Widowmaker

Widowmaker: Chapters 1-5

Chapter 1

He's awake when I return home, as expected. We share a small space, me taking the single bedroom and him on a self-created nest in front of the fireplace in winter and by the window in summer. I've offered to buy him a bed if he's having money trouble, but he insists a mattress, whether stuffed with straw or feathers, isn't malleable enough for him to get comfortable on. When I shut the door behind me, he's sitting at our little kitchen table, a half full bottle of whiskey in one hand and his uniform jacket tossed unceremoniously on the floor. He raises the bottle in a salute as I set my bag down in the bedroom. "Good evening, my lady. How was your work night?"

I strip off my bloody dress out of sight of Caster's prying eyes, knowing he would sneak a peek if given half a chance. "Productive." I offer as little information as possible when discussing work with my Watcher roommate. He may think I'm a prostitute and risks his job knowing that much, but if he knew the truth, I don't think he'd be able to look the other way.

"Glad to hear it, Lyra. Why don't you join me for a drink, and I can tell you about my day?"

I roll my eyes as I reenter the kitchen, having donned a loose nightshirt over my leggings. I'm exhausted, but he's going to tell me about his day even if he has to do it while I'm laying in bed with my eyes closed. "Let me guess, you didn't get that promotion?" I snatch the bottle from him and fill a glass.

"You think so little of me," he shakes his head wearily. "Actually, I'll have you know that you are wrong. I got the promotion!"

"Congratulations," I say as we clink glasses. "What does that make you now? A Captain?"

"Lead investigator. I have my own squad. For now, we're doing fraud and stolen goods, but I'm going to talk them into letting me do homicide eventually."

I roll my eyes with a crooked smile. The whiskey warms my chest in a way little else does. "Already have your eyes on that next promotion? I'm not surprised."

"Lack of ambition is for the dead!" He chokes as he takes too big a drink and splutters.

"I can drink to that," I sip my own, watching him calculatingly. "Before I go to sleep and you forget about our conversation tonight, do you have the list for me?"

Caster holds up a shaky finger for my patience. "Yes, of course, it's around here somewhere." He shuffles through his drawers and pulls out a parchment bearing twelve names. "You'll see that I put them in order of importance, but that doesn't mean order of payment size."

I take the list and scan through them quickly. Barons, lords, and one duke. The names of men looking for company other than their wives at night. Men who have forgotten their women are independent thinkers who can hold a grudge, and who have quite a bit of money to inherit should their husbands die mysteriously. A percentage of a fortune is far more than what one of them would pay for a single night of bed warming.

"Thanks, Cas," I murmur as I notice his eyelids drooping wearily. The whiskey warmth in my chest turns to a sharp pain as I think about him becoming a homicide investigator. The wives take care of the clean up and cover up, so my hands always stay clean, but there's always the chance of him discovering my secret. He really is an impressive Watcher, and ambitious to a fault.

I remove the bottle from his death grip before it slips out of his hands and replace it on the shelf before heading to bed myself. My mind races as I listen to the beginnings of rain outside my window. There's always a moment like this after a kill. The anxiety of being discovered, the fear that the wife will out me anyways, wondering if Cas will somehow discover my trail and begin asking questions I cannot answer. But sure enough, my window slides open a crack and an envelope drops to the floor of my bedroom. I wait for a moment before retrieving it and searching the contents. My client's husband hadn't been exaggerating when he said he made a month's worth of salary in a day. My cut, ten percent of her initial inheritance, is written in bold letters on a bank note. Almost half a million dejars. I tuck the envelope and the note into the wall crack where it will stay until I meet with my banker. I don't need Cas wondering why a prostitute is paid in official bank notes, or why it's such an absurd amount.