Page 18 of Villains Never Die

Frederick Hale was the kind of man no one noticed. He was of average height with mousy brown hair and unremarkable browneyes. When he opened his door for me at one in the morning on Thursday, he wore khaki pants and a dull sweater.

He was common in every way.

That was his first skill. That was the act.

“Good evening, Austin,” he said, even thougheveningwas a poor word for the late hour at which I had set up this meeting. “Please come in.”

He held the door for me as I stepped through into a living room that might have belonged to an antique collector, if Frederick were a normal man. An old clock, aged knickknacks, and carved end tables accented beige furniture.

The door closed, then he raised his hand with a quick pulse of magic and locked it behind us.

“Follow me.”

No further greetings or niceties—straight to business. Just the way I liked it.

He led me down a long hallway to a locked room at the end, except this one was warded with such complicated spells that even I wouldn’t have been able to open it. The door opened with a faint, acrid smell that made my nose wrinkle as we stepped inside. Shelves lined the walls, displaying bottles and jars in neat rows. His careful handwriting labeled each of them.

Hemlock. Arsenic. Nightshade.

Some labels named herbs and ingredients I had never heard of.

“What can I help you with?” Frederick asked. In my head, I made a ‘pick your poison’ joke, but I didn’t let it show on my face. His was all seriousness as he waited for my answer.

“I need something that can be absorbed through the skin and will kill instantly.”

“Ah, a quick death is expensive.”

“I have a lot of money.” I kept a safe distance near the door, far from his rows of poisons, but he moved fluidly throughthe room, eyes roaming over bottles. He stopped near one, his fingers hovering over it, then shook his head. Further down the line, he picked up two bottles and carried them to a worktable in the center of the room.

“You’ll want to step outside for this part,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if I was in danger or he was maintaining the confidentiality of his recipe, but I turned without a word and lingered in the hallway. I had pondered this problem for two days and realized it might not be so difficult after all. I just needed to ensure there was only one knife available to The Death Dealer on Saturday.

Ten minutes later, Frederick stepped into the hall, and a stronger scent followed him—something bitter that made me cover my nose with my sleeve until the door shut behind him. He handed me a glass vial the size of a cigarette lighter, sealed tight with a cork.

“Don’t spill that,” he warned. “Whatever you plan to do with it, wear gloves—thick ones—and let it dry completely before using it. It will do what you asked.”

I tucked it into my pocket with care and paid the exorbitant price he charged me for it.

“Thank you. Always a pleasure doing business with you,” I said.

“Anytime.”

Back on the street, I texted Gray.

I need you to bribe some underling to make sure that there is only one knife on the table on Saturday, and only for Paris’s fight.

He didn’t text me back. Like a normal person, Gray slept at night, but he’d get back to me in the morning. Paris would fight last on Saturday, and it was going to be a very grand finale.

Chapter Eight

Rook’s club smelled even worse when it was full of sweaty lowlifes gambling their money away. I wore the only pair of jeans I owned and a white undershirt that made me feel naked in the crowded room. The first fight was half over when I placed a bet at the counter on Paris’s opponent and used my real name. I wanted to make sure Rook knew I was here tonight.

I coughed on cigarette smoke as I ordered a beer from the bar to keep up appearances, but when I tipped it back to see if my aversion to the drink had changed in the last ten years, I nearly spat it back into the bottle. Someone bumped into me and splattered some of it on my collar. They didn’t apologize.

Anticipating standing room only for Paris’s fight, I moved down the bleachers toward the cage, where I could get a good view of what was going on inside it. I arrived just in time to see a man fall, knocked unconscious and covered in blood when the man he fought landed a powerful punch to his face. A group of Rook’s workers entered the cage to remove him while the winner leaned against the metal mesh and chugged down a bottle of water, his chest heaving. But I wasn’t interested in that as Iglanced at the weapons table pushed against one side of the cage. I scanned the array of items available to the fighters and noted that there were no knives present. It was doubtful that anyone else had noticed. They were too busy watching the violence unfold in front of them.

Once the previous fighters left—or were dragged from—the cage, a different set of men came to tidy up and used magic to remove the blood that stained damp patches on the dirt floor. Ten minutes later, a voice boomed over the speakers.

“You’ve seen him in the cage before…” He spent the next two minutes amping up the crowd, working them into a frenzy.