SHACKLES

CHAPTER TWELVE

We were engaged in a game of cards, sipping from our cups and conversing in low tones regarding the most recent murder of a woman of the night. Of late, it had become almost a weekly occurrence—one or two such women found slain in the shadows. One might be inclined to suspect that the religious sects were sending a brutal message to those they deemed immoral, perhaps a grim display of divine retribution.

Yet Ciro and I were of another mind. We believed the zealots may have wronged someone not to be trifled with—or perchance, these killings served as a clever distraction, a veil to conceal some darker, more dreadful design.

As we pondered thus, our thoughts were interrupted most violently by the sudden and forceful opening of the door. We leapt to our feet, startled.

At the threshold stood a man—clad in a dark cloak and robe, his frame broad and vigorous, his stance exuding power. His eyes, a piercing blue, seemed almost to burn through the dimness. He was magnificent—yes, that is the word—even though in that instant I could not discern the colour of his hair. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to still be about me, as though Time itself had drawn breath.

Then came the shuffle of movement, and I realised he was not here for me, but for Ciro. Yet his presence unsettled me, for it was as thrilling as it was perilous. His very aura bristled with danger.

Inwardly, I was seized by dread. What ought I to do? I asked myself. Zoe, think—what must be done to keep such a creature at bay?