The part of the bed that Bridgette had occupied was empty. In her place was a note, scrawled on a piece of scrap linen with Thomas’ charcoal. Garrett picked it up and squinted at the markings, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force the words to make sense.
9
The note haunted him as he got ready to leave. It tightened a knot of anxiety in his chest, making every breath feel labored. He changed out of his sleep-mussed shirt and into his spare, his eyes constantly flicking towards the door. But on the one day he actuallywantedto see Thomas, the tailor didn’t appear to kick him out.
As he gathered his things, the full extent of his fuck up came crashing down on him. It had felt like an act of kindness last night, but in the light of day, he saw it for what it was; he’d put Bridgette at risk of losingeverythingby taking her home.
If someone had seen them last night, she’d likely never get a caller again. He’d seen enough of Frostcliff to know that they’d judge her harshly even though they’d done nothing more than share a bed and comfort. And gods only knew what Monika would do when she found out. The Madam held control of her livelihood, so what would she do with a girl who couldn’t make her coin?
No doubt Bridgette had woken up in his bed to the same realization. So what could her note contain but a condemnation? Besides, after he’d witnessed her at her lowest, maybe she’d realized she never wanted to see him again.
The thought made his heart race as he checked his pack before throwing it over his shoulder. He all but ran from Thomas’ workshop, and the trip to lowtown passed in an anxious blur. He barely saw the market as he rushed through before ducking into one of the side streets to cut towards Monika’s. He hurried through the narrow path and stopped only when someone stepped out to block his way.
It was Edmund, though it took Garrett a second to put a name to the face. He hadn’t seen him since the night he had accosted Bridgette a few blocks from Monika’s.
The man flipped a naked blade in his hand, smirking, before leveling it at Garrett.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A sound echoed off the walls of the stone alley.
Footsteps, charging up behind him.
When he had been younger, his mother had run up on him to tickle his sides until he shrieked. It wasn’t until he was older that Garrett saw her playful ambushes for what they were: training, honing an instinct to keep her half-blooded son alive in a world that hated him. That world seemed to slow as he redistributed his weight, shifting to see the group of miners charging towards him.
He didn’t run.
He lunged.
Garrett met the first man with a snarl. He ducked out of the way of the clumsy strike before he grabbed the man’s arm. With a roar, he threw the man over his shoulder and into the cobblestone with a crack of bone on rock. The second man collided headlong into his fist, but the third brought his club against Garrett’s shoulders hard enough to send him against the wall.
The strike made Garrett’s muscles burn, but he quickly whirled to face Edmund and his two remaining men. The morning bell had already rung, which told him that this lot had skipped a day’s pay just to come after him. To put him down like some beast.
They wanted a beast? They’d get one.
“Come on, then!” Garrett snarled, tusks bared.
The man with the club was the first one to finally muster his courage. He swung the wooden bat low, aiming for Garrett’s ribs. It was an easy block, but the force behind the strike made Garrett grunt in pain as it shook the marrow in his bones. At the sound, the other two seemed to find their courage.
They descended on him as one. Their strikes came in a barrage, too fast and frequent to block. Pain sparked from his shoulder, his thigh, but through it all, Garrett kept his eyes on Edmund’s blade.
When the man finally swung, he swung low, aiming the pointed tip at Garrett’s belly. Garrett swiped it away. The gash the knife left across his abdomen was the price he paid for getting control of the hand that held it, but now that Garrett had, he brought Edmund’s arm down over his knee with a sickening crack. Edmund howled in pain, the knife falling from his suddenly limp grip. But in his hurry to get the blade out of the fight, Garrett didn’t see the club aimed straight at his head.
His vision popped in a burst of stars. When the blackness lifted, he was on the ground and saw the boot right before it connected with his stomach. It knocked the air out of his lungs even as another slammed against his back.
Never let them get you off your feet, his mother had told him during her countless lessons, but there was no helping it now. He curled up, covering as much of his neck and head as he could, yet the blows didn’t stop. Boots connected with his back, his crotch, his face. Pain blossomed with every new hit, and yet even when his shouts of pain fell silent, the beating didn’t stop.
Strong hands tore at him, pulling him out of his protective ball. He was forced onto his back as a weight settled on his chest. Through his rapidly swelling eye, he saw Edmund grimacing down at him.
“Was she worth it, orc?” he sneered. “Was she worth dying for?”
Fury burgeoned the last of his strength. He lunged up to slam his forehead against Edmund’s nose. The man howled in pain, and Garrett saw nothing but hatred on his face as he lifted his unbroken arm like a hammer. It reminded him so much of Rogan that, for a moment, he was back in the high plains, back in the square. And as that fist fell, Garrett was sure that hate would be the last thing he ever saw.
10
The pain came back to him first, jolting Garrett awake with a gasp. He arched even as his entire body protested the movement. The taste of blood was stale in his mouth, the scent of it heavy in his nose.
Consciousness was a fickle thing. With every long blink, the sky overhead seemed to change, the sun moving hours in what felt like seconds.
Was this how Rogan had died? Fading in and out, in and out and out.
