If he were alive, he’d castigate Dex about the sorry job he was doing as guardian to his daughter. She’d nearly been forced into a brothel.
Analise entrapped. Forced to sell her body unwillingly. Analise with tears streaking her face, those big dreams of hers strangled and left for dead.
He pushed away the vile idea. He’d promised to avenge the wrongs that had been done to her and he had an excess of frustration to exorcise.
It was time to pay some not-at-all friendly visits.
Chapter Eight
The vermilion-clad regiment that he intercepted outside Mount Runemor were no match for the Dragon’s might. He spat a lethal spray of deadly fire across the squadron attempting to overpower him from the rear, then pinned a fleeing soldier to the spot with a talon tip. “Who sent you?”
“The Red Wizard, Master of Vyranthrall!” came the reply. “You have captured something he desires!”
Qavox cocked his massive head, his eyes narrowing to slits. Amsonia? What did the Usurper want with her?
—The Dragon and the Blue Starby Analise Crewe
Lord Thomas Claridge was going to seed. His fair hair, thin and straggly, cheeks florid from drink, and blue eyes watery. Dex could barely make out his features through the red haze of rage cloaking his vision.
This was the man who had terrorized his ward. He was going to pay for that mistake. It wouldn’t do to accost him in public. Dex had shadowed him all afternoon, from club to restaurant, and now to his townhouse. Best to deal with him inside his home.
He didn’t even notice as Dex walked up behind him.
“Claridge,” Dex said loudly.
His target turned. “Er... do I know you?”
Dex turned his cheek and Claridge saw his scars. A spasm of distaste on his lips, quickly replaced by an oily smile. “It’s Warburton, is it not?”
“That’s right.”
“We’ve met on occasion.”
“We have.”
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“There is.” Dex waited, knowing that silence was a weapon he wielded with skill.
“Look, if I owe you money at the gaming hells and I’ve forgotten, it’s simply a mistake. I’ve come into an inheritance and I’m settling all my debts. You can talk to my man of—”
“I’ll talk to you. Let’s go inside.” Dex took his arm and led him up his own steps.
Claridge looked worried now, searching his memory for some offense he could have given to the duke. He fumbled with his keys, his fingers trembling as he opened the lock. He hesitated once the door was open, and Dex knew he was calculating the odds of being able to dart inside and slam the door shut safely behind himself. It was a bet he would have undoubtedly lost, and Dex made sure he knew it by quickly reaching around him and shoving the door open.
Helped along by an unfriendly push from Dex, Claridge stumbled into the dim hall, which sported an air of neglect similar to his own. Dust covered the artifacts from his aunt’s world travels, which populated the chamber. Spiderwebs clung to the taxidermied ibex standing proudly on a mount in one corner and hung inswathes from the carved wooden masks on the wall, connecting them to various statues arranged beneath. Dex strode inside and closed the door.
Claridge collected himself with obvious effort and assumed a jaunty air. “So, how can I be of service to you, old chap?”
“You can disappear from my sight, and the sight of all respectable society.”
“Come again?” Claridge’s voice wavered.
“You heard me. Your time fouling up the general atmosphere of London is over. For the time being. Until I tell you otherwise.”
Claridge squared his shoulders, drawing himself up as tall as he could. The effect was ruined somewhat by the alcoholic undulations of his entire body, a drunken weaving that robbed him of any authority whatsoever.
“Now see here, Warburton. We’ve no common business to discuss, and you have no right to talk to me in this manner! Kindly remove yourself from my abode and I shall endeavor to ignore your confounding and, frankly”—he fixed bleary eyes on Dex and jabbed a finger ineffectually in the general area of his chest—“blastedlyinsulting conduct.”