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He had been foolish enough to fall into a simple trap, locking the brothel workers in the places they were most familiar with—daring them to escape.
No matter. Now, there was no point in hurrying. He could conduct his investigation in a thorough and careful manner.
Ford’s stomach growled loudly, and he had to shush it with a stern glare. As if it’d listen.
He was hungry, like a starved beast. He had spent the entire day running around the winding cobblestone streets, catching thieves for the smallest commissions. At the end of the frustrating day, all he had wanted was to get home, clean himself in a nice, hot bath, and feed himself a hearty bowl of lovely potato soup.
Instead, he had run into the brothel as people dashed out of it with looks of horror etched on their faces, screaming for a constable. And he had to stick his nose in, as always.
He didn’t have to solve this murder. At least, not until the bounty was declared on the murderer’s head, which he was certain it would be. Ford couldn’t wait until then. All the evidence would be washed away.
It was a rare luxury to be the first person on the scene, which gave him an advantage, especially since the constables rarely put much effort into solving murders. Their primary duties were maintaining order, making arrests, and executing warrants. Murder investigations weren’t their strong suit, and they knew it. Being paid a pittance by the Crown, the constables were more than willing to let thief-takers like Ford take charge of such cases. In St. Giles especially, they deferred to him without hesitation.
He shook his head and returned to the room where the murdered aristocrat still lay on the floor. Maybe ‘poor’ wasn’t the right descriptor for the man. Maybe he shouldn’t feel pity toward him at all. This wasn’t the first murder of an aristocrat that had happened under mysterious circumstances in the last few months. And all of them had something in common.
Ford yanked at the dead man’s shirt and inspected his body closely.
Just as he predicted, the man had a mark on his body—hidden just beneath the collarbone was a tiny, dark red mark.
The mark of a deadly and nasty secret society—the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist.
Chapter 3
Adeafening clap of thunder made Grace shudder, her heart pounding wildly. Rain lashed against the windows as forks of lightning illuminated the dark bedroom. Her mother’s grip on her shoulder tightened like a vise as she hurried Grace across the room, frantically looking back and urging her daughter to move faster.
But Grace could not move faster—her legs felt like lead, her body stiff and paralyzed with fear.
Her mother wrenched open the old oak chest and ushered Grace inside. On shaking legs, Grace stepped over the tall walls of the chest and crouched down, clutching her old, raggedy cloth doll tightly.
“Do not come out until I get you,” her mother warned, her voice trembling. “Do you understand?”
Grace gave a weak, confused nod, and then the lid slammed shut, encasing her in complete darkness. The soft sounds of her mother’s retreating footsteps faded until the only sound was the rumbling thunder.
An eerie silence fell, until—
Piercing screams shattered the air, making Grace jump, her head knocking against the lid of the chest.
Do not come out until I get you.
Do not come out until I get you.
Grace chanted her mother’s words to herself as she burrowed deeper into the corner of the chest, wishing she could meld into the walls and disappear within them.
Boom… boom… Heavy footsteps approached, each thud reverberating through the floorboards. These were not her mother’s steps. She walked so lightly as if stepping on soft clouds. Grace froze, her pulse thundering in her ears as the footfalls neared. A pause…
Do not come out until I get you.
The chest began rattling violently. Her sanctuary shook as something—someone—pounded on the lid, trying to break it open.
Grace squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her knees closer to her chest.
Do not come out until I get you.
The lid of the chest creaked open.
They found her hiding spot.
Crack! Thunder roared, shattering the night once more. Grace jolted upright, cold sweat dampening her shift.
