he Girl in the Brothel Ch. 01 by @The_Duke_Is_In
If you enjoy reading Victorian romance and fantasy, you will probably enjoy this mash-up. It takes place in a made- up kingdom mirroring 1850 Victorian England fashions and customs, but that’s where the similarities end. There are some steampunk/fantasy elements to liven things up, and a plucky, virginal heroine to boot! The Rosey Bush. The name sounded innocuous enough, even if the sounds wafting from the highest windows revealed otherwise. But Thara was past caring. She had traveled for quite some time now, and her stomach was eating a hole through her bellybutton. If she didn’t stop for the night, she would pass out, or worse. The man and his cart horse had dropped her off a few minutes ago after being assured she had money for a room at the inn down the way— it was a lie, naturally. She did not have any money. The horrid chandler’s wife had yet to give her what she was owed. But she’d had enough of working for the woman. After being hit repeatedly with a broom handle for not scouring the cooking pots to appropriate cleanliness, and for allowing the youngest child to nap in the middle of reading verses, Thara had decided no amount of abuse was worth a paycheck. Of all the odd jobs she’d taken on within the past two years, that was by far the worst of the lot. She cast another unsure glance up at the merry red sign. It was nearly midnight, and the edge town of Grogom was sleeping. This was the one establishment whose lights still spilled out onto the cobbled streets. She didn’t have to think twice about approaching. Chances were there were kitchens in the back, and a pail of scraps outside the rear door for her to poke through. Treading cautiously, Thara rounded the side of the building, her eyes occasionally stealing up to look again at the beautiful red wooden rectangle hanging from the wide front stoop. She’d never seen anything so beautiful. The name of the establishment was written in shining gold paint, the letters curling like lovers around each other. Soft feminine laughter issued from an open window on the second floor, commingling with a man’s pleasurable groans, further confirming to Thara that she was standing in front of a brothel. But of course, it made perfect sense. What place would be open at this hour of the night? Curiosity got the better of her and she paused for a moment to see if she could hear anything more, becoming disappointed when nothing was forthcoming. Her rumbling stomach forced her to move, and soon she was rounding the back of the building and pushing open the overgrown fence in the small alley to enter the rear yard. The back door was wide open, bright light streaming out into the dirt space directly in front of her. There was an overgrown and half- dead garden on either side of the weedy path leading to the house. From her position in the back yard she could see into the kitchen. It was empty. Her eyes searched for the scraps pail and found it. Thara approached cautiously. She bent to grab the pail but froze. Just inside the doorway, sitting on the kitchen table, was a platter of chicken. A mound of white rice and pickled olives sat next to it. And beside that was a dish of sugared apples in red jelly. She could smell the food from where she stood in the doorway. The hunger was making her feel sick. Putting a hand over her belly, she stared at the feast. Maybe…maybe she could sneak in— just for a second—and take some. Before she could think properly, her foot was across the threshold. It was a few short steps to the table. She took the carving knife lying next to the chicken and cut off a large chunk of meat. Juice oozed down her hand, making her dizzy with disbelief. The first bite was so heavenly she groaned. When she was done she dared not cut another piece, instead helping herself to the rice and olives.

As she crammed the food into her mouth, warmth blossomed from her belly and spread to her clammy limbs, the last three days of hard travel nearly forgotten. “What do we have here?” The deep voice broke through her reverie at the same time a large hand came to rest on the back of her neck. Frightened, Thara tried to twist away but failed. The man attached to that hand brought her around to look at him. She struggled against his grip, wild and panicked, trying







unsuccessfully to kick at his shins. When she realized he was too strong, she tried a different tactic, barreling forwards and into him. It was a move that had never failed to startle her brothers, Hugo and Edwin, back when they used to wrestle. Thara never won a bout with that move, of course, but it at least allowed her to regain her footing. This man, however, was neither Hugo nor Edwin, and Thara found, to her consternation, his arms encircling her. They went crashing down to the floor together.






“Ooomph!” the man took the brunt of the impact and Thara thudded heavily against him, her head knocking into his massive chest. His linen shirt was unbuttoned around the collar, exposing a generous swath of tanned skin. It was against this that she found her face most indecently squashed.




Letting out an indignant squawk, she somehow got her hands under her, shoving against the stranger in an attempt to get off him. However, because his hands were still clamped tightly about her waist, her struggles only served to thrust her hips deeper into his. He brought a hard thigh up between her legs and she gasped. Flushing, Thara scrambled off of the stranger and got to her feet, swaying unsteadily, her half-full stomach forgotten.








The man sat up just as a door opened off to the side. A second man entered, tall and spindly. He wore a spattered apron over a sturdy cambric shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “What is going on in here?” the cook demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Ardon, why are you on the floor?”





The stranger who had grabbed her got to his feet, his eyes never leaving Thara’s. “I caught a thief,” he said, though he did not seem very concerned by this, if the way he was looking at her was any indication. Thara realized she would much rather he looked at her as though she were a thief, because the expression in his eyes was making her cheeks glow pink.








“I’m not a thief!” Thara exclaimed desperately. “That is…I never meant to steal without paying. I was hungry, I couldn’t help myself.” The cook grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her forward, having glanced at the spread and seen the evidence of her appetite. He was a thin man, but he had a strong grip, and Thara yelped, stumbling toward him, stubbing her toes on the uneven floors. “You’re coming with me.” “Come now, Jonan,” Ardon spoke up, “Surely she spoke the truth. Look at her, she’s barely clothed for the elements as it is.”





“Be that as it may,” Jonan the cook said through tight lips, “Hermu runs this house, and he will need to handle this chit. Apologies for interrupting.” Before Ardon could say another word, Jonan turned into the darkened hallway, dragging Thara along with him. “Let’s see what the master wishes to do with you,” he snarled into her ear as they walked, she protesting all the way.
SOURCE: www.emperorblog.com.ng/?s=the+girl+in+the+brothel

Codedrock ( m), neurojosh ( m), Control94 , tunderay ( m), biteck ( m), Robinrul , kayo80 ( m), Mukhtar20 ( m), Holluwaphlexy( m), cerowo ( f ), uniknet , bobowaja ( m), edeXede , AnonymousTip ( m), wendypenny , spixytinxy( f ), smokers, KENVEE6 , WAACUT ( m), lodphil ( m), Paulo12 ( m), micchi ( m), Blackween ( f ), mychiveous ( f ), rozynero ( m), Philosopher101 , nerd51 ( f), Holywizard( m), samszany ( m), Godmademan( m), Solidlove ( m), okpanachil , Haipre , kels2much ( m), Silvertrinity ( f ), makuazini ( m), Djulius147 ( m), kilisi , josesajay ( m), paulgabrielz ( m), leosmaria( m), Emancipationice( m), annayawchee , ghettochild4u ( m), zaicon1 ( m), francium001 ( m), duruZed ( m), RABIUR ( m), Ayemileto ( m)

Codedrock ( m), neurojosh ( m), Control94 , tunderay ( m), biteck ( m), Robinrul , kayo80 ( m), Mukhtar20 ( m), Holluwaphlexy( m), cerowo ( f ), uniknet , bobowaja ( m), edeXede , AnonymousTip ( m), wendypenny , spixytinxy( f ), smokers, KENVEE6 , WAACUT ( m), lodphil ( m), Paulo12 ( m), micchi ( m), Blackween ( f ), mychiveous ( f ), rozynero ( m), Philosopher101 , nerd51 ( f), Holywizard( m), samszany ( m), Godmademan( m), Solidlove ( m), okpanachil , Haipre , kels2much ( m), Silvertrinity ( f ), makuazini ( m), Djulius147 ( m), kilisi , josesajay ( m), paulgabrielz ( m), leosmaria( m), Emancipationice( m), annayawchee , ghettochild4u ( m), zaicon1 ( m), francium001 ( m), duruZed ( m), RABIUR ( m), Ayemileto ( m)

PART 3
two weeks later. It was night, and the season was ripe for moon beetles. They hung in the heavy air, dotting the blackened gardens with merry pinpricks of light. Business had been underway at The Rosey Bush for the last few hours and the brothel had a steady employ of courtesans to occupy its dozen rooms. Located at the edge of town, it was far enough away that the windows could afford to be left unshuttered, to both let in the occasional cool breeze and set free the chorus of lusty noises from its pleasure rooms. One room in particular could be heard to the far end of the gardens. Thara knew this because she was currently sitting on a low bench at the very edge of said gardens, swinging her feet back and forth beneath her and contemplating the thorny fence. There was a new lock on the door, Thara noticed. Hermu must have had it put on after she snuck into the yard that night. Her heart felt heavy at seeing it, and she eyed the brambles growing along the fence top, wondering if the thorns would hurt very much.




She was out here almost every night. As the brothel’s unofficial errand girl, she worked by day and stayed out of sight by night, per Hermu’s orders. She was indentured for an unspecified amount of time, a fact she resented bitterly. But to try and escape was nigh impossible, as she was not allowed outside the establishment without either Hermu or Jonan with her.




She wondered if the chandler’s wife missed her. It had been almost a month since she ran away. The woman had been an abusive terror to work for, and Thara did not regret her departure, but she did miss the little babes she had been tasked to look after, and she hoped they were all right without her. Thara herself had no family to speak of. They had all died from a fever that swept through the eastern kingdom years ago. Well, her mama and brothers had, anyway. Her father had passed away the year before. He had always been sickly. Thara had been on her own for nearly two years now, flitting from one job to another. She had been a cook, barmaid, nanny, laundress and flower girl, to name a few. She never dreamed she’d end up in a whorehouse.





From the loud window there came a throaty moan that seemed to go on forever, punctuated by the sound of slapping flesh. Thara’s thighs quivered and she felt a knot of heat unfurl deep in her belly. She wondered what they were doing in that room. She had seen glimpses of the animals back home mating in the spring, and once, when she was twelve, she followed the butcher’s son into the woods and spied him meeting her older cousin for a kiss and a quick rutting. The foliage had been thick, so she had not witnessed much. But what she had seen—the boy’s backside, his buttocks round and white, moving in quick, jerky movements-had shamed her enough to run back home. At the time she couldn’t explain her embarrassment, only that she felt she had no right to
intrude on an act meant for two. Now, however, she wished she had stayed and continued watching.






Thara knew she ought not to listen, but sometimes she couldn’t help it, she was curious. Perhaps she shouldn’t be, though. Plenty of girls her age back home knew about these things. She was the odd one, to be sure. Unmarried and untouched. A fat rain drop plopped onto her nose. From nearby, thunder shook the sky. Thara glanced back at the yellow light spilling from the kitchen windows and slowly stood to make her way back in. She crossed the threshold just as the downpour began.





Stomping the water from her boots, she didn’t notice there was someone at the table at first. She strode through the kitchen, past the table half-hidden in its nook, heading straight for the larder where she knew there would be an opened can of olives and a pitcher of sweetened lemonade cooling on the ice block. The man cleared his throat and she
jumped, her stomach dropping when she saw who it was.





He was eating a cut of seasoned meat with bread, his large frame stretched out comfortably across two chairs, the table before him holding a pitcher of ale and a full glass. It had been two weeks, but she would have recognized him anywhere. The man watched her with interested eyes, the bread forgotten in his hands. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he commented.



Thara gulped, her cheeks warming, remembering the feel of his firm body beneath her hands. Hermu would have her ears when he found out about this. She set the pitcher on the counter and filled a glass with the yellow drink. Jonan was noticeably absent—it was just the two of them, and the silence was maddening. The sound of lemonade splashing against glazed clay did nothing to alleviate the heavy expectation that hung between them.


“I work here now,” Thara said finally. Why did her voice sound funny? And why was it so hot in here?



“Do you?” he asked with unmistakable interest. He was just as irritatingly attractive as she remembered, reminding her of the festival rider that had come to her village to announce the annual harvest games one year—a dark mountain of a man, with a steed between his thighs that would make the Devil himself envious. Like the rider, Ardon was also a veritable mountain, with hair as black as sin and a small scar on the left side of his jaw, almost hidden by his beard. She could feel herself growing damp down there, and felt the familiar throbbing that happened when she heard the moans of the men and their chosen courtesans through the windows facing the gardens. She wondered what it would feel like to have those large hands on her. “See something you like?” The man asked, an amused smile on his lips. Thara realized she had been staring and reddened. Bollocks. “Is there a reason you are not dressed for work tonight?” He looked down at her modest muslin dress with eyes that were shockingly blue against his black hair. Thara’s heart hiccuped. She dropped her gaze, mortified, understanding at last what he meant. He thought she was a courtesan at The Rosey Bush. But he had it all wrong, she was just an errand girl.


Thara raised her gaze to correct him but Hermu’s loud baritone in the hallway interrupted her. The man raised his eyebrows at her, and she quickly exited with her olives and lemonade.


SOURCE: www.emperorblog.com.ng/the-girl-in-the-brothel/

PART 4
No sooner had Thara made preparations for bed than the door to her room burst open and Hermu charged in, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, looking for all the world like an angry bull. He was speaking, trying to both express his rage and at the same time keep it hidden from the greater part of the clientele on the main floor.


“What?” Thara asked stupidly, standing there in her knapsack of a nightgown, her hair falling in messy waves about her face. “The man you met in the kitchens,” Hermu hissed unpleasantly. His eyes, yellowed from the pipe, glared at her accusingly. “He is asking for you, wench! After I expressly told you to stay hidden!” “I didn’t know he would be there! I thought the kitchen was off limits to customers,” Thara protested, fear creeping into her voice. “Why did he ask for me?”





“Why do you think, you conniving Venus?” Hermu snapped. His gaze raked her up and down. “I would not have pegged you for a simpering slut, but here we are. Congratulations, you managed to catch the eye of a man whose demands I cannot refuse.” Thara felt numb. There was no way. She was not a courtesan. She had no skills, no experience, no desire! A rising panic began to fill her chest. It became hard to breathe. “What do you mean you cannot refuse him?” Thara cried. “He is a Hunter! If I refuse him I risk losing my business! They are all that stands between us and the Nephrites, and I will not wager that his morals are better than that of his brothers!” Hermu snatched her by the upper arms and shook her hard. “You will do this or you will be thrown back onto the street. You are guaranteed a worse fate there.” Thara shuddered, closing her eyes. He was right. She
hated that small, mucid man with all her heart, but he was right. She had had several near-misses during her run from the chandler’s village, and she did not wish to repeat that. But… was it really worse than what was to
befall her now?



“Hermu,” she said, pleadingly, “I wouldn’t know what to do with a man, whether he paid me or not!” The brothel-keeper stilled, his eyes glittering as he appraised her anew. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for an innocent,” he said, contemplating. She bristled. He saw her look and explained, “No offense, girlie, but you are too comfortable around the guests. Take last week, the gentleman who stopped by with the pack mule—”




“You told me to take his bag and put it in the kitchen!” Thara shouted. “You didn’t tell me it had fifty pounds of leather hide in it.” She had taken the pack and, unprepared for the weight, would have fallen backwards into the rain barrel if the man hadn’t grabbed ahold of her shirt.



Unfortunately, the fabric had ripped, she had fallen into the rain barrel, and he had fished her out. They’d been laughing about it when Hermu found them, both soaking wet and Thara with half her tunic gone (her bandeau still thankfully held up). Regrettably, that incident also highlighted the fact that Thara eschewed stays, which was most improper for a young lady. If Hermu hadn’t guessed it by then, seeing as how she didn’t have the normal curves of most women who wore them, he was certainly aware after walking onto that indelicate scene. The Rosey Bush’s proprietor ignored her shouting, his teeth clenched. “Any other night I’d have you caned for speaking to me like this. But as it is, time is money, you know.” He made for the door. Thara started after him, letting loose another round of protests. “You’re a fast learner,” Hermu said, ignoring her outburst. He gave her a slimy grin. “You’ll figure it out. Congratulations, girlie. You’ve just been promoted.”




*** This is what you get, Thara thought furiously, pacing back and forth in her room. You never should have gone into the kitchen. She wanted to kick herself. Now look what had happened. She wasn’t The Rosey Bush’s errand girl anymore. She had been upgraded to a LovePeddler! How ridiculous! Why, she had never kissed a man, let alone seen one naked. Well, other than the butcher’s boy, but those had only been buttocks, and hardly the offending part of a man.





What did this Hunter want with her anyway? She didn’t look anything like the women currently plying their trade in this house. She wasn’t buxom or painted, she didn’t have masses of curls or thick lashes and shapely calves. She was hardly fit for the role. What had her mama told her all those years ago? Sometimes I wish you had been born a boy, the way you tumble about with your brothers and insist on wearing trousers.





Poor mama, and poor papa, too. Thara sent a quick prayer up for her dear parents and brothers, all of whom were long buried and gone. She cast a quick glance around her sparse room. The pleasure rooms were taken for the night, Hermu had told her, and Ardon, as Jonan had called him that first night, was not willing to wait for a vacancy, so he would be coming here. She grimaced, glancing at her straw-filled pallet. It was a small room, with a minuscule window showing a sliver of white moon. There was a wooden chair by the bed with a washbasin and clay pitcher filled with water. On the floor next to it was her dress, neatly pressed and folded.






Thara bit her lip, thinking, and knew then what she had to do. There was a bold knock at her door which made her jump and nearly caused her heart to stop beating. She swallowed, suddenly panicked. She imagined trying to stuff herself through that narrow window but thought better of it. At most her hips would stick, leaving her rump and the rest of her body wiggling madly within the room. She imagined him standing there laughing at her arse as it bounced about, trying to cram itself through to freedom.






With a resolute sigh, Thara strode to the door and opened it. The Hunter towered over her, in shadow from the hallway. “Come in,” Thara whispered, her throat dry. He entered, his eyes scanning her room, taking in the plain furnishings or lack thereof. It seemed much smaller now that he was in it. “I was under the mistaken assumption that you were employed here,” The man said, his eyes going up to her grimy window and the moon beyond it. “I do work here,” Thara said. “Just not in the way you thought. At least, not when we last spoke.” She hesitated. “Did Hermu not tell you?” Perhaps, since it was all a misunderstanding, he would apologize and leave.



He laughed and she detected a trace of scorn. “That penny-pinching goblin? Of course he didn’t. But I can read between the lines easily enough.” He wandered over to the window, unperturbed.


SOURCE: www.emperorblog.com.ng/the-girl- in-the-brothel/

PART 5 Thara was both relieved and disappointed. The latter emotions surprised her. He clearly frequented the brothel enough to be on a first name basis with Hermu and Jonan, which meant that he was a lout, a man of ill morals, or at least one prone to material excess. Why she would desire someone like that she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was those eyes. She’d never seen eyes that shade of blue. Or maybe it was that scar on his chin. She wondered how he got it, if it was from an accident as a boy, or from a skirmish as a Hunter. She imagined him fighting with pirates on a cerulean sea, shiny black boots gleaming in the bright sun.




She realized she was imagining again, and that the Hunter was watching her with amusement. “My name is Ardon.” He extended a hand. “I don’t think we were properly introduced when we first met.” Thara looked suspiciously at him, but was only met with an innocent smile. Against her better judgement, she put her hand his hand larger one and they shook. A patron with manners. That was different. “You didn’t tell me your name.” “Thara.” He still hadn’t made a move toward her. Why is he here, Thara wondered, if he has no interest in bedding me? She was growing impatient. Her plan would never work if he didn’t start mauling her this instant. She angled herself to be closer to the chair and the clay pitcher that sat upon it. “I don’t suppose,” Ardon drawled, watching her edge sideways, “You have any interest in remaining at The Rosey Bush for the foreseeable future?” He had fully turned to face her, silhouetted in the meager moonlight shining through the window behind him.




Thara made a face. “Not particularly.” It wasn’t a disagreeable establishment, and some of the ladies were quite delightful to banter with. But she couldn’t remain here now that Hermu had promoted her. She had no intention of becoming a seductress and wearing those wispy bits of fabric that barely covered anything.




“How exactly did a young woman such as yourself end up wandering through the bogs and marshes of Grogom anyway?” Ardon asked. Thara suppressed an exasperated sigh. Did the man always insist on making conversation like this with all

his whores? “I was running away,” she said simply.





“I gathered as much the night we first met,” the man prodded. “What, pray tell, were you running away from?” He sank his bulk onto her thin mattress, jumping up with a curse when an obstinate bit of straw poked him in the rear. He leaned over to press it flat. “How do you sleep on this? It’s like a rag stuffed with brambles.” Thara ignored him. “I was running away from my employer.” The moment the words left her mouth she realized that remark would soon ring true with The Rosey Bush as well. There was a word for that…not irony… oh, she couldn’t remember it now. “I was maid to her children. But I didn’t like it there and thought I’d be better off taking my chances elsewhere.” The chandler’s wife was too liberal with her beatings, and for such paltry indiscretions, too.



“Were you employed with them for very long?” Ardon asked. He was sniffing around for something, Thara was sure of it. She eyed the pitcher longingly but didn’t answer. He was going to have to be sitting on the other end of the bed to make this
work.


Ardon had gotten up while Thara was thinking, and she found, much to her consternation, that he was directly in front of her now, taking up all the available space, and much too close for comfort. She stumbled back with an audible squeak, hitting the wall. She would have darted sideways but quick as a flash, he planted both hands on the wall on either side of her arms, preventing escape. Up close, he quite stole her breath away. Thara couldn’t break away from his gaze, it was as though she were hypnotized. His eyes flicked down, briefly, to her mouth. She unconsciously wet her lips, breathless. “I think,” Ardon murmured, and a delightful little zip of electricity hit below her belly button, “That perhaps we had best get started.”


SOURCE: www.emperorblog.com.ng/the-girl-in-the-brothel/

PART 6
he world had narrowed into one small point. The air between them was so still, a feather could float into the space between their lips and become frozen, suspended for eternity. It was all just too much, Thara decided. She was still nowhere near the pitcher and now he was boxing her in on both sides. But goodness if those were not the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, even here in her dark room with only the moonlight shining through her tiny window. Ardon’s laugh broke the spell of the moment and he pushed away from the wall. Thara blinked. “What’s so funny?” she demanded, nettled. Her face felt hot, and she wasn’t sure what had just happened, only that he seemed —well, gleeful. And at her expense, too. “I’m sorry if I toyed with your emotions,” Ardon said, not seeming sorry at all. “You looked so hopeful that I thought it best if I didn’t continue.” He hadn’t planned on kissing her then. He was only teasing her! Thara pursed her lips, annoyed that he was able to read her so easily. “Then what,” she said calmly, “are you doing here? Hermu said you asked for me.” She was glad he had no intention of seducing her. At least, that was what she told herself. “I’m looking for someone,” Ardon said, confirming her earlier suspicion. “And I think you might be her.” Thara’s eyebrows almost raised right off her head, but she kept silent. Her thoughts thundered like a thousand hoofbeats. A Hunter, looking for her? Whatever for? Hunters didn’t look for people, unless those people were murderous nomadic tribes of plunderers and idol-worshippers. “Is your name Thara Newtane, daughter of Belinda Newtane née Sommers?” “What’s it to you?” Thara asked bullishly, in the manner of her oldest brother, Edwin. It had been a long time since she had heard that name. “I take that as a yes, then,” Ardon quipped. “Your mother and brothers perished with the summer fever two years ago in Wrethby Creek?” Again, Thara didn’t answer. She was thinking about the day she had left, after burying her youngest brother, Hugo. He’d been the last to perish. She had laid him to rest with the help of her good friend, Bernard, next to the rest of her family, under the elm down the hill from their house. Her papa’s grave had been there for a year already, and now the rest of his family joined him, everyone except for her. After saying goodbye to Bernard, Thara had taken a bag with some clothes and a brush, and walked away from her home, cursing her luck that she was not also under that elm with her family. She was so deep in her memories that she did not notice when Ardon took her hand, pulling her out of her little room and down the hall toward the front door. By the time she managed to rouse herself from her depression, they were outside, and he was readying his horse. “Are you done thinking about whatever it is you’re thinking about?” Ardon asked, untying the mare from the hitching post and removing its halter. “We should get going.” He checked the saddle and girth straps and moved the stirrups up. There was a cloak draped over the pommel, which he took and gave to her. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Thara said, the cloak in her hands. She had no interest in being kidnapped and taken to a Hunter encampment. I’d kill myself first, she thought fiercely. She’d heard stories about they did to women. A thought struck her that only moments ago she had wanted this particular Hunter to do those same things to her. “At this moment you have two choices: either leave with me, or stay here and become a prostitute.” Ardon’s patience was running thin. “I’m surprised you have to think about this. It’s not a—” “There’s a third choice, you know,” Thara said, keeping her voice low. From the window above them came a man’s passionate moans. “I can leave on my own, without you, which was my original plan if you hadn’t done what you did back there!” She held the cloak out to Ardon, but he didn’t take it. Ardon smiled. “And just what did I do back there?” he asked, reaching out to take the cloak. Thara clamped her mouth shut. Well, he hadn’t exactly done anything, only teased her, just like he was doing now. There were butterfly wings beating inside her chest. “I’m not going away with you and getting ravished by you and your friends.” The smile on his face disappeared. “What?” He looked stunned. “Where did you get that idea? I’m not going to rape you!” He stared at her like she had three heads. “What kind of man do you think I am?” “You’re a Hunter!” Thara shouted. The moaning above them paused then resumed. “You kidnap women and use them as your personal slaves!” Now he looked angry. “I am not a Hunter, Ms. Newtane.” His eyes were closed and he was pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to kidnap you and—how did you put it— ravish you, for God’s sake!” “Then why did you drag me outside?” Thara asked nastily. She had planted fresh flowers by the front step the day before, and knew the trowel was still in the pot by the door. If he tried anything, she’d grab it and stab it into one those pretty blue eyes. “I’m rescuing you,” he said dryly. “And doing a piss-poor job of it.” He let out a breath. “A friend of your mother’s sent me to retrieve you.” The horse knickered in agreement behind him. “In the event of her death, it was your mother’s wish that you be sent to live elsewhere. I am merely the escort.” “Bollocks. I don’t believe you.” “Then how did I know your name? Or where you came from?” He made a good point, she conceded. It was possible he was telling the truth. But then why did it take him so long to find her? A warm breeze ruffled her hair, sending a few tendrils into her eyes. She wiped them away from her face as she contemplated, only vaguely aware that she was standing outside in her night clothes and bare feet with a stranger. The lovers above them were getting louder. Ardon winced at their throaty cries, clearly uncomfortable. They seemed determined enough to wake the neighbors, had there been any. Thara grinned inwardly, letting him suffer in silence some more, as the noises had long ago ceased to embarrass her. “Maybe I believe you, but that doesn’t mean I’m coming with you.” A hundred questions pushed around inside her head, but she knew now was not the time to ask them. Hermu might appear at any moment, and she needed to get as much distance between her and The Rosey Bush as possible before dawn. Ardon let out an exasperated growl. “Are you normally this obstinate? Would you refuse the wishes of your dead mother?” Oh, he was playing a mean game. Thara’s eyes narrowed. Before she could answer, the lovers above them reached a tumultuous climax, the woman positively screaming, the man roaring in affirmation. Ardon visibly shuddered. “I’ve had enough of this ridiculousness!” He grabbed Thara around the middle, plopping her into the saddle and jumping up behind her. “Hey!” Thara shouted, making to get off. But Ardon’s hands snaked around her waist, holding her tight, and he chirruped to his horse, who took off into the night.




SOURCE: www.emperorblog.com.ng/the-girl- in-the-brothel/

PART 7
They arrived at the train station two hours later. Ardon had given Thara his cloak again during their journey, and it was now wrapped tightly around her, the dark wool fabric scratchy against her cheek. She was not used to riding on horseback, and her thighs hurt. Dawn was climbing as they dismounted and returned the mare to the stables outside a lodging house next to the train station. Once the horse had exchanged hands, they ascended the wide wooden stairs to the train platform. There were a few passengers milling about as they approached the ticket booth. Thara’s appearance—her hair in disarray and wearing a cloak three sizes too big for her—elicited a few stares but she ignored them, looking instead at the great iron sleeper car before her. There were ten of them, all neatly strung out on the track, with a dining car between and a locomotive at the front billowing great white puffs of steam from its chimney. “Where are we going?” Thara asked uneasily. For the whole of the journey thus far she had told herself she was only going along with this man because he said he knew her parents, and that they had wished for her to go with him. But now, seeing that they would indeed be traveling far, far away from this side of the kingdom, far away from Wrethby Creek and Grogom and all of the East, she felt her confidence waver. “Two tickets to Aldochor City,” Ardon said to the ticket agent. He pocketed the slips of paper and turned to Thara. “Does that answer your question?” In the morning light his features had softened. He didn’t seem so tall or menacing now. “The capital?” Thara said breathlessly, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. She had heard wonderful things about the capital of Eganick Kingdom, mostly from Bernard, who would visit his uncle every spring to help in his hatter’s shop. When he returned, he always had exciting stories to tell. Why, he’d said some houses there had flushing devices for bodily waste and baths where the water came from the ceiling! Her own mama had a few friends in the capital, but despite visiting them once a year, she had always maintained an abhorrence for its crime, unsanitary conditions and pollution. “Yes, the capital,” Ardon agreed, looking at her askance. “Have you traveled outside of the Eastern Kingdom?”

THE GIRL IN,THE BROTHEL PART 8

he shook her head. “There was never a need,” she said simply. Her mama had friends in the city and would sometimes visit, perhaps once every year. She had been a teacher, and her papa a furniture- maker, when he was well enough. They had everything they needed in Wrethby Creek, and besides summer trips to the sea and the occasional wagon ride to a neighboring village to visit friends, they had been content. Thara’s sole surviving grandpapa on her father’s side had passed away when she was four, so she had no immediate relatives to speak of, which doubtless contributed even more to her family’s isolation from the rest of the kingdom, as they knew no one outside their village.



“Well, I expect you’ll find it to be very different from what you’re used to,” Ardon said distractedly, pulling out their tickets to look for their car number. He led them to a carriage with the letter E stamped across the door and they boarded, finding their seats with little assistance. Thara sank into the velvet upholstery with delight, having never been on a train before. Her eager eyes drank in all the sights—there were silk partitions that could be drawn for privacy, beautiful walnut paneling, and shiny brass light fixtures. It all looked very grand, indeed.



After the footman verified their tickets, the train began to move. Thara watched the world pass by her window for the next several minutes, unaware of Ardon’s attention on her rapt face. A stewardess came down the aisle pushing a cart with food. “Hungry?” Ardon asked her, seeing her watch the passengers behind them pay for a pastry.

“I’m starving,” Thara admitted, “but I don’t have any coin.”


“I’ll buy us the food,” Ardon said, sitting up as the cart neared. Thara didn’t like that idea because she knew she had not a penny to her name to pay him back with, but she hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before, which now seemed so very far away.

When the woman stopped by their seats, Ardon bought a basket of scones with clotted cream and two steaming cups of black coffee with milk.


“Thank you,” Thara said as he handed her the coffee. He set the basket beside him and took a bite of blueberry scone.


“You could use the food,” he returned, looking her over. She was still wearing the cloak, but now it was open at the collar, the better for her arms to reach her impending breakfast. She was also still wearing her horrid night gown, which she had no intention of revealing to anyone in the car. It was bad enough to be kidnapped by a man claiming to know her mother, but worse still to take a train to the capital city wearing nothing but your sleeping garments. That cloak was staying on.

“You can’t see anything.” She reached for the basket and plucked out a strawberry scone, still hot from the oven.

“I can see enough,” Ardon volleyed, but at the moment he looked more interested in the jar of clotted cream in her hand. She reluctantly handed it over.

“How do you know my mother?” Thara was unable to wait any longer. The train was moving at speed now, the landscape beyond her window whizzing by. She could see fields of wheat and grass, and the occasional small town far off in the distance. She set her coffee on the small fold-out table before the window and tore into her scone properly.


“Our mothers ran a business together in Aldochor City, which became quite successful.” Ardon dunked his scone into the jar of clotted cream, foregoing a knife. “They lost touch when your mother married and left for the country. We only got word of your family’s passing a year ago, and had a damn hell of a time trying to find you. You’re as slippery as an eel.” Someone had been trying to find her? The shock must have registered in her face because Ardon looked surprised. “I did tell you this last night, you know,” he informed her. “Well, yes, but not in so many words!” Thara sputtered. “And I wasn’t sure if you were lying about that part or not.” “Didn’t your mother tell you anything about her past?” Now Ardon looked incredulous.


“No, she did not,” Thara said, growing irritated. “What is this business you’re talking about?” “Well, now I’m not so sure I should tell you anything,” Ardon said. “I think maybe it should wait until we arrive at Mereguilde—that’s my house.”



“What?” Thara cried, dismayed. “You need to tell me right now why you took me from my home and brought me here—kidnapped me, in fact!” She had little recourse to get him to comply, although she dearly wished she could lob the basket of scones at his head.




Her exclamation drew a few gasps from the passengers around them. A bespectacled man two seats down actually turned around to look at them. Ardon shot Thara a murderous look.




“That was not your home,” he growled, his voice getting louder with each word. “That. Was. A. Whorehouse!” There were more scandalized gasps from the surrounding passengers. An elderly woman wearing a voluminous expanse of petticoats fainted at the far end of the car. “I don’t know how you ended up there, and frankly, I don’t care. But say that I kidnapped you one more time and—” the vein was back in the middle of the his forehead, the one that was throbbing earlier this morning when they had been bickering on the front stoop of The Rosey Bush. Thara remembered seeing it from the glow of the sign’s lantern. “And you’ll what?” she challenged snottily. “What will you do, exactly?” She might be smaller than him, but she had learned how to punch and jab from her brothers, and if that failed, she was an excellent runner. “You don’t want to know,” he said in
a low voice, so that no one else could hear.


Thara laughed. “I dare you to try,” she taunted, not the least bit scared. “I’ll knee you where it hurts most.” And she stared unabashedly at the crotch of his pants, uncaring of propriety, just to make sure he got her point. “Oh, really?” he challenged, and leaned back against the seat with his arms crossed over that wide expanse of chest, widening his legs so that she had clear access. The annoyance was gone from his face. He looked expectantly at her, and she thought she detected a twinkle in those blue eyes.


Thara glared at him for a long moment before finally jerking her head away to stare at the scenery outside, her jaw working in irritation. Well, of course she wasn’t going to injure him for no good reason. That he goaded her to do so was both stupid and infuriating. He was acting like a child.


She contented herself with ignoring the man across from her, watching the landscape fly by until her eyelids grew heavy and finally she dozed off. It was night time when she was jostled awake. She scooted up in her seat, blinking heavily. The lamps in the car had been dimmed, and it looked like most of the passengers had already turned out their sleeping berths and gone to bed.




“Get up so I can have the beds made,” Ardon said in a low voice scratchy with sleep. “Here, I saved you a sandwich.” He handed her a small parcel wrapped in wax paper. Thara stood in the aisle and watched as he folded the seats down to create a bed. The second berth was lowered down from the ceiling using a pulley system rigged to the wall. There was a curtain for each level, upper and lower, and Thara saw that most throughout their car were already drawn tight for the night. “You can have the upper berth, I’ll take the lower,” Ardon said. Thara looked and understood why. There was hardly any clearance between the mattress and the ceiling. Ardon would be packed tight like a sardine in a tin.



“Okay.” Thara sat back on the now converted bed, reaching over to close the window curtains as she finished her sandwich, noting that it was pitch black outside. She watched from the corner of her eye as Ardon took off his bracers, untucked his shirt and headed toward the washroom at the end of the car.


When he was gone, she took off the cloak and tossed it on the lower bed before climbing up the tiny ladder, sliding like a snake—or an eel—into the narrow space. There was hardly any room to turn over. In fact, she felt like her nose would graze the ceiling if she yawned.

THE GIRL IN THE BROTHEL PART 9

This must be what it feels like to lie in a coffin, she thought. An image of her family’s graves sprung to mind, bringing tears to her eyes. She silently cursed the events of the last twenty-four hours. Ardon’s arrival, his questions and his knowledge of her past, had dredged up awful feelings she had worked so hard to keep locked away in the farthest corners of her mind.






She turned her head so the tears could stream into the pillow. This was the worst part of everything that had happened since Ardon knocked on the door to her bedroom at The Rosey Bush, she decided. Yes, sleeping in this coffin bed was worse than being promoted to a prostitute and much worse than being kidnapped and taken to the capital, at the behest of a woman she did not know, and toward a future she was not prepared to meet. Unable to run from her thoughts, Thara cried herself to sleep.



*** The slight swaying of the carriage car slowly roused her awake. She could see bright white light from the sliver of window that made it up past her mattress. For a moment, Thara forgot where she was. Then it all came rushing back—Ardon’s arrival, their flight from Grogom in the early hours of the morning and the train ride to Aldochor City. She bolted upright and hit her head on the ceiling.



“Are you all right?” Ardon asked from the other side of the privacy curtain. “Yes,” Thara said, wincing. She pulled back the curtain and lowered her head over the edge to find him on his mattress buttoning up his cuffs. His dark hair was mussed and his shirt gaped open to reveal a chest as smooth as marble.



“You can come down whenever you’re ready. I need to put the beds away and I can’t do that if you’re still in it.” He got up to stand in the aisle, staring up at her. They were nearly eye level.



Thara pulled her head back. The butterfly wings were beating inside her chest again. “I don’t have any clothes,” she whispered, her eyes darting to the other sleeping berths, whose privacy curtains were mercifully still drawn.



“That can’t be helped, unfortunately,” Ardon said unsympathetically. His eyes strayed over her gown, which had ridden up over her legs to expose her bare calves. She yanked the fabric down to cover them, shooting him a warning glance. He gave her a sardonic look but took out a comb from his back pocket and handed it to her. “Here. For your hair.”

SOURCE: www.emperorblog.com.ng

THE GIRL IN THE BROTHEL PART 10

aves lapped gently against the shore, bringing with them a coarse salty wind that whipped across the tree tops above Ardon’s head. It was midnight, and he was deep in the forest north of the capital, at the mouth of the Hessapac River where it met the sea. The kingdom was built on hard clay soil, but the banks of the Hessapac were a rich brown silt that smelled of the ocean. Fisherman plied the waters here during the day harvesting oysters and clams, and setting out traps for crabs and nets for fish. Now it was empty and quiet. It was colder up here, especially in the dead of night, and he had left his gloves at home. Their rendezvous point had been carefully chosen, hidden from the main waterway in an area of wood that was far from the city docks and uninhabited by people. It had served them well for the past several months and Ardon hoped it would continue to do so.



He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his wool coat, angling his body away from the sea and the stiff wind coming off it. Several yards down and upwind were his companions for the evening, two spotters on each side who would watch for unexpected visitors. It had been two hours, and still there was no sign of the boat. But that was not unusual. Smuggling was both an exact and an imprecise art. One could never be too careful. He had waited much longer for other cargo before, and in harsher conditions. Besides which, it gave him time to rue over the events of the past day.


“Coffee?” a squeaky voice at his elbow inquired. He look down to see his friend and fellow smuggler, Collin Hargreaves, kneeling beside him. Ardon made a noise of delight and took the proffered tin cup with numb fingers as the man sat, doffing a cap over his curly red hair.



“Didn’t think you’d be back from the marshes so soon,” the smaller man said. “I take it you found the girl?” Ardon was too busy downing the contents of his cup. He came up for air, nodding in the dark, though he knew Collin could not see the motion. “Yes,” he said, being careful to keep his voice low.



“How’d you find her?” Collin inquired curiously. “Was she in a bad way?” “She was in a whorehouse in Grogom,” Ardon said. He couldn’t keep the wry tone out of his voice. It had taken him nearly a year, hopping from town to town with hiatuses in between to take care of urgent business. The girl had been slippery, all right. It was a miracle he’d even stumbled across her at The Rosey Bush, because he certainly hadn’t been looking for her there. “Oh, I know the one!” Collin said brightly, a bit too loudly. Ardon elbowed him in the ribs. The man stilled, but couldn’t contain his excitement. “The one with the red
sign on the side, and rosebushes all ’round it, yeah? There’s a woman in there who kissed my boots off, she did. Mattie.”






“That sounds familiar,” Ardon conceded reluctantly. He might have even seen Mattie there on one of the nights he patronized the establishment. He didn’t think he had bedded her, though. Collin’s women were a bit too waifish for his tastes. Ardon himself had bedded many a waifish woman, but it was not a trait he found appealing, and he certainly didn’t fall back on it as a stipulation as some men did, especially since he knew the things women did to themselves in the name of beauty. It was a shame, really, the standards society placed on them. “How’d you find her there, of all places?” his friend asked. “I didn’t even realize it was her when we first met,” Ardon admitted. Collin guffawed. “What do you mean you didn’t know it was her?”




“I wasn’t looking for her, then.” Ardon knocked back what was left in his cup. “Mind giving me another round?” Collin obliged, pouring the steaming liquid into the tin, counting the seconds and stopping before it overflowed past the lip. “I was on my way to Hildenbroke following a lead. On my way there I came across upon a chandler in Whitesop who had employed a girl matching her description. Said she’d run away about one week prior, which lined up with when I first ran into her at the brothel. I was an idiot for not realizing it that first night. She didn’t act like a ruffian.”




“Well that’s a fine surprise,” Collin said slyly. “Was she a favorite of yours at the Bush?” Ardon nearly spit out his coffee. “Collin, you’re a fool. The girl is as innocent as a baby lamb. She was a maid. The master had her working as payment for stealing food from his kitchen.”




When he had caught her pilfering Hermu’s dinner that first night, he had been sure she would freeze up like a frightened rabbit the instant he laid a hand on her. But instead she had charged right into him. He hadn’t expected that, and he most certainly hadn’t expected to lose his balance and fall, taking her with him. He still remembered the way his hands had settled over her full hips like they were meant to fit there.




Under her frumpy service dress, stained with mud and dirt, were firm thighs and pert, round breasts. Oh, how his cock had stiffened upon feeling her wriggling on top of him! It had taken enormous effort not to press her closer to his body, to feel her feminine shape crushed against his chest. And when he had brought his knee up between her legs? He had delighted at her surprised intake of breath. She was incredibly responsive, which he liked in his women. Responsive, but utterly ignorant about the intimacies between men and women.



“I bet she learned something, though!” Collin was insisting. “There isn’t anything you can’t learn in those places. Why, I bet she snuck a look or two herself. Living in a place like that, a person’s bound to get curious.”



“I wouldn’t put it past her.” Ardon twirled the empty tin in his hands, staring across the water. “She asks too many questions for my liking, but perhaps the ladies there obliged her. Although, she is generally distrustful. We spent far too long arguing when we met,” he confided to his friend. “I also think she might be a bit touched.




There were moments when she seemed to not be paying attention. Like those patients at the hospital, the ones who spend hours looking at the wall? She did that quite a few times during our conversation, staring at a pitcher of water by her bed.” “Maybe she was thirsty,” Collin suggested. “Or maybe she wanted to lob it at your head. Knock you out and steal your Egs.”



“I wasn’t carrying enough worth stealing,” Ardon said, mildly miffed. “And she was a horrible seductress.” The girl couldn’t charm her way past a drunken night watchman, though she did have a striking kind of beauty he hadn’t seen before. He had noticed it right away that first night, even as starved as she had been.


The two weeks working for Hermu had done her good. She had rounded out considerably when he returned two weeks later to fetch her. He remembered how her cheeks had flushed a lovely pink when she thought he was going to kiss her. Damn, his trousers were too tight again. But he was no longer cold, which amounted to something.
SOURCE: www.emperorblog.com.ng/the-girl-in-the-brothel/

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THE GIRL IN THE BROTHEL PART 11



An owl hooted upriver. Collin and Ardon straightened, staring out at the inky black water. Around the bend in the river, a dark shape moved slowly alongside the bank. Ardon and Collin remained silent, waiting. When the small boat had gotten close enough, Ardon let out a low whistle, two staccato beats followed by a half- beat. It was repeated back to him backwards.




The men picked their way into the water to pull the boat to shore, working swiftly. Caspar was working the boat with Meredith. Ardon could pick out the heavy-set man from his partner, whose figure was hidden under a heavy jacket and hat. He had worked several jobs with the pair of them, both legal and illegal, and found them to be efficient, if not brusque. But that was typical of Creusen business folk. Their kingdom had undergone a coup several years back, and it was still quite dangerous to travel abroad as they were doing. Their borders were patrolled heavily, and they risked capture each time they worked a job.




A rope was used to anchor the vessel to the treeline, and then the smugglers went to work. There were about a half dozen wooden crates covered with a dark tarp. It took two men to carry one and load it onto the automaton crouched in the brush cover. The job was completed in about fifteen minutes total. Ardon and Collin quickly shook hands with Casper and Meredith, and helped them shove their boat back into the water. The spotters up the bank hooted an affirmation when they had safely exited the inlet. Ardon covered the boat tracks with brush while Collin started up the automaton. It rose onto its legs, silent as a wraith, and followed Collin through the woods. The machine walked on four legs like a horse, but was different in several ways. For one, it was made of steel and aluminum. It bore no head, but was low and broad-backed, the better to carry supplies. Each of its jointed aluminum limbs ended in a rubber foot. While a horse could carry no more than twenty percent of its body weight, the automaton could carry two hundred percent of the animal’s weight in cargo. That was over two tons. Fully standing, it reached up to Ardon’s waist.




Collin walked ahead, leading the machine with a fob in his pocket. It would follow whomever held the fob, cleverly picking its way over rocks, fallen logs, even fording streams and rivers if the need arose. Ardon watched it, still fascinated at how the thing was able to navigate through the terrain. The Guard would love to get their hands on this, he thought. Good luck with that. Lidelle Shipping Co. was well-entrenched in the black market within Eganick Kingdom. Well, its smuggling arm was, anyway. The woman who had built this…well, let’s say she was not easy to get in contact with. This pack-mule was well worth its weight in gold, and Lidelle had three of them. The moon was a waning gibbous in the night sky as they walked. Collin halted ahead of him, listening. The automaton froze mid-step. Suddenly, the woods to their right exploded into motion.




Three figures burst out of the copse. There was the sound of gunfire. Ardon threw himself to the ground, silently cursing. His spotters had failed to signal, or the attackers had been lying in wait for hours. He could hear Collin shouting to his left, and dearly hoped his friend was holding his own, because he sure wasn’t. A sharp blow landed on the back of his head. There was brief pause. He wasn’t taking any chances. He rolled before the gun went off and blindly reached for his assailants ankles, grabbing and yanking.



The two men rolled, Ardon desperately going after the gun hand. The man was smaller than him but possessed a wiry strength, and long arms. Ardon was clocked on the side of his head. The blow sent him reeling. Gods, he was going to pass out if he got another blow like that. He was gasping for breath, unable to see. He groped inside his pocket for the small cube. The man kicked him in the ribs. Ardon groaned, rolling onto his back. Lying on the ground, he could see the stars shining between the tree tops, and the black silhouette of his would-be murderer. The man aimed the pistol just as Ardon threw the knockout cube directly into his face. It exploded on contact, filling the air with smoke. The man screamed, falling to the ground. Stumbling to his feet, Ardon took a moment to orient himself. Collin was yelling terribly, so he lurched toward his friend, shouting his name. Damn it, the gun! Turning back toward the unconscious man behind him, he grabbed the silver pistol and ran forward.




Collin was locked in a stranglehold now, his feet kicking into the air. “Don’t come any closer,” the man holding Collin snarled. “Stay right where you are.” He gestured, showing Ardon the Showman he held in his tightly clenched fist. “What do you want?” Ardon asked, gasping for breath.





“You know exactly what we want,” the stranger said. “Oy.” He gestured to the third man who was going over the crates. “Whatcha find?” “I dunno how we’re s’posed to make off wi’ this,” the third man said doubtfully. “It ain’t bein’ pulled by nothin’. I dunno how it moves.” He walked around the automaton, which was frozen on three limbs, the fourth paused in midair. “Wot is this thing?” the man asked them. Ardon let the question sink in for a moment.





“I said, what the bloody ‘ell is this?” A crack pierced the air and the man crumpled. Miles and Scarlett, the spotters upwind, had fired the shot and were running toward them. Ardon took the opportunity to chuck a second knockout cube in Collin’s direction. It hit his friend’s chest and exploded. A second later, both men collapsed, unconscious. Arden ran to Collin, checking his pulse to find him sleeping peacefully. He felt under his jacket for wounds and found none.





“Cargo is good,” Miles reported. He picked his way over to Collin to retrieve the fob. With it tucked safely in his coat pocket, he lifted the smaller man onto his broad shoulders and gently laid him on top of the wooden crates. The automaton jerked awake and followed Miles as the man walked toward the road and their waiting wagon.






“Sorry about that,” Scarlett said to Ardon from her spot by one of the downed men. “We didn’t see them hiding in the brush earlier.” She took a syringe from her inner coat pocket and filled it with serum from a bottle in her waistband, watching in the weak moonlight as the dark liquid filled the syringe. “Do you want to use mine?” She held the bottle out him. “No, I’m fine.” Ardon leaned over the man who had attacked him, brushing the hair back from his eyes. A stranger. He deftly tied a strip of cloth tightly above the man’s elbow and found a vein, injecting the sleeping man with an overdose of serum from his own bottle.




“How do you think they found out about us?” Ardon asked Scarlett as he capped his needle and removed the tie from around the dead man’s arm. He didn’t like that they had been ambushed. How long had they known about this meeting point? “I don’t know, Ardon,” the woman said heavily. “It smells fishy. I think we’d best make arrangements to move the drop-off point again, just in case.”





He didn’t answer, his mind instead on the precious cargo they had just received. If it had gotten into the wrong hands…he shuddered to think of it. The buyer for this shipment had been vetted thoroughly by the company, but as he set to work digging a shallow grave with a shovel provided by Henry, one of the spotters downwind, he couldn’t help wonder if a mistake might have been made. Or if someone had been bought from inside the company. How else would those men have known to lie in wait here? This rendezvous point was only used twice a month. And it had happened before. Selling to the wrong people, that is.




Ardon shoved the thought out of his mind and focused on turning up the soft dark earth. When the three holes had been dug, they tossed the dead men inside and packed the soil down, covering it with leaves and brush, before exiting the woods toward the waiting wagon. There couldn’t be any survivors. Not in this line of work. SOURCE: www.emperorblog.com.ng/the-girl- in-the-brothel/

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Jaspertech , KrazzyAndy , Madiba147 ( m), Lordshola, nkpommpko ( m), rhajaan ( m), francium001 ( m), Hasseenoh ( m), LightQueen ( f ), invinzible1 , magoo10 ( m), rachealfst ( f ), shox ( m), Mayreeyam ( f ), queen1494 , Biralee ( m), titiloyeblog ( m), Shibaraba

Wish u d best boss.

Thanks. Happy new year.
More inspiration in Jesus name.

interesting

Really nice

Beautiful story, captivating, even. All that talk of boats and anchors just took me back to an interesting article I read here: https://www.fontation.com/reviews/best-boat-anchor-for-lakes/