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  Ethan peered through the salt spray at an approaching figure and the sick feeling rose to his throat.

  Dressed in a kilt of flesh adorned with a sporran of skulls, the Flibbertigibbet sauntered toward them. It had large horns sticking out of its head like a stag and its features were thin and drawn, its eyes glowing white-it looked like a perverse demon. A shawl of flesh and fur was draped across it shoulder and it carried what looked like a sack made from flesh and bone underneath its arm that it pumped, blowing into one of the bones to create the horrendous, mournful tune.

  "Why?" he stammered, staring at Trevor. He couldn't believe what he was hearing or seeing and his legs went weak.

  "To get ahead in business, you have to have an edge, an advantage over your competitors. This is ours; we've revived a pagan God, and in return for the odd sacrifice, he makes sure our company succeeds."

  Janet screamed and backed away.

  "Don't worry my dear," Trevor said. "I'm sure it won't be too painful. Just think of it as helping the company."

  "Fuck the company," Ethan snarled.

  Without hesitating, he ducked his head and charged Trevor like a bull, hearing a satisfying grunt as he struck his foes stomach.

  Winded by the blow, Trevor staggered back and the sound of the hideous pipes suddenly stopped. The Flibbertigibbet took the bone mouthpiece out of its mouth and bared its sharp teeth. It snarled.

  "Fuck you too," Ethan snarled back. Although terrified, he wasn't going to die on this shitty little island so that a corporation could make more money from their unholy pact with the devil.

  Spying the long pole that the man had used to moor the boat with leaning against the wall, Ethan grabbed it. The wooden shaft felt slippy, and he tightened his grip and turned to face the Flibbertigibbet.

  "If you want me, come and get me," he growled, levelling the point of the pole at the demonic form.

  The Flibbertigibbet opened its mouth wide, tilted its head back and laughed. Ethan was shocked. The monsters reaction scared him more than if it had growled or charged.

  "You pathetic piece of shit," Trevor spat, standing upright and rubbing his stomach. "You'll pay for that."

  "Fuck you," Ethan roared, pointing the end of the shaft at Trevor and hurtling toward him.

  Trevor's expression metamorphosed into a look of fear. He attempted to move aside, but he was too slow. Ethan rammed the shaft into Trevor's stomach. There was a slight resistance as the point of the shaft smashed through Trevor's ribs, but after that, it was unimpeded and he forced Trevor back, putting all of his strength behind the thrust. Trevor gargled, blood spluttering from his mouth.

  "If you're hungry, how about a human kebab," Ethan said, pushing Trevor toward the Flibbertigibbet and letting go of the pole.

  Without waiting around to see what the Flibbertigibbet did next, he grabbed Janet's hand and forced her onto the boat. Quickly removing the ropes from the moorings, he jumped aboard, almost slipping on the deck as he ran to the cabin. Luckily, the key was still in the ignition and he turned it, the engine spluttering into life. Pushing the throttle, the boat lurched forward, colliding with the dock. High waves battered the side of the boat, and using all his strength, he turned the helm, steering the vessel out into the harsh sea.

  Wave after wave battered the boat and Ethan struggled to hold the vessel on a straight course. Salt spray obscured the cabin window and he flicked a switch, hoping that it would operate the wiper, but instead it cast a beam of light like a net across the tempestuous waves.

  Before he had time to try another switch, he heard a scream. Janet. His heartbeat went into overdrive and he tried to peer through the spray-soaked window. Large waves crashed over the bow, trying to submerge the boat and he wrestled to keep the vessel heading away from Inchcullen.

  "Janet, are you OK?" Ethan shouted. As another wave slapped the vessel, he almost lost his footing. He felt sick. His stomach was doing cartwheels.

  Something smacked the window, cracking the glass and Ethan jumped. Illuminated by the searchlight on the cabin, the sea looked red like bubbling lava, and it took him a moment to realise that the window was covered with blood. He opened his mouth, wanted to scream, but he couldn't because he knew that if he started, he would never stop.

  Something smacked the glass at his side and he glanced across, horrified to see what was left of Janet's face, the skin ripped from her skull and now stuck to the glass like a macabre stamp. Empty sockets in the flesh showed where her eyes had been, now gory windows on the hostile sea.

  Ethan couldn't understand what was happening. And then above the roar of the waves, he heard the pipes. The Flibbertigibbet was on board the boat, playing its mournful tune on the gruesome bagpipes.

  The company was about to get its pound of flesh.

  WITH MURDEROUS INTENT

  K.G. McAbee, award-winning author of: ESCAPE THE PAST, A DOLEFUL KIND OF SINGING and A FINE IMPERSONATION, all at www.novelbooksinc.com THE PLAUSIBLE PRINCE at www.ltdbooks.com A WILL OF HER OWN at: www.awestruck.net, DREAM QUEST, coming from www.ltdbooks.com.

  * * *

  My companions were insistent. I would go to the desired location, willy-nilly. They would not leave my side until we stood with our destination before us. One, the largest, used the hilt of his sword to bang upon the door, creating an impressive cacophony against the thick wood. Still, it was necessary, to be heard over the noise from within.

  "Major Andru, how delightful!"

  In the doorway stood a charming lady, dressed in the height of fashion: tight breeches, tighter vest, a tunic with flowing sleeves thick with lace, high heeled shoes with jeweled buckles, all in varying shades of gold. It contrasted magnificently with her flaming copper hair.

  I looked over the elegant throng swirling at her back, looked down at my own attire.

  Brown riding breeches and an old vest. A shirt which had once been white and dusty boots.

  "Your pardon, my lady," I bowed. "I received his majesty's summons just as I arrived home and did not stop to change."

  I reminded myself to reprimand King Benedict later, in a polite subject-tomonarch kind of way, for sending his henchmen after me without orders that they allow me to dress in the proper mode.

  "I had no idea," I continued, at my most engaging, "that I was being invited to such a gala, or I assure you, I would never have appeared thus."

  Not that I had had much choice. When three burly guardsmen, all heavily armed, arrive at one's door, one would do well to accompany them.

  The lady smiled and dismissed the matter of my attire from our conversation.

  "I am merely having a few friends here to amuse his majesty," she continued as we waded our way through the throng and my erstwhile companions disappeared behind the closed door.

  I wondered what her name was, and if she were Benedict's latest passion. Looking at her from the corner of my eye, I didn't doubt it in the least. Tall and buxom, it seemed that the material of her vest would soon give up the unequal battle and allow the treasures within to escape.

  "Might I ask my hostess' name?" I inquired in my politest tones.

  "Oh, I am sorry, Major, I thought you knew. I am Syrilla, Lady Carstairs." She smiled; the same enchanting smile, no doubt, which had captured Benedict. I had often warned him of his susceptibility.

  Useless, of course. King Benedict had only just acquired his throne, through great travail by himself and others, and he wished to catch up on lost time.

  I couldn't blame him.

  Although I often caught myself trying.

  Lady Syrilla led me through the crowd in a purposeful manner, her eyes seeking for someone amongst the throng.

  I wondered what Benedict wanted this time.

  You wonder, no doubt, why I am so free with the name of my liege and monarch. To be sure, I never call him so in public. But since I was one of the ones responsible for gaining him his throne, I felt I deserved the right to call him what I will in the safety of my own mind.

  Not t
hat he would mind. Or I don't think he would. He remembers where he came from, and who helped him.

  Sometimes The Lady Syrilla procured me a large glass of wine from a passing servant with a tray. I gulped it down-nothing gives one a thirst like being forced to attend a gala at the point of three swords, I find-and gave the glass back to him as we continued our voyage.

  "Er, my lady, what exactly did-" I began, just as we reached a knot of people near the terrace doors.

  "There he is," she whispered, "see him there?"

  I saw him. Who could miss him? Benedict had always had flashy tastes, but little coin to indulge them. Now he had the coin and the tastes seem to have burgeoned like a weed.

  He looked like a peacock in a garden of tulips. Everyone around him wore single colors (it was the fashion just now, I had heard) but he, being the king, had broken this fashion rule in the gaudiest manner possible. Red and emerald, gold and turquoise, silver lace here and black lace there; it gave one quite a headache just to look at him.

  He turned and saw me with Lady Syrilla, favored her with what he must have thought was a secret smile. In other words, he ogled her like a satyr.

  "Andru!" roared my lord and king. "You took your own damn time getting here."

  I bowed with respect. "Your pardon, majesty. I was out when the kind invitation from Lady Syrilla came,"-I thought it best not to mention precisely where I had been -, "and only returned when your servants reached my door."

  I finished off with a dirty look, and I meant it to sting, by the gods.

  Benedict gave one of his predatory grins, his face splitting wide, teeth gleaming in its sunburned mask.

  "No matter, no matter," he said, with a bit less volume-but not much less. "You are here at last." He motioned for another glass and the Lady Syrilla took one from a passing tray and handed it to him.

  "Thank you indeed, my lady," he murmured in what I suppose he thought were dulcet tones; they sounded more like a booming cannon. "Andru, I have summoned you here to meet someone, but I don't see her," and he looked about him in dismay. "Aye, she seems to have disappeared."

  I sighed. Benedict spent an inordinate amount of time flitting from affair to affair, and always seemed to wish his friends to accompany him on his journeys. He could never understand why I preferred to travel alone, as it were.

  "Majesty," I said, "doubtless I would-"

  "Ah, there she is," boomed Benedict, motioning behind my back towards the tall doors to the terrace. "Come, Madren, he's here at last. Come and greet an old friend."

  It seemed to take forever for me to turn around. And in that endless time, a thousand thoughts and feelings ran through my mind. Regrets, memories, anticipations, fears.

  My last thought was that, of course, it could not be her. She was dead.

  But it was.

  Apparently, the news of her death had failed to reach her.

  She stood in the doorway to the terrace, dressed in black. I had asked her many times, in the old days, why she always wore black. Every time I asked, I got a different answer.

  Slim black breeches tucked into sleek high boots. An inky shirt under a brocaded vest.

  Her hair was a darker amber than I remembered, but her eyes were the same grey-a grey of stormy skies, a grey of old coins, a grey of weathered stone.

  And she wore a sword. She always wore a sword-and various other blades, secreted about her person, although where she managed to secret them all I had never dared to inquire.

  Madren Savage.

  Madren the Savage, some called her.

  Once commander of King Theobades' guard. Then on his death, chief assassin for the usurper Damion. Finally, when Benedict appeared after all had thought him dead, she switched her allegiance to the rightful heir and helped us to put him back on his throne.

  She was without a doubt the most dangerous person I had ever met.

  She had also been my lover, my best friend, my life.

  And the woman I thought I had killed.

  "Hallo, Andru," Madren nodded. If there was joy at the sight of me, she hid it well.

  "Well, Andru?" shouted Benedict behind me. "Lost your tongue? Or your mind, man?"

  I walked toward her. It was the longest walk of my life.

  I stopped a few feet away. She lifted her head slightly to look me in the eye, but only very slightly, as she came near to matching my own uncommon height.

  I heard nothing else in that huge room full of people, no other sound, no other movement. But I could hear her breathing speed up as she looked at me.

  It was not desire, I knew, unless perhaps the desire to murder me.

  I wanted to watch her hand, see if it decided to draw her sword and run me through, but I was afraid to take my eyes from hers.

  I smiled, held out my hand, trying to keep her right hand in the corner of my eye.

  It wouldn't do much good, I knew. I had seen her kill, quickly, elegantly, and without remorse. I had no sword, no way of protecting myself.

  And she had to be angry with me.

  Would not you be?

  "Madren," I nodded, hoping she wouldn't kill me yet, not before I had a chance to explain.

  "Hah," shouted Benedict, "he remembers her name, at least!"

  Madren looked down at my hand. At that instant, I knew exactly what was in her mind. I have no magic powers, I am not a trained adept, but I knew it without a doubt.

  She was seeing my hand with the knife in it, just before it plunged into her belly.

  She looked back up at my face. She made no move to hold out her own hand.

  "Come, come, this won't do," said Syrilla. She was behind me, but I had not heard her move. "Old friends must not meet again this way, not in my house."

  She moved beside us, took Madren's hand in one of hers, mine in the other.

  "Please don't disappoint his majesty," she whispered. "He has so few pleasures, you know."

  She placed Madren's hand in mine.

  The shock of physical contact was unexpected. I hadn't thought to feel such a jolt at the mere touch of her hand.

  Madren smiled. To anyone who didn't know her, it would have seemed almost natural.

  "How good to see you again, Andru," she said as she pulled me to her and put her arms about me. My mouth was near to her ear.

  "Please don't kill me," I whispered, hugging her as tightly as I dared.

  She murmured in my ear, so low that even I wasn't sure I heard.

  "Whyever not?"

  I felt cold, but I was sweating like a hard-ridden steed.

  I waited for the inevitable.

  And waited.

  Finally, Benedict shouted from behind me, "All right, all right, enough of that. Let the rest of us see you together at long last."

  I stood back from her, glad to be alive. I admit, I did sneak a look down at my belly, just to make sure, you understand. Sometimes, shock can make one feel nothing for a time.

  But I was unharmed.

  For now.

  Suddenly the room was filled with people again. I know, they had been there all along, but to me they had just reappeared.

  And not a one of them knew just how close to death I had been.

  Benedict ambled up, put his meaty arms around us both.

  "How glad I am to see the two of you here," he rumbled. "Madren, back with us again, after all this time. Where have you been, what have you been up to? Andru, were you surprised? Of course you were, who would not be? We thought you might be dead, Madren, dead and lost to us, after all we owe you."

  "Indeed, majesty?"

  Her voice was cool, cool and calm. Only I could know how dangerous she was when she sounded like that-I and some dozens of corpses. I chanced another look at her face, hoping for one of her crooked grins, one eyebrow cocked up.

  She smiled at Benedict, nodded to the Lady Syrilla.

  "I thank your ladyship for the invitation," she murmured. "I confess, I did not expect such a welcome."

  "And you shouldn't get it,
either," boomed Benedict. "Staying away for so long, just so I would not be able to show my gratitude, I'll swear! Why did you do it, damn you?"

  Madren looked at me.

  "It was . . . unavoidable, sire. But now that I am here, I promise I shall stay. For a while, at least. I have some unfinished business to take care of."

  I saw her hand brush against the hilt of her sword. I had seen her do that same motion a thousand times.

  Benedict grinned his feral grin.

  So had he.

  "So, we can expect an untimely death, can we?" He turned us loose and grabbed the Lady Syrilla instead. "My dearest, Madren can kill without warning, without sound, without mercy. If not for her and Andru here, and some few others, I would still be wandering in the hills, trying to escape from Damion's troops. I owe them more than I can say."

  I had never expected to hear him admit it.

  "Then I owe them twice that, majesty," said Syrilla gracefully. "My house is yours," she continued to us, "and doubtless such old friends would like to spend some time alone. I will have a servant show you to a private room and bring you wine and food."

  "I would take that as most kind, my lady," Madren nodded. "Andru and I do have a great deal to discuss."

  Her silver eyes were as cold as the distant moon, and the tone of her voice matched them.

  Benedict and Syrilla accompanied us to the private room, along with a parade of servants bearing every conceivable delicacy on golden trays-and a great deal of wine.

  It looked as though my last meal would be a hearty one.

  If I got to eat it.

  The room was paneled in dark wood, the windows hung with heavy draperies of deep blue. Rich rugs covered the floor. There was a fresh fire crackling in the hearth and two comfortable chairs were drawn up before it.

  All in all, I decided, it was as good a place to die in as any.

  "You will not be disturbed tonight," said Syrilla as she glanced around to see if anything had been forgotten. "This room is very quiet, and the noise from the party can't even be heard."