Fairy Tale: Winter's Bite

Chapter 12: The Deal (Part 2)

Pierre Delacroix glanced up from beneath his hooded cloak and saw a green flag waving in the watch station. He scanned the street for stray eyes, just in case, and then dashed across Le Noir Alley with stringed bundles of paper dangling from his index fingers.

He slipped into the passageway beside the Discourse headquarters. It was a boarded-up building with a crooked and filth-covered number "11" hanging above what was once the side entrance to a brothel. For some reason, the number was moving with a metallic squeak, an odd occurrence for such a deep and sheltered zone of the cave. He made a mental note to remove it.

If he intended to keep headquarters there for any duration, he didn't want the building to have any distinguishing features. Otherwise, the burned-out shell was perfect for his purposes. Because of the fire, the stairs, walls, and eaves were unstable at best, but the previous occupants had built the cellar like a fortress—windowless, waterproof, soundproof, fireproof—and there was only one way inside it.     

At the back of the building, Pierre teetered over the labyrinth of unsteady rock slabs. He knelt down and moved the one with the smooth edges aside.

He fiddled with his key in the lock. It sometimes gave him a moment of trouble, but not usually more than that. It popped open just before his frustration set in.     

Pierre lit the candle waiting for him on the first step of the stairwell and balanced it on top of his paper. He could barely see over his pile as he eased down the narrow passage.

He counted the steps—nine—and at the bottom he took three more paces to his worktable. There, he set down his pile and immediately flexed his cramped fingers.

The candle continued to flicker, he noticed, even though it was no longer in motion. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow swell. He turned his head and spotted the whites of two eyes. As his body shifted toward the stairs, he crashed against armor. He was dangling in the air by a chokehold an instant later.

Fighting to free himself, he kicked over the candle. The squeeze around his neck strengthened until it became impossible for Pierre to move or even breathe. Then he lost consciousness.

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When Pierre came to, he wasn't sure where he was or what had happened; the dark was absolute and the pressure on his airway remained firm. But the strike of a match brought him back to full awareness.

A fairy, all in black, moved with slow certainty to the scraps of torchwood heaped in the corner of the room. He lit a fire, and upon his return, torch in hand, his malicious face came into view. "Pierre! We've been looking all over for you," the black-clad fairy chanted as if they were old friends.

Pierre's eyes wobbled around the cellar. He saw the red, the blue, the starred shields, the long swords. He was outnumbered by five, more than that if he considered their skill and armor. Their barbarity and ill will. "You bastards!"

Pierre tried lifting his feet and using his weight to weaken the chokehold. But the bulky arm around his neck constricted further. He had to set his feet back down or he would have passed out again.

The fairy in black hovered up and landed on the ground in front of him. His teeth glinted in a mocking smile. Pierre had only one recourse: he spat in his enemy's face.

As soon as the gob hit the Royal's pale cheek, Pierre was slammed down onto the table by the behemoth at his throat. His wriggling wrists were pinned against his back.

"You should learn some respect," his punisher growled. Pierre's head was then knocked against a pile of paper with a sword-clasped fist.

The fairy in black stepped into Pierre's visual field and overtook it. He pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with gold thread and made a spectacle out of wiping his face clean. "I wouldn't have done that if I were you. Do you have any idea of whom you are dealing with?"

"You are a fiend just like your foul mother," Pierre snarled in response.

"Crux, punish him for his sharp tongue," Canis Major instructed with an accompanying sweep of his hand.

While the soldiers held Pierre in place, the notorious "Brute" peeled his right hand away from his body and secured it against the table above his head.

Pierre watched the blade rise and fall. His hand burst open. Blood everywhere, instantly. While Pierre screamed and writhed, wondering how much of his hand he'd lost, his severed pinkie was shoved in his mouth.

"Now, Pierre, we would prefer to act civilized, if only you would cooperate. You have information we want. It's as simple as that."

Pierre spat out the finger. "I know nothing."

Canis lifted Pierre's head by his hair. "I don't believe that to be true. Where did the MacRae brothers say they were going?"

"I don't know to whom you are referring."

Canis slammed his head into the table with enough force to make papers fly. "Pierre, I'm no fool. I read your article."

"I write a lot of articles," Pierre retorted defiantly.

"I am particularly interested in the article about 'Christopher the Valiant.' Do you recall?"

"I . . . I . . . fabricated the entire thing. I never met him."

"Liar! Witnesses all over this disgraceful end of the city have suggested otherwise." Canis reached for Pierre's bleeding right hand, clamped it down, and lifted his sword. "I will give you one last chance. Tell me where the MacRaes intend to go, or you will lose the entire hand." Canis's arm slackened for a second while he snickered. "A handless writer. How very tragic."

While they all chuckled at his expense, Pierre squirmed with all his strength, trying to free himself. But the clutches all over his body tightened to the point where it hurt to twitch. He had to yield.

Hyperventilating from terror and overexertion, he weighed his options. He considered telling them nothing. He would lose his hand, probably his life, but he would die honorably as a martyr for his cause. If instead, he told them what he knew, there was a slim chance they would let him go. He would then continue to fight against injustices like these.

Pierre made his choice. "Connecticut. They have an aunt on their mother's side who lives there. She might have information about their fairy heritage. And that's all I know. They didn't confide in me with the specifics."

"I knew you would submit, Pierre," Canis said with eerie serenity as he slipped his sword back into its sheath. "You reek of cowardice and are about as loyal to your cause as I am."  

Two of the other soldiers put their weapons away as well, and the oppressive pressure against Pierre's body eased. "I gave you what you requested," he said, emboldened by the reprieve. "So set me free!"

Canis loomed closer to Pierre's face and stared at him, coldly expressionless. "Finish him," he growled with demonic fervor.

A decisive blow was administered to the back of his neck. Pierre watched Canis Major wipe splattered blood off his pale cheek with his handkerchief.

Devastating news would reach the South End soon enough, although not in print. The white paper that should have been covered in black ink was instead infused with Pierre's blood.

Then the editor of the Discourse saw no more.

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