Page 20 of A Heist for Filthy Rivals (Mythic Holidays #3)

I didn’t kill him.

I should have fucking killed him.

I slam the door of the tower room and stumble across the floor to the map table, where I can activate the shields for the doors. There’s got to be a shield for the observation room as well. If I can seal the door and lock myself safely inside—

“Well, well, well.” A burly figure emerges from the shadows. It’s Slaughter, the man who got cursed by my flame trap. One of the two murderous cousins.

I ease my knife out of its sheath. My gaze flicks over him, gauging the threat he poses. His size is dangerous, of course, even to someone with my training. He doesn’t seem to have a pack or weapons anymore, but anything could be concealed in the leather compartments along his belt.

It’s hard to take him seriously, though. He’s covered in bloody cuts and bruises. His hair is glopped into clumps thanks to the bucket of milk I rigged up in the room with the west window. What’s left of his ragged clothes is a sodden mess of soft butter, honey, and feathers.

Despite the rage on his face, I can’t help a tiny giggle at his appearance.

“How did you make it up here?” I ask. “The traps—you should have been stuck in that stone paralysis snare.”

“Oh, I was,” he rumbles, his Vexxan accent thickening with his anger.

“I’ve been on the second floor, frozen like a statue, with feathers in my mouth.

Then that explosion happened. The magic holding me fizzled out and I got free.

It came with a cost, though.” He points to his face. “I lost three more of my teeth.”

I cock my head. “At least the right side matches the left one.”

His face reddens between the purple bruises. “I’ve got you now, you little cunt-rag.”

He lunges, but he’s limping, so I’m able to dart aside. Screeching his anger, he snatches up one of the spheres and hurls it at me.

I’m too tired, too slow. The orb glances off the side of my head, and I’m thrown off balance. A second orb crashes into my chest with such force that my knife flies from my hand and I choke, gasping from the pain.

Slaughter attacks me, shoving me to the floor, wrapping coils of pliant wire round and round my throat.

I didn’t even see the wire; he must have been palming it.

There are tiny spikes along its length, and when I start to struggle, they graze my skin sharply, threatening to pierce. Horrified, I freeze.

“That’s right, whore. Be still.” Slaughter gives me a horrible, gap-toothed smile. “I’m your master now. You’ll do what I say, or bleed out.”

After searching me and tossing away my remaining knives, he stands up, holding the ends of the wire but keeping them lax. As long as I don’t twist or move away, I won’t cut my own throat… yet.

“Tell me how the communication works,” he says. “How can I find the others in my crew? How can I talk to them?”

When I remain silent, his fingers twitch, and the tiny spikes on the wire poke into my flesh, not tearing my skin yet, but almost.

“The spheres,” I say hoarsely. “They’re connected to the eyes. Look into them to find your people. Twist the ornament at the top to enable the transfer of sound.”

“It’s good to know that you have enough sense to do as you’re told. I’m going to contact my boys, and then we’ll talk about where you put the Doras álainn. Torturing it out of you will be the highlight of my day.”

“What if I tell you where it is?”

Slaughter vents a coarse laugh. “There’s gonna be pain either way. You can’t do this shit to a man and expect to get away with it. You’ll tell me what I want to know. After that, you’ll take my cock. Then you’ll bleed, and when I’m done making you bleed, you’ll die.”

He pays out more of the wire, giving himself enough slack to wander farther from me. I’m still trapped, though. If I try to get free, I risk the wires chewing through my neck.

“Ah, I see him! There he is, the lucky bastard,” mutters Slaughter, peering into a sphere. He fumbles with the ornament on top, then yells, “Ravager! You lazy-ass son of a bitch, what are you lying down for? I got her! I’m up in the tower, and I got her!” He laughs with maniacal triumph.

Ravager’s voice sounds ragged and weary. “You got her?”

“Sure did. I’ve leashed her like the bitch she is. Gonna have myself a little fun while I wait for you to get up here.”

“Have some respect, Slaughter.” Am I imagining it, or is there a thread of panic in Ravager’s voice?

He keeps talking, quickly, urgently. “That woman is a fellow thief. We need to maintain some decorum where she’s concerned, understand?

No violating of her person. It wouldn’t be right with the thief’s code.

We can kill her, sure, but no torture or rape.

That’s not how I want things to be done. ”

While they’re talking, I’m easing a miniature multitool from its snug pocket inside my left sleeve.

It includes a tiny pair of wire cutters, which I carefully unfold, trying not to move too quickly and draw Slaughter’s attention.

When he glances toward me, I freeze, palming the tool, lying rigidly still as if I’m trying not to cause more damage to my throat.

Slaughter turns back to the sphere. “She deserves what’s coming to her. This is what I do to fools who cross me. I fuck them bloody, first with my cock, then with my knives. I leave every hole blood-wet and gaping. It’s my signature.”

“This crew is different. I told you that when you signed on. And if I’d known that you—” Ravager cuts himself off. “You do any of that to her, and you’ll pay with your own blood.”

“What about just sticking my gob down her throat? I like making them swallow the spew first, and then I cut the neck afterward to see if cum spills out—”

Ravager makes a strangled sound. I think he gagged. “We just kill. We do not rape, not in any form. You’re one sick motherfucker, Slaughter. After this job, you need to find another crew.”

“If you’re right about the take on this one, I won’t need another crew,” Slaughter growls. “If you’re going to be a spoilsport, I’ll just kill her right now, and you can search this fucking building for the Doras álainn. One, two, three—and it’s done.”

He yanks the wire, but I’ve already clipped it and eased myself out. When Slaughter’s tug on the wire meets no resistance, he glances over, frowning.

Ravager’s voice booms through the tower room. “What do you mean, done? Slaughter? Did you kill her? What the fuck did you do?”

Slaughter paces through the spheres toward me, murder in his eyes. “You said I should just kill her, boss.” He places rebellious emphasis on the last word.

“Fuck.” Ravager’s voice cracks. There’s true regret in the sound.

Startled, I look toward the sphere with his image. I’m too far away to see his face, but I can tell he’s sitting on the floor. He lifts one fist and slams it against the boards, then leaps up and strides out of my field of vision.

Is he sorry that I supposedly died?

Slaughter’s body crashes into me, knocking me against another pedestal. I punch a bloody spot on his side and when he grunts in pain, I slither from his grasp.

I race through the room, dodging around spheres, trying to get to a spot where I can pick up one of my knives—preferably the big dagger I took from Ravager.

Slaughter is barreling along behind me, knocking spheres from their pedestals as he goes. They don’t smash. They must be made of some incredibly durable material.

The dagger is on the other side of the room, so I have to improvise. I dash to the map table, leap onto its edge, and spring upward from there. My fingers catch one of the slim beams that crisscross the arch of the domed ceiling like a dark, gleaming spider’s web.

I swing hand over hand, flipping to face the oncoming Slaughter, and as he storms toward me, I arc my body back and launch myself into the air.

I grab onto another beam, whip myself around, and land neatly on his shoulders, like a child taking a piggy-back ride.

Immediately I lock my thighs around his neck, tightening them to cut off his air.

He sits down and throws his body backward, trying to crush or dislodge me, but I only intensify the thigh-lock around his throat.

Slaughter twists the stone on a heavy ring he’s wearing, and a triangular blade about the size of my thumbnail slides out.

He jabs the tiny weapon into my thigh muscles viciously, over and over.

Screaming, I drive my fingers into his eyes, deep as I can.

I gag at the way it feels, but I keep pushing while he shrieks with agony.

When I can’t bear it anymore, I let go and roll away from him, seizing my knife. He’s roaring slurred threats, sobbing curses, still lunging at me despite his wounded eyes.

There’s no pity in my heart for him. I know what he would have done to me. I wait for him to approach, and then, with two quick slashes of my blade, I slice both sides of his throat. His blood jets onto my clothing, and I recoil with a pained cry, gagging again.

He collapses, and I stand there, sweaty and shaking, watching him bleed out. My hair is plastered damply against my neck. I think I might vomit.

I drop my pack and tear off my bloodied outer clothing, leaving only the shirt and pants Lace made for me. They have blood on them too, but not as much.

Ravager bursts into the room, panting heavily, his eyes frantic.

He’s holding the knife he took from me. His jacket is off but he’s wearing his pack again.

His shirt is torn, exposing mottled bruises along his ribcage.

Numerous cuts cover his arms, and his face is beautifully bruised where I kicked him.

There’s plaster dust and ash in his brown hair.

He looks half-dead and fully enraged, but he stops as the scene before him registers.

A ragged laugh bursts from his throat. “I should have known you’d get the best of him.”

“You told him to kill me.”

“I was trying to spare you from something worse,” he rasps, stepping forward.