Wicked Hunt

Chapter Twelve, Part I

Rafe: Whispers On The Wind

Rafe was given Lord Viktor's own room while they stayed in Carez. It was a quaint space with modest decorations. The air was stale and warmed with a sickly scent that made Rafe's head spin. The moment the door was closed, he bent and kicked the fire in the pit out. The light faded, sparks flicking off his boots. He turned and retrieved the wavering candle on the table by the door. He used it to guide himself to the window and opened it to let the smoke out.

It was an expansive view of the Grey Sea, complete with seagull and crashing, white waves. The air felt cool and refreshing, littered with salt and sand. He watched birds swirling over the violent sprays, black v's in the dimming sunlight. His stomach churned every time he inhaled the salty air. He stepped back and slammed the window shut. The glass was flecked with the spittle from the ocean, coated in a filthy grime. It was the only house in Carez with glass windows, and Rafe was grateful. At least the crashing sound of waves would be stifled. He flung the curtains hastily over the window to block out the sickening water. His head felt heavy, and he sat down, clutching the candle tighter in his gloved hand.

The darker it got, the higher the chance of seeing Five-Fingers. Rafe rolled his shoulders, focusing on what that might entail: a rough scuffle, chases down dirty side streets, Five-Fingers crooked nose and ugly features, Rafe's hand connecting with his dimpled chin...

Surely, the man had been doing something illegal. Something sinister but not so wicked to have him arrested and sent to the Hive, the towering prison in the south. Coming to Carez wouldn't be as much fun if Five-Fingers were not there. He glanced at the curtained window, studying the sunset through the cloth. Only a couple more hours until evening. He stood and strode to the door, his boots making the floor creak.

As he went out into the hall, servants bustled by him frantically, eager to make the house presentable for his untimely arrival. Rafe liked showing up unannounced and without using a single route for the patrol. Easier to catch someone in something. Easier to make people uncomfortable. "Where is Lord Forest?" Rafe called out to one of them, a young woman with drooping features and sporadic freckles. Her back faced him, and he saw her take a steadying breath before turning around. Her smile was forced.

"Down in the dining room, sir," she mumbled. "All is ready and awaiting you. Please." She gestured for him to make his way down the stairs, her hand shaking slightly. Rafe nodded curtly and descended the groaning staircase. Each time his boot shifted lower; the wood protested. He was sure the steps were not the only things in Carez to do so.

The entrance hall was dull and dusty. Cobwebs clung to the corners near the ceiling. The whole house felt vacant, as if it were put away and brought out only when distinguished guests came. The air was musty with disuse; every sound around him felt magnified to an unbearable volume. Every new face that greeted him on his way to the dining room was pinched and pale, somber with every smile and hello. He wondered absently if any of them had ever learned to smile before.

"Commander," Lord Viktor said, crossing his arms. The faded chair he was seated in was scooted back abruptly. The deep scratch across the hardwood indicated he did this often without a care for blemishing its smooth surface.

Lord Viktor looked skinner and paler than the last time Rafe had seen him, six months ago. Wrinkles were etched into the white skin on his forehead and beneath his lips. They had not been as deep before. His hair was thin and wispy, a crooked, white crown atop his head. When he smiled, it stretched tightly over his skin. It was as if it were pulled another inch, it might snap off and shoot around the room.

"Lord Forest," Rafe greeted tonelessly. He glanced around at the empty chairs then back at Viktor. "Will your wife and daughters not be joining us?" Lord Viktor let out a cracked cackle. It broke after several seconds, and he coughed to wet his throat.

"Penelope left two weeks ago." He waved his long fingers back and forth. When he did, dust mites trailed after them in the diminishing light. "Took the girls with her," he added lower. Rafe nodded.

"Well, you can hardly blame her," he replied bluntly, roaming his eyes over the sparse adornments and stuffy furniture. Viktor's eyes widened in shock. He swallowed and fiddled with a faded amulet around his neck. Everything in the room was faded. Badly outdated and in some state of decay. Rafe stared at him severely. Then, he dragged the chair across from Viktor out and sat down, scraping the legs over the wood as the lord had done. He crossed his arms and waited.

Eventually, Viktor regained some of his composure, what little the man had to begin with, and smiled oddly again. He sank into his seat and scooted closer to the table. "I was hoping to be invited to the king's wedding." His voice sounded like it was trapped inside a tin container. "I was sorry to not receive an invitation." His eyes lowered as if he were a wounded animal. He spun the amulet around in his hand. Rafe studied it, trying to make out what it was. "Or perhaps it got lost in the mail?" Viktor asked hopefully.

"The king did not want you there," Rafe responded evenly.

"He did not want me there," Viktor muttered under his breath. He brought a hand up to his head and flicked it through his hair.

Suddenly, the doors from the kitchen burst open. Steaming plates were brought before them and situated throughout the table: some watery bird, mashed and dried so that the only thing it resembled was vomit; a yellowed soup with brown pieces of something floating in it; and hard bread that Rafe could tell was possibly three years old just by glancing at it. Viktor reached forward and dipped some of the soup into his bowl, his tongue lulling out of the corner of his mouth. Rafe's stomach rolled.

"The soup is delicious, a delicacy here in Carez. Only the best for you, sir," Viktor stated proudly.

"It looks like piss," Rafe offered, eyeing it with unveiled disdain. Viktor's face fell. He stopped ladling the soup out. He sucked his tongue back into his mouth. The doors opened again, and a man brought Rafe and Viktor a goblet each.

"Wine from Hawthorne," he squeaked. Rafe watched as a dark purple wine was dribbled into his cup. He picked it up and swirled it around, smelling it.

"Carez has been trading with Hawthorne?" he asked, tilting the goblet so that it barely brushed is lips. It tasted bitter.

A witch's brew, he thought. He sat the cup back down and steepled his fingers in his lap.

"Are there restrictions again?" Viktor asked in a choked voice. His spoon clattered loudly on the table where it had fallen from his fingers. "Because I had no idea"

"No," Rafe interrupted, "nothing like that."