Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 15.2: No man is an island

Cw for mentions of violence, death and blood

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They all turned towards the door, where a young man stood.

Grayson wouldn't have recognised him had it not been for the similarities he shared with Juliet. His sister. Thomas Doyle.

Same brown hair, eyes, and long, lean figure. But where Juliet had a girlish warmth to her, Thomas was all hard lines. It took Grayson a moment to remember he was roughly Cedric's age, because the man in front of him seemed more like a battle-hardened veteran than Cedric, an actual seasoned general.

Thick brows settled low on glittering brown eyes, offsetting the harsh angles of his soot-stained cheeks and chin. He looked like he'd just come out of work, at this time of night, his clothes stained, carrying a pick-axe over his wide shoulder.

"Frank here got injured from trying to save another kid from being snatched," he continued gruffly, as he made his way into the room, his bulky worker boots dragging soot and muck in their wake.

He planted his palms against the table heavily, leaning closer, staring at Grayson unflinchingly. "A kid he didn't manage to save."

Grayson flinched. He could feel Cedric stiffening next to him.

"Is this true?" Cedric frowned, darting between Frank and Thomas. "There was another one?"

Frank said nothing, he only looked away and grumbled, but Thomas's mouth turned down wryly. "Third one this month. Little Ralphie Wicks. Taken just three days ago."

So it was as Cedric said. People were being snatched left and right. Three in a month, and just from this town. Fates. Juliet's pie settled in his stomach like a leaden weight, the warmth of the cider in his belly suddenly cold and sticky.

"What happened?" Grayson found himself uttering, almost thoughtlessly. "This happened before? How is it that I've never heard of this?"

Immediately, he regretted it. Thomas's face morphed into a brutal sneer, and beside him, Juliet winced, and even Frank sighed heavily.

"You haven't heard because you people don't care. You think we didn't go to the uppers with this? Is that it? Because we did. Plenty of times. The first time it happened, we went straight to the Big Man in charge. I actually thought he'd do something," Thomas laughed bitterly.

"Four days of travel, we borrowed a carriage and everything, and the whole town chipped in to split the costs. We got there, foolishly hopeful, and the Earl wouldn't even speak to us. We waited for hours, just for a secretary of some sort to come out and tell us his master was busy."

"Do you want to know what he said when we tried to plead our case, to tell him about all of the missing people?" Thomas's lip curled, showing his teeth, a mock of a grin. "He said the Earl couldn't be bothered with such petty issues. He told us to go pray, and maybe the fates would take pity on us."

Thomas's jarring, bitter laugh rattled Grayson to his very bones. He breathed roughly, tugging a hand through his curls. Lord Allen was in charge of the area in which Brightmore resided, the earldom of Doncaster. He was the one who should have reported this to Grayson immediately.

Grayson damn well paid him a handsome amount from the treasury to maintain these lands. It was his bloody job, not a favour he was paying to the citizens. He'd seen the man a mere fortnight ago. He'd written to him many times, asking for updates, and he hadn't thought it necessary to mention. Grayson was furious.

"How long has this been going on?" he asked tightly. "How many times has this happened?"

"I don't know, a year maybe?" Thomas dropped back into a chair and massaged the back of his neck, wincing. "It's gotten worse the past months. It's like they don't even bother hiding it anymore. Snatching people left and right, in broad daylight even."