Chapter Text
Flame. Gold. A flip of the wrist.
“How’d you do that?”
A flash of coin. Gone, again.
“Here, lass. Watch.”
A teasing ploy. John has seen it countless times in countless brothels and on countless women. MacTavish’s charm is inescapable. The Catholic bastard.
The coin, golden and polished, gleams between MacTavish’s fingers. Shuffling them between finger and knuckle, MacTavish twists his wrist, opens his palm, revealing calloused skin and nothing else.
“Blimey,” whispers the raven-haired wench straddling MacTavish’s lap.
As she leans in, grasping his wrist to move his hand this way and that, peering at it like the coin will suddenly appear, MacTavish coyly unveils where the coin has gone.
“To your right, lass.”
She turns, laughs, quickly snatching the coin to admire it. “Is it real?”
“Oh, aye,” croons MacTavish. “Plenty more, too.”
John glances away as MacTavish discreetly tugs at a loose string on her laced bodice. She’s too enraptured with the gold in her palm to notice how his hand descends to reach under her skirts.
“There’s more?”
She’s curious. And that’s exactly what MacTavish is after.
John pointedly ignores the way she angles her ample breasts in MacTavish’s direction. The tankard in front of him, filled to the brim with lukewarm mead, is far more interesting.
“Aye, lass. Much more.” MacTavish tilts his head back, his smile flirty and open. “Want to earn a few?”
Her eyes brighten, eyebrows rising toward her hairline before relaxing into demure calmness. “How’d you suppose I do that?”
John nearly snorts into his tankard.
“Bloody terrible flirting,” mumbles Ghost.
The big brute of a man sits to John’s left, directly across from MacTavish. His cowl is down, facial scars on display. The whores keep their distance from him, but their gazes are watchful. No one wants to go near him. Not until he offers up coin. It’s a bloody shame. The man is a solid wall of violence and intimidation, but beneath the gore and kill count, Ghost is just as hopelessly lost as the rest of them.
MacTavish leans in even further. Dangerously close. “If you let me stick my prick…right…here.” The whore squawks, nearly tumbling out of MacTavish’s lap.
“Oi. Hands off!” The chastisement is hardly a scold. She’s blushing fiercely as MacTavish admires his glossy finger.
“What ya say, lass?”
As she opens her mouth to reply, an older woman wearing a garishly red gown approaches. There is fire in her eyes, a wrath that’ll come down tenfold if MacTavish doesn’t hand over the correct coin. The frayed sash about her waist does nothing to hide the rip or obvious stains, and the necklace she wears around her neck is loaded with fake gems. The sparkle is too bright. John would know. He’s seen the real thing in person.
The Madam sticks out her hand. “Ye not mount her nor stick your prick up her arse without coin crossing palm.” When MacTavish remains unmoving, she makes a ‘give it here’ gesture with her fingers. “Pay up or I’ll set Moth on ya for a walloping.”
“Moth?” asks MacTavish.
The Madam jerks her head in the direction of the door. Ghost, John, and MacTavish all turn their heads. Beside the entry door, and sitting on a wooden stool far too small for him, is Moth. Bald. Thick, with ropey muscles. Mean black eyes like crawling water beetles. He grins, showing off his missing teeth.
“Fucking hell,” sighs Ghost, downing the rest of his mead in anticipation of a brawl.
MacTavish fishes out two more gold coins, dropping them into the Madam’s palm. She considers them, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the engravings.
“Hm,” she scoffs, pocketing them. “No more nonsense. Ya hear?”
MacTavish nods, his eyes a bit round.
Sniffing, the Madam turns away, snapping her fingers at the raven-haired whore previously in Johnny’s lap. “Come here, girl,” she snarls. As the woman approaches, the Madam seizes her arm, whispering at her harshly as they disappear into the back.
Ghost eyes the bottom of his empty tankard. “Keep fingers to yourself, Johnny.”
MacTavish flashes him a wicked grin. “I’m a proper gentleman.”
John snorts, sipping on his mead. It’s sweet with a hint of spice. Not watered down. Clearing his throat, John settles back in his chair, scratching at his neck. “Need a trim,” he mutters.
“And a fuck,” growls Ghost, his gaze following one of the barmaids.
“With a whore,” grumbles John. When Ghost’s gaze continues to linger, John lightly taps his arm. “She’ll become attached.”
Ghost grimaces but he tears his gaze away.
The entry door opens, bringing with it a cool rush of air and the heady scent of rain. The fourth member of their party, Gaz, steps through. Large droplets of water drip from the ends of his cloak. Tossing back his hood, he beams at them.
“Pissing like a drunkard out there,” he laughs, removing his cloak and shaking off the remnants of water. They fall on the rushes, meant to insulate and absorb spills and filth, but they slightly reek of old mead and something worse.
“Grabbed you a drink,” says John, nodding toward the tankard across from him.
Gaz drops down onto a stool, gulping the mead like it’s cool spring water.
“How are the horses?” asks John.
Gaz inclines his head, considering. “Tired. But full bellies and a night of rest will do them good.” He licks away some of the frothy residue from his upper lip. “Think I need that myself.”
In the light of the candles, John can almost mistake Gaz for his former lord. He’s the man’s bastard after all, but he looks more like his mother. A blessing, really. Makes it easier to hide.
“Going for a refill,” mumbles Ghost, dragging his tankard across the table as he stands.
Gaz glances around and gestures at a barmaid, asking about food. John sinks further into his chair, scanning the room around him, observing every face and wayward look. They might be looking to remain anonymous, but every step they take is haunted by their work.
The Bloody Devils.
Demons. Cutthroats. Known not as men but as monsters.
Someone is always watching—always asking around about them. There are no posters, no cards, no calls to action. The Bloody Devils do not approach. The Bloody Devils do not beg for jobs. They listen. Nab a whisper. Spool truth and lie and then reveal themselves in due time.
John likes it this way. It’s easier. Erasable.
Their pasts are their own. A former knight. A bastard son of a lord. A pit fighter. A fugitive. All of them with an agenda. All of them wronged by those on gilded thrones.
It’s not far off from the other patrons that haunt this place.
Tucked away in a muddy alley with only a hanging sign of a woodpecker out front, a passerby might overlook the dingy exterior. Part inn, part brothel, and part market, this place serves those unwelcomed elsewhere. The rich fucks keep to themselves behind large walls. Day laborers and the city guard also steer clear, keeping to the well-lit main streets and reputable establishments.
The Bloody Devils are not out of place. They aren’t white-feathered ducks pretending to be swans. They are the wolves here. Teeth and claw. Poison and frothed spit. Rapid dogs amongst the beaten, feathered flock. The mud keeps to the edges. Steers clear of the fur.
It suits them all just fine.
Ghost returns with a full tankard and glint in his eye. The barmaid he was staring at early is blushing fiercely, hopelessly pretending that she isn’t constantly looking his way. The man deserves someone sweet. Deserves to settle down and fill a house with little ones that look just like him. But the man won’t. Not yet. John knows this, but Ghost’s reasons are his own. It’s not for him to pry.
MacTavish sniffs, grimaces, lifts his arm and sniffs again. “Fucking shit,” he groans. “Smell like the beast.”
“The horses?” asks Gaz around a mouthful of food.
“Aye,” nods MacTavish. “And that baron’s son. Fucking scared of a robber. Jumped into my lap he did. Nearly choked me to fuckin’ death. Pissed himself, too.”
Ghost chuckles, the sound low and smokey. “You complain too much. Have a whore bathe you. You’ll forget about it soon enough.”
Gaz’s gaze shifts back and forth between the two men, chewing manically as if watching a lewd street show. John smiles behind his tankard.
“Forgive the interruption.”
The mead turns heavy in John’s stomach. Formality. Clean speech. An eloquence that speaks to a learned tongue.
Has he found us? Has he come for revenge?
Gaz pauses in his chewing. A large chunk of brown bread doused in broth hovers near Gaz’s open mouth as he stares up at the newcomer. MacTavish’s fiendish smile thins, morphing into a frown. Ghost remains perfectly silent, his head slightly turned in the man’s direction but not looking at him directly.
John slowly brings his tankard down to the table. A shift. A straining of the neck muscles as he turns in his seat.
To John’s right is a man in a deep green cloak. It’s finely made with hardly a wrinkle in sight. Out of place. Strange. It’s drawing eyes.
“May I join you?”
There is wealth in the man’s voice. A familiar spark that John recognizes. A bite of his old life.
“Unless you’ve a drink or come with a set of tits,” replies MacTavish before John can form a word. “Then I think it’s best you move along.”
The stranger’s thin lips form a long frown. John knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end. Beneath, it says. Lesser.
“You don’t belong here,” states John. He picks up his tankard, finishing the last of the mead. “Best if you go.”
The dismissal slides off the green cloaked stranger. “I came a long way.”
“And you’ll go a long way back,” snarls MacTavish, his fist curling.
John reaches out, placing a hand on MacTavish’s shoulder. “Think you’re confused. Sir.”
Better the formality. Better to show proper address. John understands. No matter where they go or where they land, those of privilege believe they’re due their reverence. John takes no pleasure in it.
“There is no confusion,” the stranger says. An arm appears from beneath the cloak. With it comes a small pouch. A soft clink as it lands. “I only need a moment.” The stranger’s voice is smooth now. Strangely flat. “And I’ll pay for it.”
John stares at the pouch, at the way it sags with weight. A tempting fucking offer. But how the fuck does this man know it’s them? Does he know the four of them are The Bloody Devils? Perhaps they look mean enough.
Well…maybe.
John isn’t about to risk his hide without assurances. He drops his hand from MacTavish’s shoulder, and reaches for the pouch, clipping it onto his belt, hiding it from view. Rolling his shoulders, John stands, groaning slightly as his aching muscles protest the stretch.
John is taller than the stranger. And at his full height, there is a hint of fear that flashes across the man’s face before retreating into the depths.
“Coin like that draws attention,” murmurs John. He holds the man’s gaze, intent on making him understand that a place like this breeds malicious opportunity.
“Your attention, I hope.”
John leans in with a threat on his tongue. “And others.”
The man nervously glances around, awkwardly smoothing the front of his cloak. “I have a room. It’s more private. For…fewer ears.”
“And eyes,” adds John.
The man nods. Swallows. “Indeed.” He glances away from John, locking gazes with another near the stairs.
“Follow him?” asks John, inclining his head toward the stranger’s friend.
“Yes.”
This time, John takes a step forward into the man’s space. His back bends but he does not move. Good. Means the wanker has a fucking spine.
“If you try to fucking pull anything,” whispers John. “I’ll gut you from cock to throat. Leave you in the alley for the rats and dogs.”
The stranger pales, all the color leaving his cheeks. John doesn’t wait for a reply, or any confirmation that the man understands the severity. The four of them move as one, abandoning food and drink without a mournful glance back. Every other patron curls tighter in their chairs, turning their faces away, falling back into their cups and conversations.
That is how it works in a place like this. A den of crime and secrecy. Of mercenaries, thieves, exiles, and debt-dodgers. Of whores and drunks and hedge witches. There is no cheery town square. No cobbled streets.
This place is nowhere. Known by no one. Not safe or clean.
It’s exactly where The Bloody Devils like to be. It’s where they’re left alone.
“Is this suitable?”
In the middle of the small room is a plain wood table, slightly worn but in good condition. Unlike the space downstairs where the air is thick, smelling of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and damp straw, this room smells of lavender and pipe smoke. On the far wall is a faded tapestry, depicting a battle. There are only two chairs for the table. One on either side. The shutters on the window are open, bringing with it the cool night air and the faintest hint of burning peat and pig fat. Candlelight bathes a space in a warm, welcoming glow. All of it a far cry from the raucous beneath their feet.
It’s fancy. An attempt at it.
“It’ll do,” growls John, stepping up to one of the chairs.
Behind him, the stranger’s friend is shoved into the room by Ghost. The two stare each other down, fingers poised for violence. Gaz and MacTavish circle around to the other side. Gaz settles near the window, staring out and down into the street before glancing back at the gathered group. MacTavish stands sentinel near the stranger. A looming threat.
John digs around, finds his pipe. “You’ve bought yourself five fucking minutes.” He settles in the chair opposite the stranger. A quick draw. A red glow. A beautiful smokey burn fills John’s lungs. “Start talking.”
“Well,” the stranger begins, clearing his throat. “A woman has been taken.”
“Stop,” commands John. “Tell us who you are and who you speak for. I want names first. Rude to talk business so bloody quickly.”
“Apologies,” coughs the man. He squares his shoulders. “I’ve come on behalf of Viscount Lewin Hodgeson.”
“Another English eejit,” growls MacTavish. “Just what we fuckin’ need.”
The man’s face grows bright red. He turns on MacTavish, “The honorable Viscount is not—”
“Careful,” chides John.
“But—”
“If you want our help, you’ll ignore him.” John puffs on his pipe, savoring the burn. It’s calming. Every nerve in his body fumes with tension.
The man grits his teeth but continues. “As I said, I’ve come on behalf of Viscount Lewin Hodgeson. My name is Peter. One of his clerks that attends to household and administrative matters.”
“A lap dog,” chuckles Ghost.
John snorts as Peter’s face grows red again.
Peter’s lip curls. “A woman has been taken. The Viscount’s bride-to-be. Bandits. Snatched her on route to the Viscount’s estate.”
John frowns. “And you’re asking us to rescue her?”
“Of course. You’re the Devils, aren’t you? The very best.”
John’s frown deepens further. The four of them have taken great care in hiding themselves. Whenever a job is presented to them, it’s always on their terms. Faces covered. Shadows appearing from the dark. Disappearing like smoke afterward. No one has ever figured out who they are. But this man knows. This Peter. Likely the fucking Viscount.
“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” murmurs John.
Peter, now excited rather than irritated leans over the table, a bright spark in his eyes. “I’ve followed every lead. When I heard the Bloody Devils escorted a baron’s son through Clivewood, I came here. Took a few days but I knew.” He beams. “And here you are.”
John is silent a long moment. “The four of us could kill you. Rip you apart. For seeing our faces.” Peter’s excitement morphs into subdued horror. “We’ve never allowed a person to live who has.”
Peter glances down at his hands. A flare of pride wells in John’s chest. To see someone of high standing be brought low is sweet victory. Humbling. The man has no idea he’s in a room of vipers.
“I implore you,” murmurs Peter. “To listen.”
John puffs on his pipe. “Your five minutes are nearly up.”
Peter’s answer is another pouch. More coins. Just as heavy as the first. “There’s more. If you remain here and listen, I’ll buy out every whore to service the four of you the rest of the night.”
Behind him, MacTavish grins. “Aye. I could agree to that.”
Gaz inclines his head but says nothing.
“Add the barmaid with the curls and it’s a deal,” adds Ghost.
Peter glances at John, clearly awaiting his answer. John takes his time, inhaling the herby smoke. Exhaling slowly. “You heard them.”
Peter perks up, nodding fervently. “All of it. You have a deal.”
John leans back in his chair, crossing his left leg over his right. “Be quick.”
Peter gives the woman’s name, her title, and a decent description. “She was to be married,” continues Peter. “To the Viscount.”
“Yes. You said that,” grumbles John. “How long?”
Peter grimaces. “A few weeks.”
MacTavish scoffs. “She’s been missing for a few fucking weeks?”
“I understand it seems a…lengthy absence—”
“You’d be lucky to find her alive,” growls Ghost. “A lone woman amongst bandits? They’d be tired of her by now. Best start searching the ditches.”
John runs his tongue of his teeth, considering. “Seems bold. Even for bandits.”
“I agree,” says Gaz. “Bandits like easier targets. And they hate hostages. They’d sooner gut her and take her jewels than drag her along with them.”
John addresses Peter. “But you think she’s alive?”
“We know she’s alive.” Peter settles back in his chair. “There was a ransom note.”
“And the demands?”
“None. Only some of her hair came with it. Delivered by carrier.”
Liar.
The word snaps into existence, biting at the back of John’s thoughts. Bandits don’t act this way. Kidnappers do. Professional ones at that. But a ransom note with no demands? Just a lock of hair? John has never seen that. Currency is king with men like them. They don’t truly want to harm. They want coin. Lots of it. The healthier and more intact the victim is, the higher payout.
And she’s been missing for weeks? No. There’s a foulness to it all. Deception. But from who?
“We’ve been on the road for a while,” John replies calmly. “Haven’t seen no reward posters.”
“Yes. Well.” Peter glances away. John’s gaze drops to the man’s hands. He’s picking at his skin. “The Viscount believed that it would be sorted quickly. Didn’t see the need. But we’ve received no word from the bandits since that note. There’s only been silence.”
“But you think she lives.”
“Yes,” affirms Peter. “With no further correspondence, we have no reason to believe she’s been killed.”
True enough. If they want coin, a dead body won’t do.
“The Viscount would like this matter resolved quietly.”
“How quietly?” asks John, upending his pipe into the nearby tray.
“He wants no one else involved. Bring her back alive.” Peter pauses. “Or bring proof of her fate.”
“Dead or alive, then,” murmurs Ghost.
“Alive,” emphasizes Peter. “Preferably. That will, of course, double your pay.”
“Triple,” counters John. “If you want subtlety and silence, that costs.”
Peter snorts. “You’re the Bloody Devils. That’s what you do.”
“Never said we were the Bloody Devils.”
“But you—”
John curls his lip. Narrows his eyes. “Made plenty of threats. But I never told you who we were. You’re assuming. And that’s exactly how you lot are. Arrogant bastards. All of you.”
Peter chokes on his next words. “The Viscount asked for them specifically.”
“And you went looking.” John claps. Slowly. Mocking. “Congratulations. You found someone.”
“Can you tell me where I can find them. If you’re not them.”
John waits a moment before speaking. “No.”
“You—what?” squawks Peter shooting up from his chair. “I say—”
“Sit down,” growls Ghost, taking a step forward, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Peter’s face has grown red again. He wants to protest, to throttle them all with his words rather than his fists. MacTavish grabs the man’s shoulder, shoving him back into his seat.
“I’d listen to him,” croons MacTavish. “Or find yourself with a broken skull.”
“You’re all savages,” hisses Peter.
John ignores him, packing his now empty pipe with more herbs. “You’re halfway there, Peter. Might as well finish it.”
Peter stares at John like he’d love to run him through. Or make him grovel. Funny. John doesn’t work for lords any more. He won’t be made to bow to anyone ever again.
With an overexaggerated snap of his fingers, Peter summons his companion. He withdraws a page of folded parchment, but before he can approach his master, MacTavish steps up to him, snatching it from his grasp, holding it out to John.
“Thank you,” he murmurs to MacTavish, placing it in front of him. John smooths it out, running his hands over the creases. It’s a map of England, heavily detailed in both topography and the division of estates.
Politics were never John’s favorite. He always steered clear of court when he could, avoiding the theatrics and subterfuge of it all. It worked for years. Until it didn’t. Until is upended his entire life. Destroying everything he ever cared about.
Peter sniffs. “They were waylaid here.” He points to a spot north of their current position. “Last known location is here.” His fingers shifts, dragging across the parchment, heading further north until it’s nearly on the Scottish border.
“That’s hundreds of miles,” growls John. “And the Viscount believes she’s still alive?”
“Yes.”
John scoffs. Runs a hand over his face. “He’s delusional.”
“Half now,” offers Peter. “Half when the Lady is returned.”
“I’m not hesitating over the offer,” replies John. “But you’re asking us to follow a lead that’s weeks old, through land we don’t know, to deal with…unknown enemies. All of that for a kidnapped bride that’s likely dead and in a ditch.”
“The Viscount is desperate.” Peter shrugs like his answer is good enough. “He holds hope that he can be reunited with his true love. That is all anyone wants. For love to prevail.”
Love never prevails. It withers. Becomes unspooled. There is no love in the halls of the gilded. They understand power. And only of their own selfish interests.
“We’ll take it,” says John.
Peter exhales, relaxing as if it’s the best news he could hope for.
“But hear this,” growls John. “You will leave. Tonight. You will return to your Viscount and tell him you found what you were looking for. But no more.”
“Of course,” agrees Peter. “Of course. I—”
The movement is quick. Lethal. John has the man’s throat in his fist in seconds. Peter chokes. Garbled words try to break through John’s grip.
“You will not tell your precious Viscount who we are. Or what we look like. You will give him no names. No hair color. No eye color. You will tell him we came to you as shadows. That we left just as quickly.” John tightens his fingers around Peter’s throat. The man’s face starts to turn purple. “If you do. And I will know if you do.” John leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I will fucking kill you.”
Just as quickly as he grabbed him, John releases Peter. The man collapses, striking the top of the table before sliding off and retching all over the floor. MacTavish grimaces with disgust, stepping away as if he’d become infected by standing too close.
“Go,” barks John.
Peter’s silent companion rushes over to him, lifting him by the armpits.
As they leave, MacTavish calls out after them. “Don’t forget to buy out the whores!” The door bangs against the exterior wall. MacTavish frowns and glances at John. “He’ll forget.”
“He won’t,” mutters Ghost. “Probably paid for it before speaking to us.”
“Why’d you take it?” asks Gaz, pushing himself off the wall and away from the open window.
“It’s an easy job,” replies John. “She’s probably dead anyway. Cut a few bandit throats, return her body if we can, and we’ll be on our way.”
His reply is a distraction, and Gaz knows it. They’ve known each other for years. He always knows when John is lying. It’s hard to hide anything from him.
MacTavish sighs loudly. “If we’re done here, I’d like to make my bed in a warm cunt tonight.” He winks at Ghost. “Several. Preferably.”
“You bloody tosser,” chuckles Ghost, grabbing the Scot by the back of his neck and shoving him toward the door. The two men bicker and throw fists until they’re out in the hall. Gaz pause just inside the doorway.
Glancing back, Gaz’s smile is weak. Grim. “Something’s not right.”
He feels it, too. The lack of details. How none of it makes sense.
John licks his lips. Deposits the ashes in his pipe to the small tray in the middle of the table.
“Enjoy the evening, Kyle,” John replies softly. “You’ve earned it.”