Page 10 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

Murder

Elsewhere in the castle, a man was being murdered.

As the cooks put the final touches on the canapés for the ball; as, across the island, men shined their shoes and women adjusted their jewels; in one room of that silver-flecked castle, a life was about to be brought to a violent and unlawful end.

King Halam had been sitting, not on a throne (thrones are neither comfortable nor practical), but in a broad-backed mahogany chair at a desk inlaid with cherrywood. In a few minutes, he would put down his pen to prepare himself for the feast.

The room was half dark. He hadn’t troubled to light the lamp and was writing by the light of the fire.

Suddenly the door swung open and a man entered without knocking—which was unheard of. The man wore a thick hood, which cast the top half of his face in shadow. His expression, hidden by the cloak, was hungry; hungry as a chasm is hungry.

The intruder did not hesitate. He crossed to the old man. The king recognized him with pleasure, and therefore he did not cry out.

“Yes?” said the king.

The intruder carried a tumbler, carefully, in one gloved hand. He put it down on the desk. From a vial he poured a reddish liquid into the tumbler. A splash stained his gloves. He laid a hand on the king’s cheek.

“What are you doing?” said the king.

“Drink this.” The glass was thrust into his hand.

“I will not. What’s the meaning of this? Why—?”

Why was the king’s last word.

The younger man jerked his wrist, and the king’s head was suddenly tilted backward, and into his shocked-open mouth a rivulet of bitter liquid was poured.

It acted instantly. The king began to gasp for air.

The killer waited for the king to cease moving. With painstaking care he wrapped the vial of poison in a handkerchief, making sure that none touched his skin or clothes. He put it in his pocket.

He went to drop the gloves in the fire, thought better of it—for the flames were low, and would not burn fast enough—and hid them high inside the recess of the chimney. He hung up the cloak—which in fact belonged to the king—in a cupboard and left.

Anyone who was studying the man as he left the king’s room would have noticed that, for just ten seconds, he breathed like he had run a thousand times round the castle walls.

Then he got control of himself. His smile, if anyone had encountered him, would have struck them as entirely acceptable and proper.

A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain.