand free and reached out for it. “I need that.”
“So do I.” The man cackled, slapping her hand aside. Feeling the weight of coins in the bag, he smiled and stuffed the small pouch in his breast pocket.
“No!” she protested.
He sat on her, pinning her to the ground, and ran his fingers down her face, along her lips, stopping at her neck. Slowly they circled her throat and he gave a little squeeze. She gasped, struggling to breathe. He pressed his lips hard against hers, so hard she could tell he was missing teeth. The rough stubble of his whiskers scratched her chin and cheeks.
“Shush,” he whispered. “We’re only getting started. You need ta save your strength.” He lifted off, pushing himself up to his knees, and reached for the buttons of his britches.
She struggled, clawing at him, kicking. He pinned her arms under his knees and her feet found only air. She screamed. The man replied by slapping her hard across the face. The shock left her stunned, staring blindly while he returned to work on his buttons. The pain did not hit her yet, not fully. It was there welling up, fire hot on her cheek. Through watering eyes, she saw him on top of her as if viewing the scene from a distance. Individual sounds were lost, replaced by a dull hum. She saw his cracked, peeling lips moving, his throat muscles shifting, long gangly cords, but never heard the words. She freed one arm, but it was captured and stuffed back down out of sight once more.
Behind him, she could see two figures approaching. Somewhere inside her, a thread of hope came alive, and she managed a weak whisper: “Help me.”
The foremost man drew a massive sword and, holding it by the blade, swung the pommel. Her attacker fell sprawling across the gutter.
The man with the sword knelt down beside her. He was merely an outline against the charcoal sky, a phantom in the dark.
“May I be of assistance, milady?” She heard his voice—a nice voice. His hand found hers and he pulled her to her feet.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Hadrian Blackwater.”
She stared at him. “Really?” she managed, refusing to let go of his hands. Before she realized it, she began to cry.
“What’d you do to her?” the other man asked, coming up behind them.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Are you squeezing her hand too hard? Let her go.”
“I’m not holding her. She’s holding me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her voice quavered. “I just never thought I would ever find you.”
“Oh, okay. Well, you did.” He smiled at her. “And this fellow here is Royce Melborn.”
She gasped and threw her arms around the smaller man’s neck, hugging him tight and crying even harder. Royce stood awkward and stiff while Hadrian peeled her off.
“So I get the impression you’re glad to see us; that’s good,” Hadrian told her. “Now, who are you?”
“I’m Thrace Wood of Dahlgren Village.” She was smiling. She could not help herself. “I have been looking for you for a very long time.”
She staggered.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m a little dizzy.”