The Ghía

Chapter 6

He slid along the empty street like a bat, melted into the deeper shadow cast by a house, waited. When the hollow echo of footsteps on the crossing alley had died down, the darkness stirred once more. A shape detached itself from it to continue on its path towards the high iron fence of the estate at the end of the street.

In the night the fence seemed to enclose only clusters of lush trees, but the man made his way inside it through a small gate and walked between the trees until he reached the house. It loomed in the middle of the garden, the scent of roses hanging in the air around it like a veil.

The front door opened and closed. The man stopped to sweep back the black hood of his cloak and shook his head so that long golden hair cascaded freely on his shoulders. A mirror on the wall reflected the glow of a candle and he turned, lips pulling into a smile that was thin and sharp as a stiletto.

"It is done."

The pale woman frowned, candle flickering in her hand. "What have you done?"

"Avenged my brother and your husband, my dear Amíria." The man swung the cloak away, peeled leather gloves from his hands and straightened his cuffs.

She sighed. "You will get in trouble for this."

"Oh no, I won't," the man replied in a low voice. He sounded satisfied. "Nobody can link me to what will be found – and as to the man who knows for sure, he won't breathe a word unless he wants to hang himself as well."

He kissed her on the cheek. "Don't worry, sister dear. There's nothing to fret about."

"Chiséra, whatever you do, it will not bring Gioréo back."

She looked straight into his eyes that narrowed slightly.

"No. But you don't really think that those who did it should be allowed to sleep their nights in peace." His breath hissed in the silence. "Do you?"

The woman shook her head and smiled minutely.

"I would have told you no a little earlier and a little more emphatically," she said quietly. "Now get yourself to bed, mylord. It's well past midnight."

He bowed to her and turned to go, hearing the rustle of her skirts as she ascended the stairs. Past midnight, and she hadn't even undressed yet. Right now her maid would be cursing her mistress, provided that the woman was even awake.

In a mansion surrounded by a lush garden, the blond man walked along the soft carpet to the other end of the dark corridor, lips curling a little at the metallic scent of blood that lingered on his tongue. Once in his bed, he rolled onto his back and crossed his hands behind his head as he luxuriated in the cool smoothness. It was dark, only some pale moonlight dared touch the hedges and even push tentative fingers through the curtains. It was dark, the candle on the bedside table wasn’t lit, but the man’s eyes were open. He was smiling to himself.

On the other side of the city another mansion was abuzz, preparing for a late night party. All of the servants were busy and the butler was very curt to the gaunt, nondescript man who knocked on the kitchen door and insisted that the parcel he was carrying should be taken immediately to the master of the house. His errand completed, the man vanished into the night.

The butler looked at the carefully wrapped parcel. It wasn't very large, there was no inscription or card with it, but the man had been clear about his mission: he'd been instructed to deliver it tonight. Its recipient was waiting for it.

So the butler went upstairs and knocked on the master's door, not surprised to find the rich man quite as short with him as he'd been with the messenger. His manservant took the bundle and placed it on a side table where it merited one disinterested glance from the master before he turned once more to the mirror to watch while his manservant returned to continue dressing him. He needed to get ready for the party.

Finally he was satisfied with his attire and dismissed the manservant who departed with a bow, leaving him to rummage through the box that contained his jewelry. When the necessary rings and chains had been selected and their positions on the elaborate costume decided to the rich man's liking, he was just about to go when his gaze swept over the neglected parcel. He picked it up, turned it around, then began to open it. Underneath the paper there was cloth, wrapped tight.

The hoarse scream cut through the house and made every servant drop their errands and run towards their master’s room. The manservant was not the first to reach the door, but he was the first to dare touch it. After the barest of knocks he rushed in, then stopped as if he'd run into a wall.

The rich man had backed against the wall, face distorted in terror, bloody hands in front of him as if he couldn't get them far enough from himself. On the floor was a long, blood-stained swath of cloth, and another hand. Not a gentleman's hand, it was rough and callused and the fingernails ragged, severed with a rough cut at the wrist. Despite the brown skin it looked pale and grotesque there on the luxurious carpet, palm down, fingers curling a little.

The butler pushed the petrified manservant aside and gingerly picked up first the cloth, then the hand, and heard the rich man behind him retch. Then he noticed something else on the floor, a small white card, and picked it up as well.

“This hand took the life of Ghía Gioréo,” the card read in brusque, upright letters. “Where is the heart that desired it – where is the head that thought of it?”