The Beast

Assail put his backpack down at the base of the tree he had been taking cover behind, and then he strode into view, straightening his suit coat and tugging out his cuffs. When he hit the walkway that led to the front entrance, his loafers made a clipping sound. Zsadist, who tracked in his wake, made no sound as he stuck to the grass, staying just outside of the light thrown by the short lanterns at the edge of the flagstones.

When Assail got to the door, he tried the handle. No such luck this time; it was locked.

Using the bell, he had a smile on his face as the butler answered the summons. “Good evening, I’m afraid I am a good twenty minutes early. I do not wish to inconvenience your mistress, however. May I tarry in her parlor?”

As the doggen bowed low, Assail checked to make sure there was no one else in the foyer. And then, as the butler straightened, Assail outed his forty.

Such that the servant looked the muzzle eye-to-eye.

“Do not move a muscle,” Assail whispered. “And do not make a sound unless you are answering my questions. Do you wish to live?” Nod. “How many other staff are in the house?”

“S-s-s-seven.”

“Is Throe in residence?” Nod. “Where is he?”

“H-h-he is eating upstairs in his bedroom.”

Zsadist walked right into the house, and the doggen looked like he wanted to faint at the sight of that scarred face and those black eyes.

“Do not worry about him,” Assail said softly. “Focus on me.”

“I’m s-s-s-sorry.”

“Listen to me, and listen to me well. You have seven minutes to get the staff out of the house. That is one minute per person. Do not waste a moment. Do not explain why they have to leave. Tell them to gather at the base of the driveway. Do not alert your mistress. If you tell her of my presence, I will consider you a co-conspirator in the keeping of the blood slave whom I rescued last evening, and I will kill you where you stand. Am I clear?” Nod. “Tell me what I just told you.”

“Y-y-you . . . I have s-s-s-seven minutes to get the staff out. Head of the drive—”

“Base. I said the base of the driveway. I’ll be able to see you, because there is a streetlight there. And what about your mistress.”

A hard look came across the butler’s face, one that very probably was going to save his life. “I shall say not a word to her. She and her lover killed my master.”

“What is your name?”

“I am Tharem.”

“Tharem, I want you to go to the King’s Audience House after this. Tell them everything—what was in that basement, what she did to him, what I am doing here. Do you understand?”

“I took pictures,” the butler whispered. “On my phone. I didn’t know where to go with them.”

“Good. Show them. But go now. Seven minutes.”

The doggen bowed low. “Yes, my Lord. Right away.”

The uniformed male took off at a dead run, heading for the kitchen, and before Assail was even halfway to the main stairs, three doggen dressed in chef’s whites came rushing out through the dining room. One had flour all over his hands, and another had a pot with something in it. Their eyes were wide and afraid, suggesting that the butler had not stayed completely truthful to their bargain.

He clearly had imparted there were deadly forces within the house.

No matter. The motivation had worked, and it was obvious that there was naught to be worried about in terms of allegiances to Naasha. The three chefs took one look at him and his gun—and just ran even faster as opposed to causing a ruckus.

And meanwhile, the sweet smell of gas was already wafting in the air. Soon that would not be the half of it.

Assail walked up the stairs rather than taking them at a run. And as he ascended, two maids came hurrying down, their fastened hair bouncing loose from pins, the pale gray skirts of their uniforms flying. They, too, took a single glance at him and ducked their heads in response, re-doubling their speed without interfering.

Up on the second-floor landing, he took a left and stopped at the first door he came to, just as the butler skidded into view at the far end of the hallway and came down at a run.

“I’ll take care of the dressing maid,” Assail said. As the male blanched, he rolled his eyes. “Not like that. She shall join you anon.”

The butler nodded and scampered off.

Grasping the doorknob, Assail turned the ornate brass knot slowly and then pushed. The panels gave way without a sound, and he instantly scented Naasha’s perfume and shampoo. As he let himself in and re-closed things, he had a brief impression of a great deal of pink and cream and silk and taffeta.

The carpet was thick as a male’s brush cut, and his loafers were silent as he crossed the distance to the archway. The marble bathroom beyond was larger than some people’s living rooms.

And indeed, the set-up could not have been more perfect. Naasha was facing away from him in that professional hairstylist’s chair, her long locks falling over its short back, a table with brushes and curling provisions beside her. There were many mirrors all around, but they were trained on her, leaving his presence unreflected.

“—told you I do not care for my hair as such,” Naasha snapped. “Do it again! He is going to be here soon—my phone, it is ringing, give it to me first.”

As the maid backed off from her ministrations, she happened to turn in Assail’s direction—and froze. Pointing the gun right at her head, he put his finger to his lips and mouthed, Shhhhhh.