Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1) by Rebecca Grey (electric book reader TXT) 📕

I squint at him from over my own glass. He smiles and instantly it’s too charming. Balander must have picked up a stowaway from The Oasis and is letting him drink while his crew works. And his outfit… very… not sea-born Elf like. The boy slaps money down on the bar top, sliding onto a stool. He tosses the Orc I’m watching a friendly smile. Black pants meet unmarked boots that don’t reveal his socks. Though I don’t need to see them, considering how he’s clad with polished leather and gold buckles.

I catch the two weapons he has belted to him. As a pirate that works with or for Balander I’d expect such things. Though, surely he is wise enough to know that the use of them here would not go without punishment.

“This is an interesting bar,” he muses. There’s an accent to his speech that I can’t place, one that smoothly runs off the tongue as he speaks. “What is this place?”

“It used to be a post-office.” The bartender says with a practiced tone.

 “Post-office.” He laughs, tasting the words. “Whatever does that mean?”

The Dryad shrugs, turning back to her work. I’m not even sure what it means, just that it’s some abandoned piece of Human history.

“I think I could win, if it wasn’t for my bum leg.” The Orc at the bar pats the carved wooden peg strapped to his knee, carrying on his own conversation. He doesn’t notice me and the way I pull my black hood up to cover my telling round ears, just two seats away from him. His words are slurred together.

With The Oasis Games on the verge of drafting, The Bend is abuzz with the thrilling prospect of who could win. More liquor has been poured and spilled tonight than any other night this week because of it. People want to celebrate wins before they actually happen. Idiots. Everyone who is thinking about entering the week-long game is a half-witted moron. They’d die before they saw the glory or the money.

The bum leg is his telling mark. My mark. Services in The Bend cost a lot of money, services like having a wooden leg carved and fitted just for you. Cost is so high for these services that this, now drunk and slobbering clod, had asked the Mr. Genovese for a generous loan. Or so I’m guessing. I never really know why the loans are taken out, only that the patron owes money. A lot of money. Though they’d tipped me off that my target tonight is handicapped.

“Certainly,” the boy says, entertained by the drunken rambling.

“You’re a healthy young man, what are you? Elf? You look Elf. Why don’t you enter?”

The bartender sets a cup in front of the boy, very clearly liquor, not that The Bend has a legal drinking age. He thanks her, sipping the drink before he turns to Orc. “Oh, I certainly intend to.”

I feel his gaze slide down the bar to me and I pull my face forward, letting my hood hide my features. The heat of his attention burns through the fabric. I can feel it so clearly on my cheeks. Confidently, I lift my glass and take a sip.

“Oh, oh, oh!” The Orc sloshes his drink as he thinks. “We should bet on your winnings.”

You won’t have time to collect any winnings you could potentially earn. I think to myself. The Orc’s payment is past due today. And that means he pays with his life. The thought brings a craving, crooked smile to my face. It’s been far too long since I was hired specifically for a job like this.

“I’m not much of a betting man,” the Elf answers.

There is little room for me to feel sorry for the Orc in the cold dark place that is my heart. It’s a vicious cycle, and he fell prey to it. Though, it gives us mercenaries the ability to go out and collect on other’s debts.

Genovese owns it all, the service providers and the banks lending money out with unbelievable interest. Creatures living here don’t know that. But I do, and I’d known it since I began my training at eight years old.

Bubbling alcohol spills down the Orc’s face, soaking his beard, equally as patchy as the gray hair sprouting in small tufts randomly over his scalp. It is not particularly attractive to see. Though as a Purist, I often find I have troubles being attracted to Hybrids. Particularly ones from the least Human-like creatures. My pickings are slim.

“In my youth, I would certainly have won. I’m thinking about backing my nephew. Maybe he can find a way to pull my family out of this crippling debt. They say this year’s reward is the highest it’s ever been.” He stops to lean closer to the silver-eyed boy, as if it’s a secret. “Five million legends handed to you by none other than King Caspar himself.”

I watch him through the mirror.

“That’s a lot of money,” the boy hums. His attention flickers up to the mirror, catching my gaze for a mere second before I tilt my head back down.

Bloody piece of Oasis shit doesn’t know better than to keep his eyes to himself.

I try not to roll my eyes, only succeeding because I meet the gaze of the poor bartender. The server makes a pretty show of acting as if she hasn’t heard five other men at this bar whisper the exact same things to her.

With a stranger’s attention still hot on my skin, my hand grazes over where my twin daggers rest in hiding on the inside of my belt. I’m reminded that Death and Justice are always served at the end of their matching blades. As the man with the wooden leg stands and wobbles from his seat, I drop two legends against the dark stained bar top. Sin and Punishment are in